Template

Template

There is a template for man.
A form to pour the wax and ash.
It's made of water,
full and fluid- always changing,
but the form the same.

There is something from that mold.
Something that is not placed in it.
Something not given,
solid nor palpable- can't be made,
but internal to all.

There is creation inside.
Null of such sources.
Born of ourselves,
in action- such as speech,
taken as choice.

-Matthew Koutzun

Bother

Bother

I don't need this...
I can't have this...
This thing you gave to me.

I feel sore,
where you feel sore too,
but that does not make us kindred.

I wish I could...
I would take it...
But thing is: I just can't stay.

-Matthew Koutzun

Keep It In

Keep It In

Keep it in your journal:
Memory;
It has the gift of scrutinizing the present.

Keep it there;
Locked away.
So that your fears don't harbor your dreams.

For the dock is a shanty,
Old wood; sodden rot.
A place where the low people come and they stop.

Keep it hidden
In pages,
Even when you think you cannot.

Keep yours treasured
like diamonds-
Most would steal to replace theirs.

-Matthew Koutzun

Now You Know

Now You Know

Now I know how my Mother felt-
Being a man of nineteen myself,
when she stared at me in my bed
during one of my snoring- hacking fits.

My toncels were enlarged back then,
making it hard to sleep.
My breath coming in uneasy gasps.

She has those same fits now
and I stare at her sometimes,
while she sleeps in bed,
because sometimes those fits abruptly

Stop.
And I fear as she did:
that that silence may last forever.

-Matthew Koutzun

The Story of a Prince

The Story of a Prince

There once was a prince, a fine fellow of normal stature, normal virtue, and of normal heritage that he was quite plain indeed. But as most princes go he could not have what he wanted.

“I wish your hand in marriage.”

“I don’t even know you,” said the young girl.

“You do,” said the prince in his highly fashion.

“No, I do not,” the girl insisted.

The prince was insulted. He had seen the girl everyday with a smile for the past two years and sent food and gifts to her every day so he replied, “how can you not? I’ve known you my whole life and have gotten everything for you out of love.”

“You locked me in a tower.”

“True.”

-Matthew Koutzun

With Friends Like You, Who Needs Enemies - or - Wartime Transversals

With Friends Like You, Who Needs Enemies
- or -
Wartime Transversals

Barracks and tire tracks,
stuck through the mud.
Hail storms and halos-
worn lackluster.
Gun to a head,
go on pull the trigger.
Best friend or not,
it's just the shake of that index finger.
Shaky,
not like you,
to be so unsure.
Held close to breathe on
too human I am to you now.
And in this instant enemies become from friends.
But with friends like you...
I care in the end.

-Matthew Koutzun

Simple Package- Revealed: Much Larger

Simple Package- Revealed: Much Larger

Today I found the most wonderous thing:
a beuatiful package-
wrapped in brown paper and string.

But what was in the package
was secondary to that
of a stranger little letter that was simply just attached.

The string held close the letter,
sealed up-
Undone, I looked to see.

A note; two pages long-

The letter itself held magnitude,
though the sender
knew not of it's size.

They knew not
of how large it was,
nor it was from their side.

They sealed it in
this letter,
even though they did not know how.

But I do:

with kindness, grace and honesty
they gave
without knowing how.

How strange:
a little letter,
when not bundled up with string,

is the thing
we always try for,
when we're not trying.

-Matthew Koutzun

(Although it is not writen in the title like the others- this one is dedicated to my friend Nola again! You know what it's about Nola, even if others don't- if they knew of the simple gestures you do the world would stand and take notice... but what makes it so special this time, is that you gave it just to me... :) )

And that is it

And that is it

When you get up and leave-
before that:
everything is packed away.
In boxes, in foil, and crisp tissue paper.
Hidden away from prying eyes.
It is there-
in all that storage,
that you finally see you've got it,
things you've packed away,
you finally see you have it.
Everything you place
in hiding,
as you do the act
you suddenly see it as new again-
like a toy from childhood revisited,
and just as suddenly as it became new,
it becomes old,
and the weight of it drops it
out of your hands,
and into the yawning gap below.
You put on the lid,
and that is it.

