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Best Poems Written by Hanna Mae Mata

Below are the all-time best Hanna Mae Mata poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Diamonds In Hell

If you ever find yourself slouched on the world’s perfect riddance
If, somehow, all the air that’s stayed with you are smokes of cigarettes
If you know that you have fallen into the hands of hell, blazing with fire,
Flickering like live wire, 
Seek further down the path-
Intrude further down the core-
For there is no question, 
How diamonds find derision, isolation and hell
As places to score a flawless sleep.

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Trees Are Alive

I stand here too still
Like a tree in a meadow
Though trees are alive

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Happr New Year

I hope 
you remember yourself 
well-enough tonight.
Because we all know 
how fireworks are proud, 
and loud and glittery
while sadness is illuminating 
at its own sky, 
somewhere in the 
year-long night 
living inside you.

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Why Tonight

Why tonight?
Of all nights, knitted carefully by the slenderest of hands,
To form into a year, that springs into decades and centuries
And into a future with both of us gone – 
Of all nights, that I have lain awake, asleep, disturbed, in love –
Why tonight?
Of all nights, why this night – when the moon shows nothing but its fullness
And bareness and disguise?
Why tonight?
Of all people, completing the billionth count, filling the shards of this planet we pity to call continents –
Why you?

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Too Much

I love you- too much
That my ghost shall die,
a thousand deaths,
again and again
to bury any memory that's
capable of haunting you-
to chase away the burn
that may brew my nightly visit.
I love you- too much,
That you shall never see
my shadow, my scar, my remains
even at the most obvious places.
I love you- too much
That you shall never
hear that I do, ever again.

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A Sad Story

I will tell you about sadness
that is the scrap of flesh on the very tip of my toes 
to the highest point of my skull. 
I can tell you what about sadness- 
when I lay my head back for a fortnight- 
missing meals, missing knocks on my doors, 
missing one’s absence inside my head, 
and surviving- surviving still.
But when I write about sadness, 
I shall write about you. 
I shall write about a story that
was never given a chance to start.

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Those Nights

I remember
one of those nights,
right before you rang
at my door,
when I used to call
writing 
a chore.

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Strange Defeat

He smokes cigarettes to set the ocean on fire. 
And before he can even dry a drop 
from the salty carnival of waves, 
he has already consumed most of himself. 
While the ocean, the waves, all of it- 
will not mourn for him no matter 
how it roars of blue, 
no matter how it bowls
the most ardent tears
lavishly.

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What Are You Going To Do

What are you going to do —
now that I stare at you,
listening into the silence, howling
the absence of noise?
What are you going to do —
now that my heart and all the ounce
of reason that embraces it, drops
into the cold tile floor?
What are you going to do —
now when the distance that separates 
my feet to your feet is a 
giant stretch of air, and people,
and books and rubble and
impossibility 
and dying chances?

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Souls

Souls do not weigh much. 
Not at all- 
that they can outdo the lightness of a feather 
and even the barest of all wrecked hearts. 
Souls- too delicate, 
that they stray upon vibration of the thinnest air. 
You see, I have a soul. 
It will take me. 
And I will let it.
And as for you, 
who is a soul wrapped within a soul-
if the air takes you, 
then I shall let you go.