Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
clmathew Sep 2021
My body mine
written August 13th, 2021

I stand in the shower feeling
my hands on my body
the water on my hands
me in my body mine

my mind flies away
as it is so practiced in doing
1 time, 2 times, 26 times
I gently return

my mind back to my body
my body back to my hands
my hands back to the water
my presence back into my body

27 times and 28 times
until one day
however many times it takes
124 times or 1,238 times

I can stay here
with this body
that is
my body mine.
Thank you TK for helping me to enjoy thinking about this, for making it not seem like such a horrible task.

Writing, never feels finished, like I said in another poem about writing these poems. Eventually I just hit post, and try to let it be enough. Maybe I'll revise some of these in the future? Or maybe not. Thank you for reading me.
clmathew Aug 2021
~I felt pain like an assault,
The old pain again
When the world thrusts itself inside,
when we have to take in the outside

—May Sarton, "Night Watch," Collected Poems

The world thrusts itself inside
written June 26th, 2021

The world rages through me
I wrap my arms around
cradling this body amongst the
flowers torn, leaves shredded, plants uprooted

until the fury passes
peace descends on the broken
some breath and start to mend
others their decay feeds the new.

The world thrusts itself
inside each of us
tearing and stretching
throw your head back and rage

with the pain and agony
of growth made possible
by the world tearing open
body, heart, and mind.

I never grow used to this
brutal process,
I dip my fingers into
the holes made in our heart.

The world has its way with us
this relentless thrusting ******
until we spill out over everything
this our mark on the world.
I often have an image of a poem in my head, or a feeling of it. The end result is often more analytical than what I had imagined. This one, maybe, is closer to what was in my mind.
clmathew Aug 2021
Falling into
written July 7th, 2021

always a child      
never a child      
without a face      
suspended in this twilight      
no-where and in no-time      
floating in air      
my faith is      
the tight grasp        
keeping you from      
falling into the abyss      
where children are crushed      
like fallen fruit—      
or am I keeping you    
from falling into grace?
One of the pleasures of my strange memory is finding unexpected and unremembered things written in my notebook. This poem is from one of those.

I try to heal, myself and parts inside. It is difficult to imagine how to do things differently, and this is stable at least.

Alternate ending:
or is it grace
you would fall into
if I let go?
clmathew Aug 2021
Deception
written July 17th, 2021

I write deception
fabricating fictions
layer after layer of
perverse prevarications
surrounding my subject
with inventions and evasions
so that the truth
can be revealed
in the serpentine curves
of these words.
Fun with words.
clmathew Aug 2021
The unknown in me
written July 22nd, 2021

I collect words
and try to fit them
to my experiences

trying to capture
this moment right now—
it is all I have.

I—looks at the page
and writes a moment
while others peer over her shoulder

shaking their heads
curling up to sleep from the overwhelm
reaching out to change a word or phrase

we are all here
sometimes all at once
other times one at a time

I always think I know
who writes these words
this   word   right   now

Until I look back
and don't recognize
words just written

I guess we are used to it
the wonder and startlement of
the unknown in me.
Each poem, explores a piece of me. Some are written for the fun of writing words, others, for the hope of writing me.
clmathew Jul 2021
Koan me
July 24th, 2021


Who is writing this?

I am.

--------

Who wrote that?

I did.
Shortest poem ever! Is it even a poem? Something I think about. Very grounding actually. It's just that complicated, and that simple.
clmathew Jul 2021
River rushing below bluffs
written July 7th, 2021

I dream of the bluffs
we visited that day
the river rushing below
demarcating freedom

these years of practicing
flying away across fields
in preparation for this night
have made my wings strong

can I reach the bluffs?
float out over the river below?
escape these fields and rows
encompassing my life

I fly towards my future
until wings collapse trembling
on the edge of becoming
or breaking into pieces
I fall to the ground

Not to the bluffs
with the river rushing below
not this time
but one night soon
with these wings being made strong.
Growing up amidst the cornfields of rural Illinois, and the bluffs along the Mississippi River. That line about "wings made strong" was in another poem, but the poem didn't achieve what I wanted. Maybe this one comes closer.
Next page