The One I Love

The one I love fills up my journal pages.

   It makes me sing to hear her say my name.

I have been chasing after her for ages.

   Each time we get close, it’s always the same:

She tells me I’m the one she’s thinking of;

   She tells me that she cares—that she adores me;

And waits until I offer her my love,

   Then takes somebody else home, and it floors me.

It kills me. Kills me. It plants something dead

   Inside my heart—a hole; a growth; a cancer—

That poisons every pure hope in my head

   Into dead-end despair that has no answer

      Except what will forever make me grieve:

      The one I love’s the one I have to leave.

Copyright 2017 Matthew J Wells

Manhattan Sonnet: Walking These Streets

If we’re not cursing, then we just don’t care.

   The problem’s always someone else, not us.

We know we each deserve the spotlight’s glare.

   We think it’s ghetto when we ride the bus.

We hate our day job but it pays the rent.

   The shoes we wear at night are who we are.

We really don’t know where the week just went.

   If we had time, we’d learn to play guitar.

We have high hopes and very low desires.

   Losing an argument is worse than dying.

No matter what we buy, we kick the tires.

   Once every five blocks we see someone crying.

      That’s why it sadly takes selective blindness

      To walk these streets and still believe in kindness.

Copyright 2016 Matthew J Wells

 

Manhattan Sonnet - Us New Yorkers

 

We reminisce about the good old days.

   We drop the F bomb like it’s punctuation.

We talk through concerts, movies, church and plays.

   We act like God owes us a coronation.

What Used To Be Here is our favorite game.

   The fucking subway is our favorite beef.

We act so blasé when we drop a name.

   Stylish despair is our default motif.

We’re starving for good places we can eat.

   Create a Get Real app, and we’ll install it.

The moment that our sneakers hit the street

   Twenty-five bucks vanishes from our wallet.

     Don’t ask me why, but Thursday is our Friday—

     And our song’s not “New York, New York,” but “My Way.”

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

Manhattan Sonnet - Life Is Success School Here

Life is Success School here—we all get graded.

   You get a high mark—watch those doors unlock;

You get a low mark, and you wind up jaded,

   Watching the limos drive by while you walk.

The rich are always getting extra credit;

   The poor eat brown bag lunch (PB&J).

If it has looks, the powerful will bed it;

   The weak will haunt bars, looking for a lay.

You either get promoted or kept back;

   You either get the handshake or the lash.

Success means you’re the home team’s quarterback;

   Detention means you live here with no cash.

      We get to drain the dregs or skim the cream,

     And either live—or only dream—the dream.

 

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

Manhattan Sonnet - Living Here With No Money

Living here with no money is like going

   To battle with no air support—it sucks

Hot rivets.  You’re not fighting—you’re just throwing

   Yourself against a door that only bucks

Can buy you entry to; and when it’s closed,

   You’re outside looking in—a wannabe—

A poor sad fool whose fortune’s been foreclosed—

   A starving brute beneath a fruitless tree.

Is money that important here?  Is breath

   What our lungs need to live?  It’s the same thing:

You cut both off and it’s a gasping death;

   You let them flow and we keep soldiering.

      From grunt to REMF, we share the same condition:

      Money’s not just a tool—it’s ammunition.

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

Manhattan Love Song

for Barry Meisenheimer

I loved you when you were a dirty mess—

   The streets I couldn’t walk down after dark;

The thick graffiti on the 2 Express;

   Needles like fallen leaves in Bryant Park.

I loved you when you were a burnt-out car—

   An outdoor Lower East Side barbecue;

The swanky hookers at the Hilton bar;

   The skanky hookers on Tenth Avenue.

I loved you when you never slept a wink.

   I loved you when you were our culture’s nest.

I loved it when you pushed me to the brink.

   I loved you when to love you was a quest.

      And though you’ve changed so much it makes me ill,

      Those are the reasons why I love you still.

 

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

 

Manhattan Sonnets - Autumn

Autumn is one big weather potpourri—

   It’s hot, it’s cold, it’s beautiful, it’s sucky.

We put up with its worst days patiently

   And will survive its best days (if we’re lucky).

September’s cold and then it’s ninety-five.

   October has two fouls for every fair.

November’s brisk and makes you feel alive,

   Then kills you with a blast of arctic air.

We take our shades off and put layers on

   As colors are all bleached out of the city.

Leaves go from green to gold to brown to gone.

   Dying has never looked so bright and pretty.

      Fall is the season where both life and death

      Are mingled in a single city breath.