-Matthew Koutzun

Defining Crux

Defining Crux

Crux:

1) The decisive point at issue;
far away on a hill
spectators funnel to see,
atop this great mound,
an eternal question bequethed.

2) A difficult matter;
to be decided.
Anwsers too many,
come called and ragged from the crowd.
Two sides- doing nothing.

3) A puzzle;
you are,
and the people around you confused,
the pieces too many, to now reassemble-
how they still look for you now.

-Matthew Koutzun

Orator (For Trisha)

Orator (For Trisha)

Master Orator:
simple debator-
so much said just from your face.
Never your words,
never your rythem-
only the subtle turn of your place.

Held me for hours,
just by some words:
never more I've tried to replace.
Cannot just move,
heavy from phrase-
wonder how your ideas must taste.

Because it's much more than diction-
it's much more than style-
it's much more than the stories that comfort for miles.
Why captivation favours
those who cannot,
why it bars, and it churns up, moments of thought.

Hold me sweet captive-
take hostage my soul;
take me to that place you remember: home.
Comfort me now,
comfort you: I'll listen.
I'll let you take you back home: where your eyes used to glisten.

-Matthew Koutzun

Burning Bush, in Form of Tree

Burning Bush, in Form of Tree

Burning a bush takes time;
it takes many steps to achieve.

But not "a" bush,
but your bush you must burn.

You must grow one from a seed,
you must water it everyday,
you must feed it with the sun,
you must nuture it from pests,
you must ensure that it survives.
And once you've done these
you see your bush
and want more.

You see your bush,
and see potentail,
and you watch it bud-
in spring.
It grows to a wonderful tree.
Branches spread,
and wide to awe.
And you see that it grows so large;

It blocks your own sun,
it blocks your own rain,
it blocks you from seeing your own.

And you take out your match,
and flick it fast;
ember in your palms,
orange glow at the seed.
Set to flame,
a wide array
of reds and yellow- sputter.

Your burning bush
now a burning tree.
How we watch creator fail.
But the tree lives on,
and you just cry,
a creation with a mind of it's own.

-Matthew Koutzun

(This poem was inspired by my brain at first and then by the painting I just finished named the same as the poem. Below is a picture of "Burning Bush, in Form of Tree" the painting and you can judge for yourself. Thanks!)

Bring Me

Bring Me

You have many talents in this world, they told me,
but yet, I've found none to bring me love.

They bring me devotion,
They bring me fandom,
They bring me many things,
and yet, not one, I know, to be love.

I know these are the compontents of one such thing,
but yet, it does not convay the favour, that eludes me.

For the talents are for
the physical,
the strenuous,
the people, who need, the touch.

-Matthew Koutzun

The Legend of the Widow's Walk

The Legend of the Widow's Walk

Once, in a place far from here, there was a handsome man. He lived a life beyond what most would even think of ever owning. He sailed the ocean and worked hard everyday for what he had, and could have any woman he wished, if he'd only choose.

One day at sea, he noticed someone thrashing, someone drowning in the water as he pulled up that days morning catch. He turned his boat towards the trouble hoping that he was not too late. The waters thrashed around this person stuck in the sea and he swept them onto his boat by the cuffs of their sleeves.

And that's when he found her, the one who he would love. Black hair, tight lips, and eyes as green as olives that shut before they could even grace his own. He thought her dead. She must be dead, he could hardly hear her breathe. But he had to try, that's all that could be asked of him he thought. If he could take her to shore as fast as he could there was no way that people could ever say that he never tried for love. So he sailed onto shore- the one thing that was ever constant- more constant than the subtle flow that ebbed the water from the moon drawn tide. He rode such waves to his constant, his land, in hopes that he could salvage what love he could from such a beauty.

