Poems From The Past

In Writing by Matthew HazelwoodLeave a Comment

Poems from the past

Author’s Note
I was reviewing some poems I had written several years back. Some of them, I threw away in embarrassment. But writing good poetry takes hard word. Poetry can be like a foreign language, which might be why it can be trickier to understand. But a few, I would say, I am proud of. Here are four I picked, enjoy!

 


 I Am a Poet

I am a poet who writes deep verse for all
I am the voice for those who do not speak
My words flow from the hand, the page, the voice
My poems are in small books and the big stage
I speak the words no one else will quite say
But each one word will and must be said
I do not say this to scare or waste time
I say this to make sure you can be free
Free from fear and hate and such a sin
I am no God so do not trust in me
Give an ear and then you run quite far
Then you must hate all of what I do say
I do not preach-all I do is-write
I write it-I speak it- I live it true
That is all me-not one thing more or less
I live in fear and hate and love as well
So, as I help you all, I help myself
We all are stuck as I so that is that
You are a i-he-she-they-your all I
We each are i-all of us-as an us
The “I” never goes away-it never, ever can go
But the “us” also must stay through thick and thin
You-I-are alone; and, you-I-are also not
How odd life is-it is this-it is that
We must live-LIVE with this-that and the other
Oh, what to do; live or die, either-or, either
Either or, either or, either or either or, or either
I choose life-why? Am I dumb? Is it thrill?
Cause of my job-my boss-life-they and me
Will pain end? Will joy end? Will this poem end?


The Contemplative Life

A pretentious cliché
Flapping in the wind like a flag in that man’s yard
Does he know what it means?

Preached and praised by those who never go on second dates
Preached and praised by those who want to be knighted without any victories
Preached and praised by those who don’t want to slip on the ice

You don’t pick the question; the question picks you
But you must carve the clay into a question mark
Be a tortoise in a library or lab
Look at the planets and poems with a microscope

Think of the talk of the marketplace of antiquity
Isaac Newton’s romances with Lady Optics and Queen Mathematics
Pine trees all around and some free time

I can never be sure I’m on the path but I take a step
Not for immortality but the bliss of being in the light and dark
No Sherlock Holmes, too definite

A wanderer

Please do not forget your humanity
Hush up nature! I am Einstein and he me
We both shit


Perspective on Gifts

I am walking in a park with a friend
She names ten birds based on bird calls
She names twenty plants
She is a warrior for the polar bears and the rhinos
“I wish I could do that,” I say

I am in a back room of the technology department of the university
I am with my friend, watching him
Watching him build a robot
With the speed of a cheetah, he tightens screws and lock collars
Next, he is at a computer
Within minutes, he attaches the cortex to the robot; turning it on
Rolling a ball into the robot
The conveyor belt lifting it up to a spinning wheel
The spinning wheel shoots the ball
All the way across the room
“I wish I could do that,” I say

The next day, the math department is where I am
My friend is doing work
Spouting off calculations faster than your heart beats
Tells me about model theory and category theory
“I wish I could do that,” I say

After that, I go home
Go home to my small, lonely apartment and
Write
Write poems, short stories, novels, essays, screenplays

There is a knock on the door
The biologist, the roboticist, and the mathematician
My friends
They at the door
They crowd around my desk
Picking up scraps of paper and notebooks
Reading the words on all of it
“I wish I could do that,” They all say in turn


A Tribute to Sylvia Plath

The lady high on the rock
High up in the mountains, climbing, dearly departed from us
Her face doesn’t comfort, doesn’t mock
Almost nothing, not even a fuss
Under that thick curly hair, imaginative chaos, passion, and knowledge of the craft
And a storm cloud
Listen to the prophet on the rock, a architect, a painter, a thinker
The words proud and loud
And a storm cloud
A hole in the port bow, a sinker
A light for certain others to follow her if they so wish
A plethora of pages, almost religious, these certain others can try to emulate with their pen
Mysterious mystical rhetoric you can see, yet hear and fish
The bait, your brain, will always catch some kind of artistic Zen
I look up. The lady on the rock is gone. Nothing but transparent air
Drifting into dark nothing without a care
Where are you? You who stared into the abyss with a deterministic zeal burning, burning inside
Did you take the path of Friedrich, that great wrestler of monsters?
I start climbing, climbing the earth, the rock, the jagged side
The wind, the air particles tacking my body, an angelic mother, letting out soft purrs
A hour, minute seven, I am there, in the spot of the lady’s presence
I look down, my heart and stomach morph together
Down below, on mossy rocks, body, face down
Her body, in a white dress, upper half in a sweater; scarf around her neck.
Limbs stretched out, her hands touching the moss like they are one
A tear from my right eye, it drops, hits the rock my feet are on
I swallowed and spoke thus:
“Sylvia”.

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