 

Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells

 

Manhattan Sonnet: Summer in New York

Your summer is a long, steamy affair

   After Spring’s sweet, but very brief, flirtation.

It’s filled with tourists, flip-flops, frizzy hair

   And water bans on all but perspiration.

The air’s like maple syrup to walk through;

   You have to chew each breath as if it’s cotton.

The sun makes side-street asphalt give like goo

   And takes five seconds to turn fresh fruit rotten.

Your streets are never quite as hot as hell—

   Just nastier than armpit stains in silk.

In August, twenty zip codes will all smell

   Like rotten lettuce soaked in sour milk.

      Thank God for Central Park, the city’s jewel:

      It’s the one place where everyone feels cool.

 

Copyright  2014 Matthew J Wells

 

The "Come Live With Me" Manhattan Sonnets

“Come live with me,” you said, “and I will make

   Your dreams come true so fast you’ll be amazed.”

So I moved down here thinking, “Piece of cake!”

   And here I am, unnoticed and unpraised.

I feel like I’ve been doing this forever:

   Wearily knocking on the same old door

Behind which those less gifted and less clever

   Are cheek to cheek with you on Fame’s dance floor.

And when I say, “That’s it, you punisher.

   I will not chase my dreams here one more day.

I don’t even remember what they were.”

   That’s when you pout and stroke my cheek and say:

      “Didn’t I tell you?  It’s not talent, dear—

      Luck and connections make you famous here.”

 

“Come live with me,” you said, “and you will be

   Finally recognized for who you are.”

And so I did, and now you think of me

   As That Old Guy Who Scribbles In Some Bar.

The path you said was open is a wall.

   The field I thought I owned is occupied.

The courage that I felt was alcohol.

   And every seed I planted here has died.

My life has been a mirror-world King Lear:

   Nothing has come of everything.  The gods?

They haven’t even sported with me here.

   They simply laughed—like children laugh at frauds—

      Pointed to my unfortunate condition,

      And smiled at me with total recognition. 

 

 

 

“Come live with me,” you said, “and I’ll devise

   An endless roundelay of revelry

For you alone, and whisper all the lies

   You’ll need to hear to help you live with me:

That great success is calling out your name;

   That merit always gets you the reward;

That hard work and persistence win you fame;

   That life here has a price you can afford.

I know it won’t be easy on your pride

   To bang your head against unopened doors,

But think of that great treasure trove inside!

   Come live with me and that, that will be yours.

      What do you say?” you ask, and I just sigh.

      What can I say?  I’m living here, aren’t I?

Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells

Because This Is New York: Con

Manhattan by night: 1946

Because this is New York, I feel alone

   Even when I’m surrounded by a mob

Of people who race through this maze of stone

   To get to, or escape, their hated job.

I share the streets as part of this proud herd

   Of fellow souls, who all feel solitude;

I go for days and never say a word

   To anyone, except to order food.

So many strangers, hunting, just like me,

   For some warm human color in the gray

Of this ant’s nest—searching, only to see

   So many strangers, and they stay that way.

      My soul mate could be living down the street.

      Because this is New York?  We’ll never meet.

Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells

 

New Yorkers 101: It's A Jungle Out There

 

Sometimes like predators, sometimes like prey,

   We prowl your jungle of planned avenues
To serve some God or just survive the day,
   And learn to triage what we cannot choose.
Your wilderness becomes a winding trail
   Carved by the machete of our career.
We know that you’ll forsake us if we fail
   Or eat us up if we show signs of fear.
So we walk tall, with purpose in our faces,
   Hoping our next mistake won’t be our last,
Mapping your traps till they’re familiar places,
   Praying our future can redeem our past,
      And wondering a hundred times a day:
      Am I the predator now?  Or the prey?




Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells

New Yorkers 101: Metropolitan Pastimes

We reminisce about the good old days.

  “What used to be here” is our favorite game.

We talk through concerts, movies, church and plays
   And fall asleep at operas without shame.
We drop the F bomb like it’s punctuation.
   We only gossip when it’s libelous.
We strut like God owes us a coronation
   And stroll like cars are jaywalking, not us.
Our critics either pan or overrate.
   (They only read each other anyway.)
It takes us weeks to make a dinner date
   Yet if our meal is late, there’s hell to pay.
      Not giving up deserves the triple crown—
      But no one ever really wins this town.

