Born Bristol U.K. 1971
Matt won the Erbacce prize for poetry 2015 his new
collection Dystopia 38.10 (erbacce-press) is now available. His poems
have appeared in many magazines and journal's such as Page and Spine,
Harbinger Asylum, Apogee Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Knot
Literary Magazine, Clockwise Cat, Ygdrasil, The Journal, The Seventh
Quarry Carillon, Sarasvati, Poetry Quarterely. http://www.mattduggan.webnode.
No One Loves Us Like The Graveyards
The dark heart has captured Ragga
where only petrol blood-pools span
the Euphrates river;
lips were sealed like stitches weaved from her soul,
truth would prevail beyond death
as she celebrated Eid in her pyjamas;
No one loves us like the graveyards.
They do not watch the stars
even though they stare deep into amber sky,
bumping into each other
while walking through shopping aisles;
not for any religious purpose
but for the drones and the missiles
in skylines of this Syrian circus;
No one loves us like the graveyards.
The Crow
When I feel that I’m the Crow
living outside that circle
gliding far from the heads in chatter
that only resemble the pattern of Mandir Temple
in whitened marble;
An outsider
The night that stalks it’s seekers
a dark star- an angel from another world.
When I feel the Crow has left my side
white feathers grow back into skin
am I not that white star ? invisible in daylight
at night a fading stream just that echo of a falling pin.
Acrobat
Wire is his silence eyes on stalks wait
for that sudden jerky movement,
frozen on every step that he makes – is it just a performance?
The Brahman of control and balance
we all feel like that acrobat at some time in our life;
judged by the eyes that watch us work
we all try and stay balanced on that tightrope,
not wanting to hit the floor and swim with dust and dirt.
We all want to walk that tightrope
keep the repetition and balance so we are free from fear and hurt;
we all feel like that acrobat at some time in our life.
The Heart That Had Two Eyes
How the heart has split partly sleeping in the shade
awake on a bed of auburn
caught in the light; Inside a house that has a heart with two eyes.
My darkest retreats are those guilty pleasures –
eurythmic bones and sinews
exercised without any words from a siren
that duplicates sweat from a stare,
though my heart excites and grows
as I’m never sad when I leave her bed;
knowing that over each shoulder
we’ll both be looking into the rear view mirror
for someone else’s fragile heart.
My lighter retreats are the warmth and comforting essence
that my heart receives in wondrous fulfilment
like the eye of heaven uninterrupted;
How the heart has split partly sleeping in the shade.
~Matt Duggan
