Language is an important media of expression, I take great pleasure in moulding this material to create my own literary sculpture. Whether it be poetry, stage-palys, screen-plays or fiction of the long and short kind; I've made moves and had varying different successes in all of them. I began writing bad poetry fifteen years ago, they became better. I then moved into writing short films and plays for a drama group I was involved in. Several years later I rediscovered poetry, and immeresed myself in it. I have had a number of my pieces published in various places, such as newspapers and competition anthologies. I now share my time between poetry and fiction. I have quite strong views on what poetry is, and how it should be written, so I'm sure you will notice a certain pattern and discipline within my works. Some pieces are straight from the heart, others are a beautiful collection of words that sound good together. Some are autobiographical, and some are fictitious. I am based in Birmingham (UK), and share my waking hours between writing, photography, costume/fashion design and performance art. I'm lucky enough to have a career which enables me to constantly play and be creative. I do hope you enjoy my work, and visit my website, which houses a much more comprehensive collection. www.freewebs.com/mattrakowski
What was, but is no more I sit by the window in a gaze, looking back on perfect days. My cheek is wetted by a tear, knowing that you're far from near. I take this time to reminisce, about the days I'll always miss. At the time, I had it made, and never thought your love would fade. All I did was weep and grieve, at your choice to up and leave. I asked you for a reason why, but all you did was kiss and cry. Now I live with countless fears, of loving you for years and years. I cannot reach my lovers heart, this love for you tears mine apart. She'll never have me as a whole, because of you, you have my soul. Land of make believe Reality's where we live, but dreams are where we go, a land you can forgive, when carpeted with woe. We cannot chose the place, we visit from our beds, a sunny beach, or outer space, it's all within our heads. Every night I race the stairs, then screw my eyes up tight, she'll doubtless take me unawares, but never out of spite. Before too long, I'm miles away, in a land of make believe, in Florida or Bengal Bay, I never want to leave. Without a whit of warning, I'm lying here awake, the bright light of the morning, caused my dream to break. I'm trying hard to think, yet cannot see their faces, but now I've lost the link, to my precious places. Reason to Rise It’s hard, getting up in the morning. Without something, or better still, someone, to look forward to. A reason to haul, yourself out of the delightful heaven, That is bed. Up, off and out. To the tragic land that waits. Pity those who rise for work, and live for nothing else. How sad. “I have to get up for work” Better to lie in and be late. How beautiful the world looks, from the place that is Elysium, with sheets. But cold and harsh you’ll find, on a winters morn, like this. A sharp and bitter pain, cuts you from inside. When you finally rise. Sad, depressed and hungry. Hungry for a reason. What better reason than that of Love? The love of a sweet voxed angel. Without which, there can be no cause, to lift the feathered quilt. Oh! To wake and think: “An hour ‘til she’s mine” Then spend the day, that hard earned day, her skin within my hands. I long for that, that hallowed day. With love and wine and kisses and roses and smiles and words. And a reason to rise. And what joy would be, to wake and find her next to me. I promise that day, we wouldn’t rise at all. 18th February 2003 Silence I close my eyes and picture a world, where a word or sound is never hurled. I'd live my life without the hiss, how you'd envy my nescient bliss. Picture a world with no interruption, from the aural pleasure of a black erruption. The only thing I want to hear, is the sound of nothing in my ear. As the only tool i need to write, is the gracious gift of sight.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
52Weeks week 3 (24/01/2012)
52Weeks Week 2 (17/01/2012)
52Weeks project, Week 1 (17/01/2012)
Mary: Vladimir Nabokov. A review. (24/02/2009)
American Psycho review (16/02/2009)
New Poem: Idiots (01/09/2008)
New Poem: 'Split ends' (29/08/2008)
'Reason to rise' (02/03/2008)
New work (again) (29/02/2008)
New Works (28/02/2008)
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