The World We Can Change

It is exceptionally hard to sit and watch, knowing there is something you should be doing to make the world a better place.

Insomnocrastination 

by Matt Catania 

We cannot wait

no we cannot wait

to walk to sing to dance in spirits divine

to read to write

to explode our souls

We cannot wait in sleep

to cast spells, our enchantments

rich and design

for our fluttering lids brush close

and close for sweet warm sentiments

sleep is sound and silent

filled with dark promises

of dream and wait

of hope – and wait

of want – and wait

of just – and wait

We cannot wait

no we cannot wait

to write these lines

to see these lines

to be these lines

to maybe even change these lines

We cannot sleep

behind these lines

between these lines

unseen

these lines

We cannot wait

We cannot sleep

We cannot wait

We cannot sleep

We cannot sleep

Just Found

I was looking through what I have, and just found this poem.  I don't remember writing it - sounds pretentious, I know.  I figured it might as well be on here.  I will put some more poems from other writers on here soon as well, I promise.

Now I'm Free 

by Matt Catania 

I have seen the west

I wish I was younger with the same mind

I am not scared like I was then

not even two years ago when the thought

of moving away from home was

losing your family and home -

the world leaving you completely alone.

Now I’m practically begging to go

I wish I was younger with the same mind.

I want to start again, and

again and again

I want to start in every state

north and south, east and west

even through Canada to Alaska.  I want

my life to never stop being beginnings

now with my mind dying

to discover new things.

I was scared to stick my head out

I wanted to stay inside and look out the window.

I shed that thinking now.  Old skin.

I want my young skin with my new mind.

My mind isn’t so gray anymore.  It’s white.  With new

pink skin.  I have come to believe

the beginnings of everything might be the greatest things

with only a few exceptions that get better with age.

Love is an exception.

I want to keep my old love.  It keeps itself new.

I lust for a beginning, as lust is nothing but beginnings.

I don’t want that window anymore.  I want to drive

under those perfect sunsets again; only this time

I will follow them for the sunrise.  I won’t follow them

just to sleep.

I want to have my freshman year at every college.

I want those new eyes I once had, and to have them everywhere.

I am ready to begin every day.

I am still young, with a new mind.

I am ready to begin - if only I could get away.

 

My Inspiration

I wrote this with my inspiration in mind.



My Inspiration

by Matt Catania 

The hearts and flirtations that fuel my lines,

pieced justly to soothe those fit to enchant -

lines find source in the shallows of my mind:

the thoughts that wrote these poems came and went.

But you, my love - have invaded my soul.

My heart is yours: the true of my true love.

Seize my life - only you can have it all.

My heart is yours: the true of my true love.

You are beyond petty thoughts abandoned

for the sake of a lidless flirtation.

Far greater than the shallows a man shunned:

you are beyond every inspiration.

                As long as love is true in you and me

                we will not wilt to words and imagery.

A Great Poetry Book

     One of my favorite poetry books is called From Totems to Hip-Hop: A Multicultural Anthology of Poetry Across the Americas, 1900-2002. It's a great book because, as the editor Ishmael Reed likes to point out in his introduction, "It is book one of an ambitious project whose aim is to introduce the teachers, the students, and the general reader to a sampling of work by a variety of writers..."  The main purpose of this book, which I am trying to summarize here from in the introduction, is that there are so many writers, great writers out there, that many of us have never even heard of, due to the heavily biased and incomplete teachings in our schools and workshops.  This book has introduced so many new writers to me that I would have otherwise never found out about, and has been a great influence on me.  It also, like it's title suggests, contains writings from a great many different genres, which is what first drew my attention (besides the fact that you can find Carl Sandberg's name next to Tupac Shakur's...). It is truly a great book of poetry - if you don't have it, I suggest getting it.  Here is one of my favorite poems from this book (unfortunately, some restrictions apply - a lot of my favorite poems in this book are either very long, or riddled with structural incongruities, making it very difficult to write out...maybe someday I'll try, but for now, this is one that I can post for you):


Love Is Not a Word
by Eugene B. Redmond


Do not ensnarl me in a sphere of nouns
Nor cage me in a lair of adjectives:
My need is no funeral song for freedom --
My heat is not electronic:

Do not calibrate my sun with thermometers
Nor pierce my "secret parts" with telescopes:
My cause is not a tableau of codes --
My cry is not stereophonic:

Do not titillate the totem of my thought
Nor advertise, on open market, my privacy:
My rampant passion is not a freak for laboratories --
My pain is not catatonic:

Do not ring me with monotonous vows
Nor sting me with laconic lectures, with commands:
My need is not a force to fence in --
My itch is not metronomic:

Do not label me with foreign lore
Do not place this epiphany in frames
Do not lock my indivisible rhythm in names
Do not color-in my pageless, endless book
Do not describe my dialog with trees
Nor transcribe what the moon whispers
Do not record the voice in my eyes:
Yet look look look look, and
Don't dismiss me as a synonym for love.