 

Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells

New Yorkers 101: The Money Thing

 

To live here, we must keep a balance sheet

   Because, on top of our “nut” (as we call it),
The moment that our sneakers hit the street
   Twenty five bucks vanishes from our wallet.
Our monthly take home pay may not be pretty
   But we’ll spend every spare dime till we’re dead
To do as much as we can in this city
   And paint it our own custom shade of red.
So we all grace these mean streets to the limit
   Of what we make here, and a little more.
If there’s a profit, we will gladly skim it
   To buy admittance through the members’ door
      And pinch our pennies in a Red Queen’s Race
      To make us feel as if we own the place.

 

Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells

Where are the New York bars of yesteryear?

Where are the New York bars of yesteryear?

   The Bottom Line. The Lakeside Lounge. Sin-é.
No one today can sit and drink a beer
   At Rawhide or the San Remo Café,
Dan Lynch’s, Mars Bar, Kenny’s Castaways,
   The Jukebox, Banjo Jim’s, Siberia,
Around The Clock,  The Lone Star, Jimmy Ray’s,
   The Cedar Tavern, Danceteria,
P&G, CBGB’s, Maxwell’s Plum,
   The Lion’s Head, Milady’s, Shandon Star,
The Gold Rail, Ye Olde Tripple Inn, Drake’s Drum,
   Rose’s Turn, Motor City, Buddha Bar.
      Honor their names.  Remember them with toasts.
      We all have favorite haunts that now are ghosts.

Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells

 

Videos from The Players Club Poetry Reading - 9/30/11

So

You can take us out of the city . . .

We all live one month’s rent beyond our means
   To order specials from the city’s menu.
When subways shut down, we’ll walk home to Queens.
   NYC’s not an address--it’s a venue.
We never stroll when we can dart or lunge;
   We move too fast to see our own reflection.
Our sidewalks soak up rainfall like a sponge
   And then make oceans at each intersection.
You’ll find the sound of traffic never stops;
   We locals all count taxis to relax.
Live here a month and you will earn the chops
   To play our streets like Parker played the sax.
      Prouder than Paris, confident as Rome:
      Manhattan’s what a special breed calls home.

Copyright 2011 Matthew J Wells

Listen to The Manhattan Sonnets on Art International Radio

Back in July, I was part of a poetry reading at the Players Club sponsored by New River Dramatists, during which I read three poems from a series called The Manhattan Sonnets. Thanks to the support and interest of New River’s Artistic Director, MZ Ribalow, I was asked to record the first 21 sonnets for a radio show that New River is currently streaming on the Art International Radio website. That show is now up, so go listen to it and let me know how I did, because God knows I can’t listen to my own voice without hearing a duck with a Boston accent.

Here’s the link:

New River Dramatists on AIR

And while you’re at it, check out the other streams (in particular, if I can be biased, the New River Poets: Emerging Women broadcast, with the never-less-than-brilliant Patricia Randell) and come back every couple of weeks for new stories and poetry written and performed by the best in the business. For me, it’s an honor to be one of them.

Even if I do sound like a duck.

This one is for Eva

Manhattan Sonnet - 22

I watch you tug imaginary gloves
  And tilt your head because you hate your chin,
And then play through the city’s rush and shoves
  As if Manhattan were your violin.
Your tune is high and soaring, like your dreams:
  The major theme of one great symphony
That will resolve the concrete with the seems
  Into a concord of true harmony.
And as you play, I note just how composed
  You are, how all the strain falls from your eyes,
And how, beneath your cat-mouth, is exposed
  A smile born out of passion and surprise
     Because, in these harsh streets, you’ve finally met
     A mate to mate with in a choice duet.

Copyright 2010 Matthew J Wells

Manhattan Sonnets 14-21

Other posts in this series:
Manhattan Sonnets 1-13

Fourteen

There is no mercy in you -- there is just
  The teasing smile that hides the butcher knife.
There’s nothing in your ways that I can trust;
  No street that’s not a threat against my life.
One night you’ll say “Hello, there!” with a gun.
  One day I’ll tease you and you’ll have my head.
One wrong step and my walking days are done.
  One hint of weakness and you’ll cut me dead.
The price I pay for loving you is hard:
  I need to grow a second pair of eyes
To see behind me and keep up my guard,
  And extra ears to listen for your lies,
    And extra hope, that when you start to tear me
    Limb from devoted limb, you’ll smile and spare me.


Fifteen [Ava’s Birthday Sonnet]

 If beauty was a knife, then I would bleed
  To death in seconds every time we meet.
If elegance was one unplanted seed
  Then gardens would grow up around your feet.
If sweetness had a tongue, then it would sound
  Like bells on Christmas morning when you laugh.
If lovely was a teardrop, I would drown
  With HE DIED HAPPY as my epitaph.
If your smile was a snowflake, I would freeze.
  If your touch was a feather, I could fly.
If words were music, you’d speak symphonies.
  If your kisses were life, I’d never die.
     So many ways to paint your beauty true;
     So many diamonds, and the necklace you.


