Poetry by Matthew Nolan

Jun 17, 2005 by

Sylvy Anne

Once I stood in the room where Poe wrote Annabel Lee,
a dingy cottage suffocated by urban madness,
formerly an asylum from the city like the name Sylvy,
now from the Bronx, Poe echos on,
keeping me up to write my love a song

Sylvy Anne beams light in this darkest hour,
apart from her and her from me,
these high ceilings that mock and tower,
whispering down her name from blushing brides to be

Her words melt candles and stop black cats from crossing,
her beauty chases time and men with wine,
from that surety of love, I see her waiting,
with outstretched arms, God’s gift is mine

She fills my hours and steals my days,
a still, deep heart, my Sylvy Anne,
who parades around in faces unknowing,
I feel the stone behind the sand

Love and knowledge dispatch all rules,
when Sylvy Anne is called to play,
in my attention to her I see her growing,
away from keeping love at bay

Instead she blossoms in untimely weather,
in this time apart from her and her from me,
where I write drowned in a sunken mansion,
in this New Orleans Kingdom under the Sea

To view more excerpts or to order Matthew Nolan’s book of poetry, prose, and journals Crumpled Paper Dolls: A New Orleans Poet please visit your local New Orleans bookstore or order directly at http://MatthewNolan.net/book.htm

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