A Poem of My New Home

A few months ago, I moved to Ypsilanti, Michigan.  I wrote a poem about it: 


Ypsi

by Matt Catania

I apologize in advance.

This was going to be your great declaration.

This was going to be your fearless chant; your bravado.

You promised many things.  Many things to many people.

You promised me I would come here for a new beginning.  You said I could start

my life here.  Things would be different finally. 

Things have been different.

I can see you for what you really are.  You are

the new Americana.

I cannot drive down your roads without my gray car shaking its shocks to their end.

I embrace your autumn, with all the falling leaves kept outside by boarded windows.

Windows boarded for the urban hurricane.  The people who used to live there

walk across the street without looking at traffic.  They could be invincible. 

They think they’re invisible.  They want to see what it feels like

or they just don’t care.

They cross the street to go to an open interview.  They stand in a bread line

to get the paper they need

to get anything other than bread.  Our new Americana.

I saw you in my dreams - I saw a town where people were starting a small revolution.  I was in the middle of it.  I was a voice; a leading voice.

Now I have lived here, I know there won’t be a revolution.  It would take too much time.

I have felt your desire to stay the course.  As long as I am here I know I will not see your roads change, your windows become glass, or your cold homeless visible.

You have promised all that can be taken will be taken without hesitation if we hesitate.  You

will do the taking.  I wished I would be able to call you home, but home does not take.

You could have been so creative if you kept your mind open.  If only you could share

you could have given us everything we never knew we needed.  If only you could have given us hope.

You gave us no room to create.  You’ve left us to buy things.  We don’t know what we need.

We don’t understand the things we buy.  We don’t make anything anymore - we only want

what we want; we want it now.

We get what we want.  We got

you, Ypsi.

It Is Chicago

I haven't heard many great things about this poem I wrote, but for some reason I will not relent - I like this poem.  Hopefully someone likes this too! 


It Is Chicago 
by Matt Catania 

It is the whirling lights

fifty stories high.

It is the ones who sing

for love;

for the heart -

for spring.

It is everything

the everything

that presses alone

divides the current

rides the current

again.

Alone.

It is the warm summer lights

on a warm summer night.

It inspires;

It admires -

It is always right

with meaning.

When

It is in love

It is always right

The Greatest Poem Ever Written

Before I continue putting up any of my other poems on this, I wanted to take this time to say that I will also, from time to time, be publishing great poems from other great writers.  Without further ado, I give you perhaps the greatest poem ever written: The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe:

The Raven 
by Edgar Allen Poe 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!


Just take a deeper look into the pacing, the rhyme, the plot, the meter, and the progression.  This poem is essentially flawless.

My First Sonnet

I know my poems are not always the greatest, and this just might be the proof; the real reason I wanted to show this poem is because it was my first serious attempt at a poem.  I have at least four full pages of my first journal dedicated to writing this one sonnet, and though the finished product might not be so amazing, the passion and dedication put into making this poem was pretty remarkable, especially for me and where I was in my life in 2004.  Hopefully someday I'll actually be able to scan and show the pages of the work I put into this, but for now just amuse yourself with the finished product:



Love's Melody 
 by Matt Catania 

Perhaps this is the way that love begins:
A fearless passion that would inspire
a whirlwind of all the greatest sensations - 
the wanting heart beats hard with desire!
Yet carnal emotions dare not explain
love's full, bright candor or dark enclave.
Our greatest fear will forever remain
The bane of despair we ceaselessly crave:
to sing forever with passion and grace
a love song only one other can sing.
A song that all could not help but embrace;
such music sublime two true in love bring!
     A love song begins with one's hopeful tone;
     true love songs are never finished alone.



I hope you enjoyed that as much as it embarrasses me to put it on this.  Laughing to myself right now, I know it's more important to try to explain that actually deciding to dedicate yourself to something you love or love to do is sometimes just as, maybe even more important than, the finished product, and though I may not have done that as well as I wanted to, I know I at least said it!  Enjoy your own dedication, and never forget about it!

The Beginning!

Thank you for taking the time to visit this blog, "This is Our Poetry"!  My name is Matt Catania, and my hope with this blog is to create another place in our world where great, undiscovered poets can share their works, so that the world can understand what poetry is, and remember how great it can be.  This is not a blog looking for fame, money, or recognition: it's just a place where I - we - can share our deepest, strongest sentiments through our poetry, and allow others to understand the limitless possibilities poetry is capable of.  If you want to have your poems published on this blog, just e-mail me your submissions (as many at a time as you wish), to ourpoetrycontact@gmail.com.  Again, I am not going to steal works or anything like that - this blog is merely an avenue to share great, undiscovered poetry with the world.  That being said, I will not publish EVERY poem I receive - but I will consider them all, and will respond to any submitters if they wish.  Thank you for visiting this blog, and please continue creating!