"The birds will sing for us." for A. K.

"The birds will sing for us."  for A. K.

The birds will sing for us.

They will say what you cannot.

What gets stuck in your throat,

will easily flow through theirs

and their song,

will be as beautiful,

as your intent.

                                             For my love, who loves birds.
                                                     Fitzroy (18/02/15)


Photograph from my instagram site- matthew_schiavello and taken by me.
Words and photographs copyright matthew schiavello
The title 'the birds will sing from us', inspired and taken from the Ed Harcourt track of the same title.

For him, the man who broke my heart.

There is nothing like love and loss to stir one to write again. Here are a handful of some recent writings, presented in chronological order. In case you are wondering, no, he never saw or knew of these.


       ----

You worry about the cold Melbourne winters,
worry not.
I will warm you

I will weave for you
whatever you need
out of my overflowing love
that has waited for so long.


       ----

I'd sing you a song,
or write you a poem,
of my love
and my hope of a life together.

But I fear
you would not listen
nor enjoy it for what it was.
Instead you would
compare
it to what you had,
or to the fantasy
of what might be.

       ----


If I could open my heart
and show it's trueness to you
Give you my eyes,
So that you know I see
your faults
and that I love you
regardless....

would that then be enough?

       ----


I am writing about you
because
I am
not over you,

yet.

But soon hope to be,
as do similarly hope
my friends and family
for they don't believe
you worth my time

or

theirs.

       ----

The problem with absence,
is that it makes
the heart grow fonder.

The problem with time, is that
memories fade and
hurt heals.

The problem with the present, is
your boyish charm
and warm smile,
remind me
how attracted I am
and how much I cared.


       ----


Now that I am free,
now that I am happy
(or at least telling myself I am),
I don't wish you ill,
just insight
and that one day
you may feel motivated
and strong enough
to change.
Not for me,
but for you
and for him, whoever he may be.


       ----


all words copyright matthew schiavello 2014.

Cleaning out the front room- forgotten treasures

I was cleaning out my front room recently and whilst culling my CD collection I came across these forgotten treasures.

This first one is such a cool tune. Handsome Boy Modelling school, A.K.A Dan the Automator and Prince Paul. This track features Sean Lennon, Josh Hayden and Money Mark.

Handsome Boy Modelling School: 'Sunshine'



This next one, was a tune I loved for so long, I can't believe I had forgotten it.

Everything but the girl- 'Walking wounded'



This next one many people loved... well a few people I know hated it.. but with lines like:
'A letter to you on a cassette, cause we don't write anymore'.. and
'there's no aphrodisiac like loneliness, you shouldn't leave me alone'...
how can you not get caught up in it?

The Whitlams: no aphrodisiac




In the process of cleaning out my front room I also found some notebooks I had written in a very long time ago. I think I was in my early 20's at the time. Yikes!!!!! As I previously shared three songs, I will share some pieces from three notebooks found. These writings of youth with its dizzying heights and depths... where every feeling seems to be overwhelming... Ah to be young again and to feel the roller-coaster highs and lows of life, love and unrequitedness... ummm, maybe not.


One notebook I titled 'Things best left unsaid'.

_____________________________

Everything comes to an end.
Somethings sooner than most
The sadness that permeates
the happiness that never was.

_____________________________



In another note book I wrote down some thoughts on relationships (some editing done for flow):

We define our relationships as we live them. Conventional rules are no longer relevant- wife, kids, dog, till death do us part. Now the possibilities are endless and fidelity seems a curious remnant of the past, something quaint, something that we wish we had still. The rules of modern relationships seem to be discovered as we hurt and become hurt ourselves. If the hurt does not tear us apart, we learn of a new boundary, a new rule of engagement. Writing the rules as we go hurts like hell. Why can't we harken back to the old days and ways,  using their learning's, reshaping to suit our modern life?



Theses are from the last of the notebooks rediscovered:


In the silence that gathers
my heart lies broken
Words cannot express
this deepest, deepest sorrow.

_______________________


I do but wish to be with you
to feel your warmth and caring
this mouth so sweet, I'm wanton to kiss
Oh, but I do so wish.

_______________________
 

The good, the bad and the ugly August 2011

The Good: 'The Guard':

Thursday night  I had the great pleasure of watching an Irish film called ‘The Guard’.  Billed as a comedy/thriller, It starred Brendan Gleeson and Don Cheadle and in a word was brilliant! I highly recommend it and in fact would watch it again myself. The film is filled with great acting. You know the kind, where body language and facial expressions speak volumes?  Brendan Gleeson is simply marvellous! My god I am raving about this film and why not? It is visually pleasing, is filled with great dialogue and has many funny lines which had me laughing aloud. Yes there are a few minor quibbles to be had, a few clichéd lines from the bad guys. But this film is rich in humanness and the characters have emotional depth to them. The film carries both a sense of realism as well as an air of the fantastic. Just like real life, morality is ambiguous and one good act does not necessarily lead to another. A film with a lot of heart and a lot of laughs.   

 

The bad: ‘After you died parts I – X’

The 'bad' generally refers to my poetry. During my stay in Hobart this July, I wrote a  poem in ten parts called something like 'winter is colder since you died'. After that I wrote a series of shorter pieces like this one, where the idea of 'ten parts or sections' was in used in a different way.

‘After you died, parts I – X’

Everything I write,

is a cliché.

Everything I write,

seems fake, 
untruthful.

Like I’m trying to whitewash it all.

