#150a (re-introduction)

lunarpoet

Two years ago I wrote a wordy introduction to this blog

It felt right at the time, but as I’ve been changing over those two years so has my poetry and I thought it might be a good idea to try again (always a good idea tot try again, by the way).

I don’t really like bringing myself into a focal point because I think it might be misleading from my poetry, which is deeply personal to begin with. So basically all you gonna find here is poetry with the occasional thrown in photography.

Usually I reply to comments and I’m very interested in what you make of my writing, because this sort of discussion to me is more personal and interesting than my so called “personal life”. I’ve received some amazing feedback and I’ve stumbled across amazing poets from all over the world by browsing the blogs of the people who liked or commented here.

Six random facts about me, because I feel I wanna give at least some links for whoever needs them (If you just enjoy reading poetry, just stop reading now) :

  • working in elementary education
  • first language: German, but writing in English for a while now
  • always one coffee short from being soundly awake
  • obsessed with drag queens
  • my first name is Matthias
  • IG: lunarpoet83

 

18th June 2017
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#68 (late fall musings)

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photo credit: Matthias Geh

Why create poetry

when you could write

pop songs?

Why struggle so hard

with words and verses

tone and rhythm?

Why throw a stone

into the pond

and watch the pattern

of the ripples unfolding?

Just aim the stone

at someone’s heart.

Don’t worry

they’ll be fine

It is not a real stone

and you’ll miss anyway.


Why do you care

so much

about placing

the words?

Just write a catchy tune,

fish for compliments

and throw out your lines

like a trawl.

Don’t worry

nobody is really

going to get caught.


Why do you spend your time

finding words for the scent of lavender

or describing the bud of a water lily?

Just bludgeon them with

a club of buttery nonsense.

Don’t worry,

it still sounds pleasing enough,

won’t really stick

and no one will get hurt.


I am searching the labyrinth

of my soul

for the right words

Weaving arrows

from cold air

 and placing them

on aster petals.

Let them

float down the river

where my boat

is sailing on

pure imagination only

waiting for someone

to pick them up

gently


*26th November 2016

#63 (how to draw a line)

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photo credit: Matthias Geh

 

whoever said,

there is only one way

to draw a line

ignore them,

break their rulers

and sharpened pencils

and grind them to

a fine powder

apply it

with your fingertips

or with your lips

and spread it

on a virgin canvas

to see where it may lead you


the way to draw a line

is not to draw a line

but giving in

to the pulse of

fingers searching on

a blank surface

connecting

invisible dots

maybe your line

was supposed

to become a spiral


there is one way

to draw a line

I’ve known it

for the longest time

and tend to fail in

following

I like to see you draw

your lines

I cross them

with my inner eye

my lines are dancing

in a circle


*22nd November

#62 (elusive ground)

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Like Shirley sang

she needs to keep on

breathing

standing on a sandbank

her bare feet

clawing into

elusive ground

tidal wave in front of her

the vastness of the ocean

behind her back


tracking back

the traces of her footprints

she sees them with her feet

the path she’s treaded

to take another detour

or run back

tasting the mud

returning to sand first

to clay later


the ground steadies

as her heartbeat does

not a single step taken

the rock she’s sensing

beneath her claws

the one she’s carried

with her

through the mist

through every breath

solidifying


*22nd November 2016

#61 (the wood of thrones)

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where were you

when Rome was burning

when stars collided

tides were turning

the wheel of time

became a cog

by myriads of sand grains clogged


the brimful cup

that rests on stones

white fools collecting

wood of thrones

collective anguish

bloody echoes


growing resistance

bells unrung

and from a distance

chime along

the curves of barren valleys lie

dry as my eyes

the cracks unfold

as witches writing spells untold



*20th November 2016

** the bells unrung I borrowed from Lia Hunter’s poem “bell unrung”

you cand find it here

#59 (smile of bone)

throwing

a ten-sided dice

wondering

whose teeth it might kick out

a bloody seven

on pristine paper

writhing red lines

contract


dressed in black

I paint my face

whites and greys

dark hollows for eyes

an everlasting

smile of bone


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jokes and laughs

and all that

but seeing the face

of Death

is something

I take serious

and the restlessness

in your gazes

is a testament


throwing

a two-sided blade

wishing for it

to tear apart

the veil

for one night

giving way

for the lost ones

shining a light to guide them

on their carnal

roundtrip


removing my mask

I see it left a mark

under my face

the bones are radiating

as I remember

being ash and dust

whirling

on a fall storm


*29th October 2016

#58 (the beacons long unflamed)

It’s not easy

being green

but green is coursing

through my veins

in witching hours

power grows

to fight

what’s trying

to divide

the darkest skies

the brightest night

may scorching sun may storm may  snow

I praise my love

I keep it low

I hum

I chant

I dance

I spin

to nourish  wisdom

deep within

the wells are dry

I call the rain

to fill the earth

to show the pain

you never ever walk alone

my thumb caresses

beloved stone


I call my sisters, brothers, mothers

we need to be a sting

that bothers

them


who look for gain

ignoring pain

the very earth they walk on

cries

their names are hidden

tomes of paper

once woods

protect their

deepest flaws

and while they smile

I whet my claws

the shadows keep me calm

and warm

I call upon the fire’s arms

to light the beacons

long unflamed

but now

their light

cannot be tamed


I walk in beauty

dance in pain


I cry my name

and burn my shame.

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24th October 2016

#57 (unblemished/unbothered)

unblemished

the faces of our constant companions

nails failing to scratch their shiny faces

yet still leave a mark


just some strokes

on the ever-patient extension

it’s only words

everybody does it

it will be forgotten in a few days


bruised

are the minds we touch

without touching them

fiddling away

our seconds

feeding the ugliest parts

within ourselves


unexpected

claws

reaching out

from  the abyss of dark glass

we remain

unbothered


22nd October 2016