"matchboxes" poems
my imagination
suffers from excess
yesterday in a dream
I said that I sleep
I ordered personalized matchboxes
I saw the sea
in a plate from soup
I heard how a baton
conducts the conductor
I saw a breast
****** by a child
I uncovered a naked surgeon
on my operating table
and I recognized the voice of ******
among those gassed in auschwitz
by Volker W. Degener translated from the German by Adam A. Zych with Andrzej Diniejko
from The Auschwitz Poems an anthology edited by Adam A. Zych
Jan 16, 2023
Jan 16, 2023 at 3:34 PM UTC
Let there be keys without locks
Let there be dictionaries without words
Let there be homes without doors
Let there be silence
When we speak of love
Let there be grace in our walk
So that our poems will not ashamed of the craft
Let there be matchboxes without sticks
Because our children need them empty
To preserve their childhood memories
Let there be a metaphor in a worker’s sweat
Because dewdrops alone can not carry poem on her shoulder
Let there be a marriage (illegitimate though)
Between a gun and a flower
Because lonely streets look bad
And a caged bird is always sad
Let there be a reward to roots
Because you look beautiful with flower in your hair
Let there be a reward to cloud
Because we all need to wash our hands, before prayer
Let there be anger in our hand and peace in our head
Let there be a blunt knife in our pocket
Just in case…
Let there be nakedness between all of us
So we can look into each other’s eyes
And say: “Our daughters are safe in each other’s garden”
Let there be nakedness between all of us
So when we make love
“We make love to our beloved one only”
Let there be no history
Because we exchange hugs and kisses in present
Let there be no geography
Because contours of love are powerful enough
To define our boundaries
Let there be no mathematics also
Because nature never counts her blessings
And let there be a finite infinity in our life
And enough strength in our legs
So our walk to horizon would not stumble
And we fall like an autumn leaf.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
Many a times, when I am alone
I just find myself thinking of the fun
Collecting pouring water, drenching in the rain
Sailing my paper boats in the small drain
Catching frogs from puddles of water,
in matchboxes
And throwing them on young and old with giggles and smiles
Smearing the silver, golden color on my friends
Of the butterflies that we picked in the sunny garden
Feasting on dollops of homemade icecreams and chuskies (ice lollies)
Listening to stories of kings n demons by granny
How could I forget that fight with parents
To stay awake all night during summer or winter break
To watch uncountable movies on the rented video player
Or to read Agatha Christie, Enid Blyton in just one sitting
There was a different story all the time
for each of my tantrums and fantasies alike
And a unique reason for enjoying every season
Oh! How I wish I could have a time machine
To take me back to my childhood innocence
I really miss being a little kid O my Lord!
With no stress, worries or care in the world...!!!
© Neeloo 'NeelPari'
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
You're soaking and you're strung out
but your sleeping bag's been wrung out and
it's wrapped up in a damp rag that you carry in your rucksack
you turn your back on Strutton Ground and you strut off into London' town
like some mad demented peacock, but you're off to rock the Casbah with your crazy words or wisdom which you gleaned from empty matchboxes so very long ago.
The coffee opens early for the bird that scratches daily for a meagre bit of warmth to feed the soul.
and by St Pauls, the ***** of grasping pawnbrokers are gleaming in the frosty air
'pop the weasel ' goes in there quite frequently
you see the emptiness of picture frames in streets you recognise, no names,
because no one would remember them among the worn out suited gentlemen that you became but then it doesn't really matter anymore.
the evening strolls in awkwardly,
but maybe that's just how I see it and
it could be elegantly
I don't know.
and we're back to Strutton Ground not far from Scotland Yard
the new one, the old one's not too far from here and near Trafalgar Square, but you got moved along from there too many times, too many moons and wines ago.
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 4:04 AM UTC
you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it.
i’ve only done it
once or twice. last night
i awoke from a dream
in which you were playing johnny cash
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
and ‘every day is one day less.’
we were staying in an airbnb
and the room reeked of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i was thinking about how you told me
you didn’t have as many freckles
as you wished you did
as i peeled the sticker
from the front of the book.
tell me you have enough
to pay for what you want in life
and tell me you’re not an addict
cause you’ve only done it
once or twice
and let me tell you about mountain lions
and how the chlorine in the swimming baths
used to taste like cider and cough syrup
like ginger ale and painkillers
that dissolve on your tongue
before you swallow them down.
i whisper to you that my mother
used to lick matchboxes
(speak louder, love, come on)
before her daddy left her too
not because he didn’t love her
but because it hurt too much
to love her in the way
only he could understand.
last night i awoke from a dream
in which we filled our suitcases
with shampoo and sugar packets
and i recited the final lines
of my favourite shakespeare play
as you sat up on the windowsill
and lit yourself a cigarette
and said: don’t look at me like that.
you know i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i’m staring at you from the carpet
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before.
i used to say that some cynics die
and that i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
cause i’ve only done it once or twice
and i’ve only told you
a thousand times
and i was reading the buddy wakefield poem
that goes a little like ‘forgive me’
when i thought about what i’d done to her
and what i’d tried to do
to myself.
