William Matthews

(November 11, 1942 - November 12, 1997 / Cincinnati, Ohio)

William Matthews Poems

1. The Snake 4/28/2015
2. Drizzle 2/10/2015
3. Alcide 4/21/2010
4. A Walk 4/21/2010
5. A Small Room In Aspen 4/21/2010
6. Bedtime 4/21/2010
7. Foul Shots: A Clinic 4/21/2010
8. A Roadside Near Ithaca 4/21/2010
9. On The Porch At The Frost Place, Franconia, N. H. 1/13/2003
10. Poem (The Lump Of Coal My Parents Teased) 1/13/2003
11. A Happy Childhood 4/21/2010
12. Mingus At The Showplace 1/13/2003
13. Job Interview 1/13/2003
14. A Life Of Crime 4/21/2010
15. The Blues 1/13/2003
16. Homer's Seeing-Eye Dog 1/13/2003
17. Eyes 4/21/2010
18. No Return 1/13/2003
19. A Poetry Reading At West Point 1/13/2003
20. Dire Cure 1/13/2003

Comments about William Matthews

  • Elizabeth Smith (4/26/2014 1:45:00 PM)

    He was my stepfather-can't say you would have loved to have met him-he did have a great sense of humor and was brilliant. Still..complicated soul, let's just say that.

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  • V P Mahur V P Mahur (2/11/2014 2:24:00 AM)

    I like the poem 'I Like'. lovely

  • Martin O'Neill Martin O'Neill (2/11/2012 5:18:00 AM)

    Just beautiful writing to gladden the soul from having read it. I would so have loved to have met him. The world is a poorer place without him.

Best Poem of William Matthews

Dire Cure

"First, do no harm," the Hippocratic
Oath begins, but before she might enjoy
such balm, the docs had to harm her tumor.
It was large, rare, and so anomalous
in its behavior that at first they mis-
diagnosed it. "Your wife will die of it
within a year." But in ten days or so
I sat beside her bed with hot-and-sour
soup and heard an intern congratulate
her on her new diagnosis: a children's
cancer (doesn't that possessive break
your heart?) had possessed her. I couldn't stop
personifying it. Devious, dour,
it had a clouded heart, like Iago's.
It loved ...

Read the full of Dire Cure

Mingus At The Showplace

I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen
and so I swung into action and wrote a poem

and it was miserable, for that was how I thought
poetry worked: you digested experience shat

literature. It was 1960 at The Showplace, long since
defunct, on West 4th st., and I sat at the bar,

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