And salvage her he did. He reached that mighty shore in time to see her face as constant as his land. As constant and still, as the frozen ice he envied that clung to the sand felt shores, this curiously cold winter.

What made it more curious to him, as he carried the frozen beauty through the brown and dying reeds, sand grinding and sticking to his boots, was how such a beauty came to be- drowning in the ocean. How did she get there? Who had dropped her off? Who had forgotten her? Was she forgotten, or just left? Too many questions to have when the one with answers was so cold. He continued to push through the reeds making it finally to the yellowing grass full of sinkholes; him careful not to trip and lose his prize. He thought of her as such now, like a precious fish that would sell for premium at the town he was suddenly entering. The shops and market place busy, him weaving with the girl in his arms, people staring asking the same questions he did only now, with him as a suspisious twist.

Women offering apples, as if this young girl had not learned enough of strange apples in her deep sleep of snow, but still the young man continued through the town eager to finally reach the town doctor whom he believed would have answers just like she would have for him. All he wanted was answers.

He reached the door of the doctor and slowly released his lady to the ground, the largest sacrifice he could manage: her so far from him. The wait is what truely killed him. Waiting for answers. But not from the doctor, from her.

The doctor had opened the door that day, releaved the boy to tell him that his fair girl was still alive only in a deep coma, a deep sleep he said from the shock of the cool waves from which she thrashed. The boy was told to feed her, he was told to change her, her was told to excerise her. So that day he took her home and laid her on his bed, but that was not before carrying her home. Not before everyone in town had come to a conclusion of the situation. Some romantic, most dark. The women swooning from such valor, the men jealous and lusty from such envy.

And so he sat there that day, the world on his bed, it's bosom swelling up and down with each subconious breath. He stared at her for a full two hours, the pail skin regaining colour being so near the passionate fire that was consuming the wood faster than his questions. The skin so delicate, so pure, if only he could touch it and not be consumed himself. He had been to church many times and heard of the dread, one man could have, if he let himself slip into temptation, if he so slowly crept off the garden path to the bush that was so strange and inviting. The clothing she wore was transparent from the moisture of the ocean, and was gaining it's thickness from the drying of the fire. He wished to change her so that she could be warmer but temptation still haunted him and he could not bring himself to help her. He could only stare safely from a distance, refusing to let his hands linger below his waist. Linger, linger, just one finger. It was the one thing he could do without touching her.

He fed her, excerised her, even changed her in the coming weeks, becoming bold enough to clean even the most private places. He had cleaned and comforted for months, neglecting himself and his home, it leaking from time to time, the fire slowing from lack of wood. Women commented on how the young man looked: aged and worn in a matter of weeks losing what handsomeness they once concidered noble. The mirrors, he had all broken the first week, to keep himself from vainity, and to hide the want on his face from himself. Wet and torn his clothes, so clean and white hers. He bathed her with a damp cloth to keep her from the thing he had swept her from.

The thing he broke next was penultimate from the last. He broke the boat, leaving her only momentarily. The fire was low and the sheen from her skin had grown dull one night from the cold, another fear of his from the past of her; when she was still here in the land of the wake. The thing that gave him his prosparity, his popularity, his wealth. The thing that gave him pleasure, that gave him wind, that nurtured him, replaced by the siloette of a lady from the sea. He broke the stern, the hull, the mast. Chopping each with a steadfast ax that did not shine from the moon- dull as his spirit. Holding his face taut, holding his ax, holding the air dry in his chest. The wood would be good, it would help her he reasoned, and looking at the boat now- it in pieces at his feet, the shards and splinters ground into the damp sand that froze to his heels he angered. Questions swept through his mind again, more furious than the last and he marched. He marched back to the house that housed her.

