From many places, speaking truth
and making magic happen. Celebrating language.
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POETRY OF BOB HART
|What I Told My Mother||A Fox May Stink||Out of Some Climate Mist a Face|
|In German of||in ordinary afternoon||Soon|
|As if Living Light||Once a Crack||Stir of Exploration
|Confession of Almost Innocent||And You||This One's For Jack (Wiler)|
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A Fox May Stink
A fox may stink in the rain where it's wild:
ah to stink at a dance and escape like a fox
with dancing unblushingly left in the festive room!
Coming in green shaking off the cold snow
one may be there yet for other dances
dressed in red and pretty as fire
desiring to light up the dark.
To look to look at the fresh plastered walls
and to gaze at the wet bright eyes wildly!
"Wet with what?" no foxy red fur need ask,
come in drenched in his stink
to the party design!
Buds come in small -- so many so many --
kittenishly to romp in immortality
spontaneously numbering like thought
each fox drop of blood the
needlepoint briars may shout of.
From a pre-plenty void, this
firmament party pours and pours
out of flaming gazebrillance of numberless eyes.
Out of Some Climate Mist a Face
This is the face
one wishes in twilight's agony to see
the ripeness of lowering evening
encarnadined to one's own harshest stretch
for sword as bow to treat as violin
the silent tightness of horizon's rim.
to fingerfeel when blindness hides all form
familiar in a newer language now
and newer egg enlarged within the palm
imaginary rainbow epic at the rim
translated later in the voice of other dawn.
The long ash time
was fresh fire once itself
whose ghost could flare alive to fright this dark
out of its dumbness passionately numb.
Season still to dream a face or numberless
if one could stretch it past
sacred invisibility where pain sobs stop.
In such a scarcity: a face, one face or two!
Or else some trinity to promise possibility
for certainly it's serious if sobbing fails.
Bright flame shaped marble porous as itself
the human giant striding abstract promise
powered with a grace of dance --
promise frozen to a halt, shouting hollow horror
from its weighted immortality.
Size inspirement shrunk
since to norm so sealed
no inner suck or outer blast of veins
can wash to cosmis chase or melody.
Winter has a double skin --
one that suffers, one that smiles.
Oh to spring before it
visage as locked in lids as death
or morningeyed as dream.
In German of
Singing in German of grey mossy Spring:
out of the warmth of death (or dearth?)
a new life's paleness,
thickest pile of velvet
whispering along the nerves,
pre-stirring an arriving
just enough to rainbow illness,
not enough for sturdy health;
tongue still tasteful
for greyfeather mist.
Earth, when April with jewelry comes,
must shoulder-itch as aged naked princess
weightily berobed, weeping infant's eyes
for freedom from the loading of
a too spelled-sacred scented majesty.
in ordinary afternoon
on this new-to-your-walking street
you daylight glance her passing person
either's eyes (neither stopping)
trade novel strangeness (pass)
there after her glance is yoru picture-jewel
its afterlightning locketed invisibly
it's because you're young that
unknown eyes can be angels for
goddess/god as yet unnamed
because you're young and cleanly lean
like space and future seen identically wide
that can run the course
as healthy blood desires to dive and play
whose clarity is bluegreen promise of
as like to flow transparency
looking for a Golden Age.
At every return.
Why not April? --
each arrival of Hers uncanny and fresh:
Her colorless eyes
looking pale green glowing into ours
so we always
know a rainbow in our cells or somewhere
by the weightless mildness of the air.
Thing strong inus (our central selves?)
seeks in sense
that substance we would value most:
I, or special other,
maybe multitude of every other --
here on out to the spectrum-end
of a shimmering vitality.
Child April entering us and ours
to find, one time, that wondertale is real.
us yes. A Golden Age.
Don't you spring toward that idea?
As if Living Light
She was in two parts of the room at once --
one she satisfied with normal height (if
regal pose); the other
giant sized and flying.
How did the room feel about that?
The door the small one leaned against
darkly imitated that one's eyes,
shadowy and serious.
The ceiling was pleased with
her larger edition
and this novel chance to feel intimate.
It was brightness of the glassy doors
streaming also in the glossy floors
that loved her best --
the generosity of her hugeness,
her dress's folds voluminous.
She luminous and aloft
as if living light might never stop
But there she is, double in another room,
the small one in pink
is smiling in a singer's stance;
the hand of the huge and floaty other
poses in a casting spell
some inward flaming must demand.
Her long dress is peach
though the curtains red and red within
these brown brown walls --
shaded fashion of this
so so secret space for apotheosis.
Once a Crack
Once a crack. Now an abyss.
Later perhas a
magnetic dark star.
the horrid silence of implosion occurs.
Not here (one hopes)
where it's enough to explode and bleed.
once a crack.
Stir of Exploration
Excited solitariness.Such curiosity! --
so lively traveled to this place
the objects in it blossomed qualities
in answer to my new hellos.
When I told a clock I liked his smile
he blushed a most peculiar character
around his window face.
The cat, large cat, that was a woman
lay seductive there, all purple fur.
Which mademe want
to press awhile with her.
"I do bad things" she purred
"to those who cuddle me"
but satisfied my pucker with a kiss.
All this unlike a waking world
but all the world there was.
Confession of Almost Innocent
I like mermaids
but barely the smell of fresh fish
though green is more vivid in grass
love wind after rain
its both tickle and smell.
I like real
and fantasia made of the real.
Fallen leaves have a speech
fine as French and I must
imagine by longing what they way,
not too much longing
for my thin soul --
like a taper in half light, just
enough to satisfy me.
Great souls have kept
their depth intact;
in stains of height
they call us high.
But I may
be speaking to such. Well
bless you then
and bless your world,
its maintained vigor and
As only art shaped unreservedly
that statue's form
is beauty become visible.
In the privacy
cool marble (like warm leaf) provides
you wholly scan its face.
Its visage turns toward you.
is deep as shame.
It knows you well as
you know it.
Caught in her space
what can you do?
If she should speak
what would you say?
Your life til then might burn away -
and you a
naked thing to learn new words.
This One's For Jack (Wiler)
Here come the troops of those
So sad they went: they're infants now.
So what's that say to
those who tremble, moan or gloat
that all our living moments march toward death,
that universal promised end? - what say
about psychotherapy's discovery a brain
(with maggot-sized circuit chips I guess)
can really hold all memories?
The dead, just dead, here they come! -
crying to arrive, forgetting how they left,
to first-time suffer pains of
adolescent love this billionth time.
And suicide the answer (for my friend as
middle class as I) if he lose his
job or spouse? Therapist's joke of suicide
as permanent solution to a temporary problem?
Humorous, but actually the other way around.
Those baby screaming dead return like Marley's ghost
with shit knows how
long lightyear trains of baggage.
So death is a bitch, and then you're born.
And, once again,
the scary, tender parent care:
the smiles to cause your smiles; the
double edge anxiety to greet your weeping.