The truth is

You’re dead.

The truth is

I love you,

I miss you

like hell.

The truth is,

neither of us were perfect.

The ugly: ‘Hey narcissist! Who me?, yes you!’  

I am always bringing things back to me, this blog, my life, events around me. Ok, not always, but often and yeah It is normal to make your life and your own things about you. However, recently I was talking to a friend about someone who was facing a lot of issues around their substance use and the violence they were perpetrating in their relationship, and I ended by reflecting back to my friend ‘how does this person have a partner and I am still single?’. My mate responded that I was being narcissistic. Maybe. Definitely. Though, perhaps I was more puzzled over the state of things. Mind you, while all things point to this person being in a pretty dysfunctional relationship…it is still a relationship and I have been without one for what seems an eternity. So this months ‘ugly’ is for me, and the narcissist within, or is that the reflectiveness of a single person within? Or am I just looking for some kind of justification? I might need to talk this through with my friend who will undoubtedly set me straight. 

The wind

The air I have breathed out has been taken someplace north easterly,

carried along by the wind.

Someone I may never know breathes me in, as I breath in another.

Perhaps I inhale a friend or enemy.

Perhaps I inhale a past love, or someone new who returns not my love.

How strange that tomorrow we will act as if nothing has happened,

after such intimacy.

I will go on being ignored by him,

and cursing at them,

for they are still my enemy and you still refuse me your love.
 
 
 
 
 
matthew schiavello  2011

What good is a life?

What good is a life

spent yearning,

for something that will never come?



What good is a life

spent mourning,

that which never was?



What good is a life

doing anything but

standing on it's own,

living

and with

love?

selected writings- nonno (grandfather)

nonno (grandfather):

The past returns in fragments

and at the oddest times (like now).

Nonno’s dialect

my confusion

and inability to communicate,

his broken English

and dancing eyes.

Warmth exuded from him as we sat there in silence.

His hands were rough and well worn,

they seemed too big for his body.

I don’t know why I think of his hands.

He was a farmer

and loved his garden,

where we would sit in silence,

as the cancer ate at him from within.

© Matthew Schiavello 2009

Hearts & Bones and a dream of nightingales

I keep thinking about the song Paul Simon wrote about Carrie Fisher called ‘Hearts and Bones’. This song has always resonated with me, in particular lines in it such as:

"And tell me why
Why won't you love me
For who I am
Where I am
He said:
'cause that's not the way the world is baby
This is how I love you, baby
This is how I love you, baby"

I am reminded of my singleness.

Recently a date told me that I am ‘odd’ and he wouldn’t explain what he meant. I sit home alone and ponder that ( yes… I know, I think too much), and though I have my good days, today isn’t one of them. Though I have a lot of uni work to keep me busy, today it doesn’t, my thoughts keep me busy instead. Why am I almost forty and still single? Today I am sad. I am lonely. I know I am not alone in feeling this. I also recognize that I have had many men interested in me over the years, but I did not share their interest. I guess the truth of the matter is that I have yet to meet a man who will love me for who I am, as I would love him the same. Most of my friends are married or attached and don’t seem to recall what it was like living life alone. I know, well.. to be honest, I hope!, that it is only a matter of time before things change for me. God, the universe… who ever you are, what ever you call yourself... if you are out there…I hope you are listening. And somehow give me the strength and the patience to wait it out, as well as the faith that things will change.

As I re-read this and rewrite parts, I receive a phone call from a friend I haven’t heard from in some time. He tells me that he was rushed to hospital four months ago for emergency surgery to remove a tumor the size of a brick. He tells me about the four major operations he had done, his months in intensive care, how his family were called in several times as the doctors thought that he was going to die, and then he tells me of the lasting damage that has been done to his body. This week he goes in for radiation treatment , which will consist of him sitting in a lead lined room alone for two days. His voice quavers, he is not sure if he will cope, or even survive all of this. He is close to tears, I can hear it. I suddenly feel selfish. My own concerns suddenly seem so small and insignificant.

I walk around the house in a daze and decide to draw a bath. Water always calms and centers me, plus I need a wash. I mindlessly grab something to read in the bath…I come away with a book of Gay love poems given to me by a dear friend, one time boyfriend, well...truth be told, we tried once more after that, and our suspicions were confirmed- we were best suited as friends… Before he died, he gave me this collection of poems. He wrote something personal inside the cover. He was a beautiful man and good friend. When he died I stretched alongside his grave and cried until I couldn’t cry any more.

Now I climb into the bath and hold the collection of poems in my hand (‘In the name of Love’). I think of my friend who gave this to me and who has been dead for about four years now. I think of my friend who called tonight and is going through hell. Everyone suffers. I am ok. I go straight to my favorite poem in the collection and read.

David Bergman- ‘A dream of nightingales’ (In memory of Jerry Thompson).

The Friday before your funeral I taught

Keats to my sophomore class. Little did they care

for the truth of beauty of the grace of truth,

but his being “half in love with easeful death”

penetrated through the smugness of their youth,

and I thought of you drawing me to the rear

window one early spring to hear in rapture

a bird hidden among the flowering pear.

You held your cat tight so that he could not scare

off such music as hadn’t been heard all winter.

When you flew South to escape the arctic blast

and home again heard that dark-winged creature

    sing,

tell me, did he then revel himself at last

as you believed he’d be - pure and beckoning?

© (1988) -  David Bergman    

No copyright infringement is intended in the reproduction of this poem.