Enter to Win 1 of 10 Free Autographed Copies!
http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/53818-anatomy-of-a-poet

Read a Preview of Anatomy of a Poet:
http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/336273-preview-anatomy-of-a-poet?chapter=0

I would love to be friends with you if you’re on Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5308345.C_J_Heck

My Retina's Nostalgia

She has the smallest hands
I've ever seen
and fingerprints,
like ink-drops in zero gravity.
Reach me darling!
Reach me,
like the tiny shadows,
announcing darkness
in the corners of my eyes.
Her small hands...
she is moving them so slowly,
only with a feeling of motion,
but no motion
within her move.
Nothing more,
than an echo of existence,
described best
as a word,
crumbling before it's spelled.
Scene is,
this empty museum of amnesia,
which will be storeroom,
not for blind desires,
but my retina's nostalgia.
Here will I leave you
my beloved particulars.
Fare thee well,
for you're alas to heavy,
to be placed in such small hands.

-Kerim Mallée

Your Own Word's Prey

My biggest crime,
my most fatal guilt,
was believing
that the meaning of poetry,
is to transform thistles into roses.
But POETRY is just another word for CHANGE,
and there is no change,
when you take a thorny plant
and transmute it into a plant with thorns.
Writing is a cruel business.
You have to catch the world
which is encompassing you,
till the truth lies in front of you,
notched out and flayed.
You have to do this,
you have to splatter ink and speech,
over the rotting body of TODAY.
So let your words be an army of red ants,
that gnaws the meat of perception
off the corpse named reality,
till the bare bone is uncovered.
You have to do this,
because of the day,
when your ashes will float away with rain
and there is no one left to spill
a tear for,
no one left with tears to dry,
no one,
but the orphaned daughters of a pen.
So there is obviously no time
for small talk,
when you are anxious to avoid
becoming your own word's prey.

-Kerim Mallée

Please take a look at my book "Third World Poems" and write a review so I will know how to improve my craft. No words could express my gratitude.
http://www.bookrix.com/_ebook-april-mae-berza-third-world-poems/

good news probably! i have written a new book of essay named X-ism : a new revelution in poetry by me. this is my research book on poetry. i have invented a new category of poetry named X-ism that is described in this book. what is X-ism and what is it's necessity ? to know read this book plz and comment me as a new writer.
link :http://www.bookrix.com/_ebook-tasruzzaman-babu-x-ism-a-new-revolution-in-poetry-by-me/

The Falling Leaves Of Cherry-Trees

Don't be scared to point the fact
that miracles exist.
Yes, some people will accuse you,
some will call it “a lie”,
but the world contains more
then idiots,
who hold wood and nails
behind there backs.
Yes, there is always someone,
who will build a messiah-trap.
They do so,
because they are blind
and humans only fear the unknown.
Make them know.
Make them see.
Because a life without beauty,
isn't a life, anyone should live.
They won't know what they miss,
if they have never seen
that the falling leaves of cherry-trees
look like summer's first snow.
If someone tells them
about the bright,
shining moon,
they will only hear more
than a guy pronouncing words,
if they've walked lonesome roads
in starry nights before.
But if they've seen the beauty
in the obvious,
they'll finally understand what it means,
that the moon never beams
without bringing him dreams
of his darling, his darling, his life and his bride.
This world,
where every broken bone is a promise
of success, a proof that you're on the
right way,
can't exist without beauty.
So share your beauty.
Share your miracles
and don't listen to anyone,
telling you anything isn't true
or possible,
because it is all relative.
Let the cherry-trees snow.
Let the moon beam.
And if the night is cloudy,
shine even brighter,
to become the lighthouse
that leads the ship of fools
across the giant ocean of broken bones
and promises,
around the rough cliffs of forsaking
and quitting.
Share your voice, spread your light.
Plant the seeds of beauty into the fields
of sorrow and bitterness,
because tears will only make it grow faster,
your forest of cherry-trees.

