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Included here is a collection of poetry written by New York Room composer & lyracist Matthew Ervin...some of these words have been the inspiration behind or incorporated into the songs from Courtesan which we thought might provide an interesting backdrop to some of the new compositions, while others are collected from private scribblings



to my dearest 
it is to thee 
I,from the Rooftops sing
my dying (un)love 
that thee will 
with kisses be full 

everyEach sunrise will 
with roses begin 
everyEach twilight we'll 
alone and only be in 

I pledge to you 
my shoulder 
upon which you(inbetween 
holding you 
everyday closer)may 
forever cling 

for it is to you 
whom do I promise 
my wholest heart(and) 
softest whisper 

without hesitation 
will you never again 
want or wish about love, 
nor wonder 


in so slow 
careful circles floating 
she(without wings)so 
graceful hovering 
me she glides 
weightless, without effort 
so dreamlike-brightly she 
(without halos)shining 
warm and blue round flowing 
radiant she(in 


dear and sweet 
dark melancholy night 
hold me close, tight 
in your arms or 
I might(just, 
though I do not wish)slip 
vanishing away, and if this-- 
how can it be?--your wish,than 
one last time 
you must sing me 
a lullaby, 
and promise me 
this, don't(and, 
of this I insist)let me 
wake up



when you smile(at me) 
I am young if for 
only this moment again 
and briefly; 
I am me once more 

who is it that I am 
when your sometimes smile is gone 
and how do you 
peel away, buried deep 
beneath what 
I am not, find me 

when you sometimes smile(at me) 
I am in love(with you) 


the children of Eden

when at noon the apples are blue 
when from the rose black blossoms bloom 
and their thorns are pressing 
down and adorn the altar 
of the tomb of god 
when the maidens of Sophia sing 
when from the lips of siren song 
and their melody is keened 
the Knight of Wands 
on bended knee 
and the Black Madonna is King 
(in whose image do you pray 
upon the shroud who is the face) 
when the rain from the sky is red 
and the keeper of secrets 
turns the key 
and reunites once more 
the lost children of Eden


April Sonata

spring is smiling, smiling 
miracles rehearsed in a safe dream: 
daffodils, dandelions, daisies, dahlias--
flower petals and pieces of cloud, 
fig blossoms perched in a leafy tree 

spring is singing, singing 
'yes' in a chorus of wind: 
dance, run, jump, climb-- 
cricket wings bow a morning melody, 
bird wings softly brush the air 

spring is painting, painting 
the earth in technicolor spirals: 
sculpting, widdling, inching, healing-- 
the robust grass is healthy in new skin 
the sky stroked by a wet paint brush 

spring is speaking, speaking 
love in a soft voice: 
preaching, teaching, telling, giving-- 
listen, hear her message, 
let spring take you by the hand 


soul gliding

when I am far away outside
myself gliding-(just this side
of)inside the sky-flying
chasing the horizon, climbing
through the depths(deeper)diving
to seek and maybe to find
that which may lie above or behind
the veil of all I am allowed
by science and their white coats
and microscopes
to be or to know(if only
I could somehow show)
all or any fraction of that
which they, with their
axis and parenthesis
axioms and hypothosis
(or by which they
can multiply and thus divide
between their boundaries &
parameters they hide)
but it is somewhere
or just outside
just out of reach, beyond
though (t)here to find
but to see you must
first close your eyes,
deny yourself,(dispatch,let go)
leap and fly
to a greener hue
and brighter blue,
a greater truth
a seperate you


blue flower

there is a flower
I wish I
could give that, with
it's blue petals, could
show how much more
than color my
love is;
that with it's fragrance
could, just by 
breathing it, bring
closer to me, you

there is a flower
I wish I
could grow
that could with it's
frailty reveal --
with each bud opening,
all that is 
tender of my, in
every corner, heart
that with it's true
and so simple
beauty tell
just how much
more, than words
could ever, deeply it
is that I carry
deep inside me, you



there is not truth
there are but many:
     with eyes to see
see not but stars
but also graves
     with ears to hear
hear not mere trumpets
but for whispers bear witness.
     And so again,
I ask you hear me
(though your eyes must listen)
     to touch the horn 
of the unicorn
     or to wear 
the crown of thorns;
to love or suffer
or to suffer in love
in black and white
or in technicolour...
and only DaVanci's sky
is bluer than even your eyes,
my dear, and
more carefully guarded...


Stargazing (with Elanour)

my least sunset is,
when I am with you, more-
every star shines
a little each brighter
when your hand holds
mine tenderly tighter
(and each and every twilights
gleaming view is 
more grand and very). 
With just 
your slightest touch 
or smile and any word
or whisper is (and can be
and only) but not even I
nor has any - not
before nor since, nor
will any(near or now) or
in some distant f a r a w a y 
future - be or can, with
any word or gesture
posture(that which is)how
when your hand and 
when my hand-when 
at dusk are together entwined,
will the slightest sky
sparkle barely brighter
than before


where the horizon meets the sky

No promises, no suicide
the calming waves
the tender tide,
cool and blue the water
round and blue the sky...
To which do we aspire?
should we swim,
or should we fly --
Together you and I
to and fro
the ebb and flo
forever you and I --
to where the horizon meets the sky.
Dare we climb
the rungs of air and
to clouds we cling,
or deeper dive
the mermaids keen
singing porpoise song?
High above the clouds
or swallowed by the sea?
Warm inside the halcyon's nest
curled against the feathered crest?
or on the backs of birds our plight
the tired wings of falcon flight?
adrift amidst the coral and reef
aloft amongst the gulls and breeze.

No promises, no suicide
we'll let your kiss for us decide


Sonnets in Springtime

John Woods taught me 
with chalk and fist
pacing and chanting 
(from memory) his verse,
I listened to him whistle 
and learned his tricks --
his right hand would twitch for effect.
He made me believe in poetry
and I stopped going to church.

At night, we all drank cabernet
from coffee mugs,
(smoking Winston's to the filters)
and he'd spin stories
of the cafe society,
of Dylan Thomas and 13 shots of whiskey,
of poets and their groupies.
Reciting verse in 
the cemetery after dark --
moonlight, candles, fireflies
thirsty with spring
punch drunk with Byron,
(but mostly wine).


just who is it that
can show (her) just
How beautiful it is 
I(on the inside)am
and why should
(ever so beautiful)she
notice such things as these--
she who is the
scarlet of the rose,
choose the caterpillar
and not the butterfly,
why the bud
if not the blossom be.
Me(who so shyly)in
poems I--and my
innermost everything--hide
when in the hush
of night and all its
colours, I reach
to give her,
when yellow
is all she needs

much at all

half asleep sunday morning
with a spider for my only friend  
I know it isn't much
but better than being alone
cooped up inside for too long now
waiting for worlds to collide
for walls to crumble
for stars to fall from the sky
waiting for someone, something
anything at all
to take me away
far from here, from all this
a million miles away
or just around the corner
but for now curled up close
I'll just close my tired eyes
dream I am a muse
for a spider spinning its web
to carry me away
to someplace better
or at least just somewhere else



living in darkness
for so long now
deep and searing dark
blind-folded then
catching me off guard
taking me by surprise
such treachery
so cruel and ugly
each and every awful all of it
but you weren't finished yet
you were not to be outdone
sadness turns to emptiness
emptiness into anguish
as I crawl away in disrepair
twilight turns to midnight
darkness to cemetery black
treading water
killing time
sinking, slipping away
ever further
ever deeper
unknown and unsung
reaching out, finding none
waiting for a sun
waiting for a sky
holding on
with one hand
clutching, clinging tight
I won't let go of this ledge







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