Back through the sand, back through the reeds, back through the town, to the place he made her rest, and then finally to the place where she now rests. He stormed into the room and took her by her shoulders- a hand firmly on each, and shook for the life of him, shook: her head bending- snapping- jerking in sick and tattered rips of taut relentless cold muscle. Arms swinging, limp and cold. Saliva spitting and dripping from the corners of her awkward moving lips. The air stale that came from her lungs, as lifeless as a corpse, but one that would not just die.

And he screamed to her: why! He screamed to her the questions in his head, his breath sour and raw. The spit from his own mouth spraying, mingling with her own that leaked from her mouth still, her coughing from the cool liquid that ran down her throat, her coughing... her hair tangled and shifting back and forth on her face, her coughing...

And still she became. And still he bacame. And then he laid her down again, her breathing harsher, more alive than before. And she opened her eyes. And he smiled. And she smiled. And then she querried where. And then he died.

The last thing there was to break. The last thing to be consumed by the other. He stood and stared and she stared to him, pondering whom he was, and where her other was. Our young man, walked away and back to the shore. He gathered his wood and walked back to the house. The girl pondered still, while our boy, he made stairs from the drift to the roof. He never once answered her questions: where is my lover? I lost him out to sea.

He built the floor of the walk, the railings too, while she bleated him with questions harder than the salted wood he nailed together. He finished and grabbed the sanding, while she screamed from the stairs, the sun nearing the horizon on that final night, her confused and uncaring.

He polished the floor and mended each crack till the walk was greater than the house had ever been, even when it was new. And he stopped and looked at her and then held out his hand. She quieted and took it, and he lead her to the edge and asked her one question: Which question would you like me to answer?

She stared into the eyes of the broken man, noticing now how the moist strands of hair touched his forehead, in half hearted attempts to become cresent moons, how his jaw was set like his mind, how his eyes held what was left of himself in the palms of his pupils. She thought to herself that perhaps if things had been different that perhaps she could have fallen for a man like him too but then thought otherwise and asked: where could he be?

And with that our boy released her hand from his own and the girl felt like it should be returned. He walked away and the turned at the stairs: Let me please go look.

She nodded in confusion and watched how he doubled his steps down the stairs and how he quicken to a run; through the town, past the apothicary, through the reeds and finally slowing at the sands. She stood at the railing, watching and feeling the pace slow, the pace of her own heart melting, realizing. He turned and looked all the way back to the house, seeing the siloette of a woman reaching forward, him hearing the screams of a lady, feeling the emotions of a girl: broken.

The girl screamed and reached from such ledge for him, her body doubled on the rail as far as she could reach, the hair kicking her shoulders as she tried to heave herself further, watching him slowly wade into the waters, arms still by his sides, hands slowly dipping into the deep. His chest deepening it's breathes in the too tepid water, the goose bumps subsiding as the wetness of the ocean caressed and soothed them, the hair rising and falling as it gained weightlessness, even as the eyes burned from salt and the air finally left the lungs. She screamed watching a man walk into the sea for her.

"Where is she now?"

"Little one, we don't ask such things."

"But, what of the man, the lover? Which did she love?"

"No one knows- all they know is that she waits for both, on the widow's walk."

-Matthew Koutzun


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(This is the first short story on this page and I hope you enjoyed it. It should actually be placed before "The Bull and the Matador" to keep it in time written order, but it took longer than inspiration could wait for that one poem. Maybe there will be more of these short stories- you decide.)
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The Bull and the Matador

The Bull and the Matador

The Matador had a question for the brooding Bull:
"Why is it you charge at red and only at my red?"
The Bull had a question in return:
"What is it that red means to you?"

The Matador answered:
"It is like passion- a burning fever, is that why you become so angry?"
And the bull answered:
"Anger? I do believe it's love."

-Matthew Koutzun

The Awful Truth

The Awful Truth

I once heard a story:
but perhaps it's best a fact:
that in the old days
Native Americans would drink many glasses of water
before going to bed,
so that in the morning
they would wake up faster.
They used this many times in war.

What they don't tell you:
is that when they were taking their piss-
the other side attacked.

-Matthew Koutzun