-Kerim Mallée

Some of my English and German poems.
http://www.bookrix.de/_ebook-kerim-mallee-voice-stimme/

Swedish Miles

Did you know that one Swedish mile
has a length of ten kilometres?
No, I don't want to go hiking
in Sweden with you.
Not today.
I just want to tell you,
the most talented architect
could build a skyscraper,
one billion Swedish miles high,
he won't feel as close to heaven,
as I do,
because of looking in your eyes.
Holy shit!
Normally I am an atheist,
but you played mind games with me
and I'm not sure anymore.
The problem with a word
like “love” is,
that it was often said,
but never meant.
It is too short,
jumps of someone's lips before he realizes
what's happening.
That is why I don't like to use it
in my poems.
I prefer to say,
that
“With nobody in your bed,
the night's hard to get through.”
is not my only reason.
It is rather a feeling of comfort,
that is bigger, then my fear of death.
You look like the harbour
where I want to rest,
till hourglasses splinter,
because I miss you,
like a sinking ship must miss
the lighthouse.
And I hope my words can swim,
I don't want to imprison them in bottles.
I want them to be free,
so that they can find you,
wherever you are.
And I want you to know,
that if you were a sinking ship,
it would be my greatest pleasure
to get shipwrecked with you.
Although that would mean,
to inhale the cold frosty water,
as it hits the engine,
and drown with you.
To be or not to be,
that is not the question.
Not for me.
My issue is:
“How can I make you breakfast,
without waking you up?”
Because I am clumsy as fuck!
My steps sound like an elephant
slipping on ice, falling into a storeroom
full of timbals.
It seems to me,
that I'm the joker and you're
the queen of swords.
I am tired of Wildcard
and you are sick of tarot .
Let us start a new game.
Let us invent our own rules.
I cannot prove,
that we ought to take the same direction,
on this crossroad in the middle
of nowhere, where we've met.
But I am not a vampire.
Worst-case-scenario is, that I'm a bad
knock-knock joke,
but we won't ever find out,
if you let me stand on your doormat,
till the end of time.
If that happens,
I would put up a tent and wait.

-Kerim Mallée

Do You Remember?

Do you remember how life was,
thinking that the moon was made out of cheese?
Do you remember how we
were t-shirt-suited knights,
how proud we looked wearing that harness?
While riding our bikes like horses,
we wore our helmets,
like they were made out of unbreakable steel.
Do you remember,
how I told you
that my grandfather was a magician?
In some way, he was!
Every grandfather was a wise magician that time.
Do you remember how we forgot
that everything can become reality,
if our faith in it is strong enough?
I know that you’ve seen those dragons
and dwarfs, too.
Do you remember how we used sticks as rifles?
The best rifles ever!
Because they didn’t hurt anyone.
Do you remember how many times
I imitated the noises of a shooting gun,
but you were always able to stand up again.
So we bought some time,
to learn…
To learn for our “What is death?”-exams.
Do you remember how it was,
to live in a world,
where no one is able to hurt true beauty?
We were kings and queens,
living in sandcastles,
ruling kingdoms,
within borders marked by sandboxes and seesaws.
Do you remember your first day at school?
You felt alone, because you didn’t know anybody.
Remember how you realized
that we all don’t know each other.
How you broke the silence.
How we all became friends.
How we had to learn to use our feet again,
each time after we had fallen.
How we learned faster and faster.
We are still learning today.
Remember how we skipped stones over water,
counting the leaps.
Remember first love and braces.
Remember that small way between fantasy
and reality,
we were moving on all the time.
Remember those days when we were young!

-Kerim Mallée

Hemingway's Shotgun

One day I saw the smiling face of death,
while I was looking in a bathroom-mirror,
after spending the night in the last motel
on a road going nowhere.
A strange place,
inhabited by even stranger people.
Angels who became atheists, living next door
to broken-heart-couples,
killing time on their honeymoon.
Novelists who have sold their souls
for poppy-field-born fantasies,
melting in the heat of candles,
on the soot-blackend tongue of
once silver-glinting spoons,
who write their poems about evanescence
and mortality on toilet-walls.
They use needles to write the same poems
on their belt-spanned arms.
As the ink floats into their veins,
the voices are muted for a second,
but after a moment, they are turning into the same
haunted people, that they always were.
The kind of person who spreads his arms
to hug a train, liken an old companion.
A person who's neck is a breaking match
in the hand of god,
who knows that street-lamps were not designed
to lighten the dark places inside us.
Someone, thinking that love is the sweetest
word, hidden in the devil's dictionary.
Someone, lost in never ending nightmares
about secrets behind locked cellar doors.
Nightmares don't care about insomnia.
You can't escape them with caffeine or amphetamines.
Sometimes they visit you,
when you're lying sleepless in your bed,
Hemingway's loaded shotgun under your mattress.

-Kerim Mallée