Verdancies

journal

A journal of semi-detached poetry.

Mark Martyre - Poems (4)


The Bluebird-Night

I sit at home.
Cold, and nostalgic.
Loneliness sometimes gets the better of me.
Thinking of lost loves, lost chances,
and lost youth.
Thinking about a different life,
with a different face,
and a different name.
Soon, I'll concede to the night,
lie in bed,
and fade in the dark.

Sometimes, I see photos on the computer,
the way I imagine a young man
would have once looked out the bedroom window
of his cheap roominghouse,
and seen clearly into the room of the building
across the alley.

A small change to the scene.

Maybe on that night
he'd see a beautiful woman undressing
or a couple in love,
in each other's arms,
and he'd long to be there
in that room,
on that bed,
in that life,
instead of where he was.
Stuck among the rats
that crawl across the floor,
across the crumpled sheets of failed writing,
across the shadows that flatten out against the bed,
and against the mind.

And I lie back
with music coming from my computer,
just as, I imagine, 
that young man would've turned on his old radio
and listened to the classical composers,
and had that comfort
during his dreary,
bluebird-night.

Generations between us,
but lights move across both our ceilings
courtesy of passing automobiles.

Much has changed through the ages,
and over time.
But, much has stayed the same:
a paper, a pen, a bottle of wine, a daydream,
a broken heart,
the bluebird-night,
songs in the cold air,
the magnetic eyes, the beautiful silhouttes,
a young man alone in a room,
the muse's whisper,
a rat running through the walls...

and the poems
that they all inspire. 

It's Madness

It's madness
when you
become something
that you were
never meant
to be.

And then
you don't even
recognize your
own shadow.

And there's
no escape,
except in the
pitch-black darkness
of your room,

where nothing exists
except for
the screams
of the demons
that echo off
the cold walls.

And you writhe
in torn sheets
until the
sun comes
up. 

A Note For J.

It's 4pm.
I'm back at Empire Espresso.
The Grateful Dead's “Attics Of My Life”
is playing.
The snow storms down,
relentlessly falling from the overcast sky
over College Street,
and its sidewalks,
it's cars, trees, garbage bins,
storefronts, benches, and
pedestrians.

The cafe is brimming.
People remove their heavy, snow-covered layers,
and find shelter
from the storm.
Coffees, hot chocolates, and
banana bread circulates, as everyone
cozies up while the sun goes down.

Soon, the cold winter night will arrive.
And, with it, the bitter air,
and all the crushing darkness
it brings me.

But, right now, it's 4pm.
And I sit back, take a sip,
and continue to drift away,
staring at the falling snow
through Empire's front window.

I know, for me,
each day
will be a struggle.

I know, for me,
some days,
just pushing off the mattress
will be victory enough.

I know that I'll contine to fall,
and fall
and
fall.

I know, for me,
the fight of my lifetime
will be trying to figure out
how to live with myself -
even if I can't ever love myself.

And, I know it'll always be important
to try to carve out these brief
moments of escape, periods of peace,
or at least some
subdued restlessness,
muted anger, or
unacknowledged defeat.

And I also know about
these warm feelings that
I carry for you.

And I know what your eyes look like,
staring down from the clouds,
and into the front window of
Empire Espresso;
your face made up of billions of
falling snowflakes

I don't know much more
than that.

So, still want to see me
this weekend? 

Another Night

I wish I could find some light
in the sky
I wish I could write,
live, look, think
as someone else.

And when she says
“Tomorrow is another day”
I tell her
that that's what's wrong
with it

I don't know if I'll survive this
journey
to the end of the night
Being so far from the arms
that can hold so tight

Driving every thing away
with the oozing tar
that leaks from
my pores

I'm shaking.
My eyes burn with unwept tears.
I'm dying on all sides.

All my waters
set on fire

I sit alone typing,
drowning,
engulfed in the flames of
myself.


(Text © Mark Martyre - Publication: Spring 2018)

 

 

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