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Diana Matisz


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​Go to page 1 of Diana Matisz' poetry
Diana Matisz' profile

Interim

fevered dreams
abandoned me
thankfully,
left me
to my own devices,
and i found myself
wakened
from this somnolence
pressed
to curvilinear ridges
to the hard insistence
of cool rough planes
unfurled
beneath me
my fingers
stretched
to grasp every surface inch
of raw hibernal pleasure
you've been storing up
since winter
cached
until i wanted you
​in my fevered dreams
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Photo art by Diana Matisz (click art for larger view)
                                                                    "The river feels old today..."












​The river feels old today
skin and bones old
old, like memories pressed between ice
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Photo art by Diana Matisz
                                   "I wish I may..."
PicturePhoto art by Diana Matisz
I wish I may
I wish I might

I took down the jar
of wishes from the shelf
where they’d been reaping age
held them to the light
one by one,
searching
for a hint of viability
and found them dead
or dying
I’d kept them
much too long
hoarding their promise
their glittered edges
still keen with risk
they’re nothing to me now
but tin-whistle waste
I strike a match
and into the smoke-gray
quittance, I say
​
have the wish
I wish tonight

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Photo art by Diana Matisz
we've always been so near...

we’ve always been so near
of this, I’m certain
you, steps ahead
your mad fey light
the genius loci
of my enthrallment
and me, the perfect archetype
of our unfettered passion,
fingertips enfolded
in the pith of you
coattails flying
in a race to skew
our parallel
for one
chance
alignment

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Photo art by Diana Matisz

"I scour your anatomy..."

I scour your anatomy
for signs of my impact, there
I think I see
the curve of my breast
in the dark combe
of your belly
and is that my cheekbone
wedged between your ribs?
the lines into which my lipstick fades
are a surrealistic abstract across your neck
and the lash that floated free
when you kissed my eyes
has found a home in your collarbone
look, how the whorls of my thighs
finger-paint your hips
I scour your anatomy
with eyes that have never seen
my impact,
on your mind
Picture
Photo art by Diana Matisz
tonight I will convene...

tonight

I will convene
with departing passerines
I will tuck in between
blackened silk remiges,
every time I’ve called your name
every thrust of vowels
against my hungry tongue
every wanton sigh
their own siren, is the south
but for me, they’ll chart
an easterly
and later, when you are quiet
and replete,
the air will writhe
with something unexplained
your face will lift
your eyes turn west
turn west
to me, and the departing
passerines
Picture
Photo art by Diana Matisz
I Thought of You Today...

I thought of you today
I felt that amaranthine rush
and after all this time
the flow began
the slow bleed-out
of good intentions
I missed your eager thrusts
into my mind,
the physicality
of your self-imposed distance,
I missed the arch of  your silence
against my pulse

I wanted you
to be watching
from another room,
your eyes in rapt regard
I wanted you to see me bleed,
just once

Picture
Photo art by Diana Matisz

"It is in the pitch-dark hours..."

it is in the pitch-dark hours
when no one else can see us
that our broken hearts
bleed out
and blossom
in chrysanthemums of ache

Island Reverie

neighbor's early roses
heavy with chilled rain
punch scented holes in lost memories
reveal deja-vu Martha's Vineyard
vignettes

a man, tall and svelte
blue eyes in competition with sea and sky
friend of a friend, with a smile
only holiday freedom could muster
his outstretched hand an invitation
to the temptingly new

never-ending wildflower days
of sun-braised kisses
voracious appetites spiked
by cozido à portuguesa
and home-made wines
sunset dives from rocking piers
into peach-stained Atlantic silk
wide eyes spying James Taylor
over breakfast at the Black Dog Tavern
a tiny gingerbread cottage, hot
and redolent with island musk
moonlight through a tinier window
observing the dance
in time-worn contemplation

one week of pleasure
this assault on the senses
so potent, so momentous
and the tall man's name,
long-forgotten

Until Then

until you let me ride love
into the ground
until i'm splayed, exhausted,
across your planes
and you tongue the salt
between my breasts
until your fingers
inscribe vowels on my lips
and your lips become catalysts
of pleasure on my nape
until your eyes can see
each ripple of surrender
beneath my conflagrant skin
and every guttural plea
issued from my throat
is honeyed by your name
until then
i am a spirit
without a home
an ache
without a moan

​
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Go to page 1 of Diana Matisz's poetry

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