The Martyr of Mytown

Not long ago in Mytown, there was a martyr.
He suffered for a cause I do not know.
But how he suffered made all the difference.
He took no thought of his legacy;
He just stood for what was right and paid the price.
For what he suffered exactly, I cannot remember,
But I know I thought it important when I did.
 
It probably was not important to him that he be remembered,
But I decided to remember him.
At least one person would.
One person would stand by him;
No one should be completely abandoned.
So what if I do not remember what it was he lived for?
What matters is that I remember that he suffered for something.

It was a good thing, I am certain,

Although now and then I seem alone in my admiration.
I wonder if it was all worth it.
Some would think his sacrifice in vain.
No one knows what he did; no one feels his pain.
But I wonder if it matters in the greater view of things.

But is it right that I am the only one who remembers him?

But my thoughts of him are my tribute.
My rememberance of him, my sacrifice.
I am the standing monument to his victory.
We all need a monument.
I admire him, but do I really want to be like him?
Will it even matter that I remember him?
How does he benefit and how do I?

You are right; who is the Martyr of Mytown
That we should remember him?
Mytown is too close for someone great to come from there.
Let us forget the Martyr of Mytown;
Let someone else remember him.
It is impossible for something of great value to happen here.
It is too recent to be important to us.
 
Too new to be history, too old to be current,
Let it go. It is not our fight anyway,
Moreover, it is not our business.
It is not good to follow speculation and rumor, for it serves no purpose.
In fact, I am certain, there was no martyr in Mytown.
 

July 31, 1999

Christopher Ian Matt

Like a Planet 'Round a Shining Star

Like a planet 'round a shining star
Whose orbit's broken, then flung far,
Cast away by the star's mighty swing,
It's gravitational arm, to bring
It hurling into the dark abyss,
Never to think of, never to miss,
Gains momentum in its flight through space
To settle in some unknown far place,
Trailing fear and longing in its wake
With its life and comfort to forsake,
 
I fall fast and faster grasping at
Air and not finding anything that
I can anchor to, to stop the drive
As I plummet further, as I dive,
And never knowing what lay ahead,
Better or worse, what I'll know instead,
Accepting that I may never go
Back and have the life I used to know,
Remembering a lifetime away,
Things that happened only yesterday.
 
Falling, falling still, then something new -
Gravity - a pull, direction to
Guide my course, bend my path, curve my flight,
An illusion, or some goal in sight,
A destination, perhaps, but an
Upward swing to be sure, better than
A downward spiral, uncontrolled fall
In a wrong direction and with all
The burden that crushes to create
A hole of inescapable weight.
 
A star may catch if attraction's strong
Or it may sling a planet along,
But its influence is no less felt
In its motion and its warmth may melt
Frozen waters and grant it air,
Stifle suffocation, give life where
None was found or it had diminished.
Strengthened for when the journey's finished,
The sphere finds a new ellipse, abides
A time, calls home the orbit it rides.
 
As planets, stars, motion's consistent;
We know not whence came or whither went,
But that they are lost from view, veiled
In darkness, when onward have sailed
And carried our hearts but not our eyes,
Left us to wonder and theorize,
To hope and dream, to pray and yearn for,
To accept what fate has left before
Us, wait the day when it does behoove
Us to venture, as all things, to move.

Christopher Ian Matt 

27 September, 2005

Pardon Me Sir, Could You Tell Me Which Way The Wind Is Blowing

Pardon me, sir,
Could you tell me which way the wind is blowing?
Sometimes this way, sometimes that
I hardly know if it's rain or snowing
And my head is here to hold my hat.
 
Wadsworth, Waldo? No Walt Whitman?
Whitman? No, today Walt Disney.
Your rhyme and verse, now that's just shit, man,
I'm with Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.
 
You like my song? I was only sneezing.
I mean, why thank you kindly sir.
It is in substance whatever's pleasing
I knew an expert would infer.
 
Ma'am of course I love your verses.
I like the ones you recite in bed
I'm spent; could you tone down the curses?
No, I'm not sleeping, I'm only dead.

Counterculture, neoclassic, feminist, gay?
Every week a new school of thought.
What? It was so good yesterday!
I did just what my dealer taught!

An Orthodoxy of radicalism?
Our contradictions make the chaos.
Like Luther, create another schizm
Always room for another cross

I'll sit unmoving as the world turns
While you can go against the grain.
They want a new way to burst the urns
And I can only play insane.

Christopher Ian Matt

May 9, 2009

A Tribute Poem on the Martyrdom of Joseph Smith

Joseph, Joseph, raise your throat-cry
Above burning torch and fiery eye.
You knew but an echo would reply.
When scarlet tears from weeping wounds
Gather no sympathy on the ground
The time has come to say goodbye
The time has come to say goodbye.

When there's no help for a widow's son,
Who turned back and didn't run
Away or cease what he had begun,
When time stops and friends return to bed
And loved ones have fallen dead
Your labors must be left undone.
Your labors must be left undone.

When there's no strength left to borrow
To hold the hope-song for the morrow-
Out, brief candle, no more tomorrow
The smoke-infused morning air,
An opaque veil, shrouds their stares
A curtain draws upon your sorrow
A curtain draws upon our sorrow.

The sounds of metal and wood and rage
Are swallowed in the silence of the age.
Your mouth is silenced in your cage.
Your final words have all been written
The darkness swells, the sun is smitten.
The time has come to turn the page
The time has come to turn the page.

By the window, muttered prayers and silent songs
Drift on the wind to address the wrongs
And the heart-torn longings of countless throngs
Of saints who cry for you from afar -
The lid now taken from off your jar,
Fly now; your soul to them belongs.
Fly now, your soul to them belongs.

Joseph, Joseph, raise your throat-cry
Above burning torch and fiery eye
Your life-plea spent and one last sigh
Then cast your worries to the ground,
Cast your ragged, worn frame down
And lift your soul up to the sky,
Lift your soul up to the sky.

Alexei Christopher Mattanovich
May 13, 2009