Sixteen  [The Strand Books sonnet]

Sweet are the afternoons I’ve spent with you, 
  Touring the kingdom of your high-shelved alleys,
Reaching for rarities or something new,
  Arms full of paperbacks or next month’s galleys.
Night after night I haunt a different section;
  Day after day I scare up some new find:
Barthelme, Cabell, Wodehouse in collection,
  Oscar Wilde’s letters, Auden’s poems (signed).
Offer me novels, journals, poems, plays;
  Know what I want before I even look --
Stranded with you is how I’ll spend my days:
  No need for rescue –- just a self-help book.
    Yours is the siren song that always calls:
    Come browse away your life within my walls.


Seventeen

Each night’s the same -- you fix me with a stare,
  Pull me in close, lean hard against my hips,
And then, when I reach out to stroke your hair,
  You’re always just beyond my fingertips.
And I will always reach, because with you
  It’s not about the capture but the chase --
The plans to meet up trump the rendezvous;
  The finish line is trash next to the race.
You’ve got “anticipate” down to a science.
  To you, there’s nothing purer than the pleasure
Of long engagements stalling the alliance --
  To you, X marks evasion: that’s your treasure,
     And that’s why no one else on earth can match you --
     You never let a single suitor catch you.


Eighteen

You change the board each time we play the game --
  Replace the unsurprising with the new.
Only the pieces ever stay the same;
  The rest, from roads to rules, is up to you.
Today, low score might win; tomorrow, high.
  Yesterday’s short cut?  Now it’s a dead end.
Last week the truth scored ten; this week, the lie.
  Last month the lover; this month, just a friend.
You really love to keep me on my toes
  Almost as much as I love keeping up
With all your moods, your whims, your change of clothes
  Like different drinks our of the same sweet cup.
     Each time you pour, my tongue tastes something new;
     Each sip I take makes me more drunk with you.


Nineteen

You walked me past a vacant lot today.
  A week ago it was my favorite store.
“It’s still the same old me inside,” you say.
  “It’s just a different look.”  But no -- it’s more.
I think inside you’re terrified, and so
  Unsure of who you are that all your fears
Drive you to throw yourself at some young beau,
  Spurning the heart who worshipped you for years.
And so you preen to please his roving eye,
  And if you think he hates our favorite haunt,
You’ll tear it down, and kiss our past goodbye --
  Tell  him: “This place is yours –- what do you want?”
     That’s you, my love: you crave today’s caress
     But always dream about tomorrow’s dress.


Twenty

There’s something naked in the way you look
  At people who can open doors for you.
You cast your smile out like a baited hook
  And reel them into shore -- no matter who
They’re swimming with or how much they resist,
  You make them want to jump into your net:
Grateful that their mythologies are kissed
  By your intentions -- glad to be your pet.
And when they’ve walked you through whatever door
  They have the key to, and you finally come
To where they cannot help you any more,
  You toss them into your aquarium,
     And point to them and smile at me and coo:
     “If you can open doors, that could be you.”


Twenty-One

When I expose my vulnerability
  You handle me with adolescent gloves
And try your best to never let me see
  How low my name is on your list of loves.
The moment that I tell you how I feel,
  You treat me like I’m guilty of a crime.
You lock your heart up like it’s the Bastille.
  The same thing happens every single time: 
When I show need, then you show me the door;
  When I talk love, you sigh and shake your head;
I pour my heart out and it hits the floor;
  I give birth to a hope -– you strike it dead.
     And I come back for more –- I’ll never learn
     Because your cold heart is what makes me burn. 

Copyright 2010 Matthew J Wells

Happy Birthday, Ava

If beauty was a knife, then I would bleed
  To death in seconds every time we meet.
If elegance was one unplanted seed
  Then gardens would grow up around your feet.
If sweetness had a tongue, then it would sound
  Like bells on Christmas morning when you laugh.
If lovely was a teardrop, I would drown
  With HE DIED HAPPY as my epitaph.
If your smile was a snowflake, I would freeze.
  If your touch was a feather, I could fly.
If words were music, you’d speak symphonies.
  If your kisses were life, I’d never die.
     So many ways to paint your beauty true;
     So many diamonds, and the necklace you.

Copyright 2010 Matthew J Wells