last night i awoke from a nightmare
in which the walls were
bleeding red
and then the trees had broken arms
and i got my ankles caught
in the mud
and i’ve been crying more
than i know i should
because i hate the way it burns
but god, i don’t enjoy it. i’ve only done it
once or twice.
so let me tell you about mountain lions
and people who no longer think of me
and who will never think
about me again
and how that’s the kind of thing
that reeks of gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and ‘i never think about love, you know
i never think about—’
how some cynics die
but they often die so young
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and ‘every day is one day less’
and every breath
is one breath less
and that’s what tastes like chlorine
and that’s what tastes
like cough syrup
when you haven’t even
got a cough
but you’re not an addict if you don’t enjoy it
and i’ve only done it
once or twice.
i wanted to tell you
in the way i always do
(pieces of paper between my teeth)
that my prayers are just nicotine
and the man hasn’t touched a cig
for as long as my parents
haven’t each other
but that’s just gasoline
and blown-out candles and paper-mâché
and i don’t need that stuff
to be happy
like you don’t need as many freckles
or as many mountain lions.
i’m staring at you through the phone screen
and i can still hear you saying:
‘i never think about love’
and suddenly i’m crying
because i know you’re crying too
and the world makes less sense now
than it ever has before
because last night
i awoke from a dream
and i didn’t remember a thing.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
my net worth is three sheets
of crumpled paper and
an empty shot glass.
i am not pretending to be
anything refined, sophisticated,
worth your time.
i’ve ruined the best things in my life
without even realizing it, absence the
only clue; there was no bother to tell me.
i am left with flaws but i am not sure
what they are because I’m too
much of a liability to be told.
there are empty matchboxes strewn
all upon my cluttered mattress
with holes burnt into it.
i have a tin lunch box full of
dead lighters; six years worth.
i never throw them away.
my bad habits exist in
every flameless flick.
will you increase my net worth
by leaving a pack of Marlboros in
my mailbox? i might not be deserving
of an explanation, but it would be
a nice peace offering. if you add
a lighter to the mix, i’ll make sure
the amethyst fades and you
no longer dream of me.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
Where have you been , my lover erratic wind ,
When i shone through the moans
of a thousand unhappy souls .
Glistened on the seas which murmured with the bees ,
tempting you to rise , take me by surprise ,
praying when the last bell tolls .
Shameless hunger of mine , above all sins and divine ,
kept my eyes open , to linger on every word spoken
in the stillness of the dark .
I surrendered every light i borrowed from the night ,
mirrored on the hope , to let the poets *****
in the dullness , a silver spark .
So far stand i , you cannot hear me cry ,
So stretch my hands not , the laws have you forgot ,
which defines us to look forever gay .
Plead them to love , even when the red clouds me above ,
overlooks with sullen pity , on damp matchboxes you call city ,
gray with the recall of the day .
Every search ends futile , no Ganges no Nile ,
to let flow my pains , or to drench in the rains ,
You stole , left me deprived .
Still i would smile , from many million a mile,
Carry me , my scent , to the skies where i descent,
And remember once and now , in a lonely corner i survived .
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 3:08 AM UTC
I feel jealous that I wasn't there to grow up with you, in the rain. The matchboxes I used to play doll house burst yesterday night and it rained my entire face, wet pillows weeping over my loss. You haven't seen those match boxes but did you feel the rain under the city?
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 10:18 AM UTC
Many a times, when I am alone
I just find myself thinking of the fun
Collecting pouring water, drenching in the rain
Sailing my paper boats in the small drain
Catching in matchboxes frogs from puddles of water,
And throwing them on young and old with giggles and smiles
Smearing the silver, golden color on my friends
Of the butterflies that we picked in the sunny garden
Feasting on dollops of homemade icecreams and chuskies (ice lollies)
Listening to stories of kings n demons by granny
How could I forget hat fight with parents
To stay awake all night during summer or winter break
To watch uncountable movies on the rented video recorder
Or to read Agatha Christie, Enid Blyton in just one sitting
There was a different story all the time
for each of my tantrums and fantasies alike
And a unique reason for enjoying every season
Oh! How I wish I could have a time machine
To take me back to my childhood innocence
I really miss being a little kid O my Lord!
With no stress, worries or care in the world...!!!
© Neeloo 'NeelPari'
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
The rain was a gentle lover today,
so tenderly caressing the earth,
kissing her all over,
with little whispers.
And when I started watching
like a ******
he pulled a veil over me.
and I saw, first,
the river below me,
then the green canopies,
the distant jagged skyline
with its stacked matchboxes,
then even the blue sky
with its hanging clouds,
all merge like a phantasm
into a grey cataract...
When he was finally satiated,
he lifted the veil
and before me she lay
in languid rapture.
and from her wafted
the strange, delicate, fragrance
of her sated desires.
And even as I watched,
the grey sky, as if nothing had happened,
adjusted her curls and pinned a bow on it.
And I gave them a knowing smile.
Jul 14, 2021
Jul 14, 2021 at 9:46 PM UTC