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BOB HART - Page 2

Sugar Less Maybe Not More Greening Down to Red Berries
Damp Similes and Mossy Messages Human in a Foreign Country River of Ending Day
Rambler Airy Mood Lets the Hawk Know When to Fly Love in Black Ink
floating alone in worldly company Small Miss Mann Again Inspired by a Lord Byron Poem
Vulnerable Wall Where Pride Doorway Birdsong Many Much
Mann Photo To One Who Speaks to Stones and So Vice Versa Call Me Hypocrite and I Shall Answer
Mechanical, Electronic, Etc. Park A Grade of Skin
Go to Page 3 . Page 1


My teeth are melting

made of sugar.

I melt too:

skull made of sugar on the

Mexican Day of the Dead.

Less Maybe Not More

When spring comes again
will I be a ghost
counting longing by a wordless meter
forgetful of such numbers
as ninety-nine point six?
Thin clouds that mythicly linger
the nakedness of sun
breathe evennow with skykissing lips
how my desire stretches addtimes to
the stringtwang of light.
And yet is light the lightest vibrating thing?
The runner bursts his breath but
paints a deeper heave into
a finer anguish.
If there is a
tighter pitch
a higher heart
highwire love more delicious than
the tilt-thrills of
skating and the sea
will the old ghost gone
from the old dry tree
find it before he is free?

Greening Down to Red Berries

Autumn is blood no matter what.
Whatever blood is, in the vat, that's Autumn!
I mean, Spring is trying to leap up
to and with
a fire invisble;
with summer
that fire jells into flesh
whose distances yawn into longing,
abyss between the heartbeat al-
ways frilling green.

Autumn takes to the legs --
the kid's kick in all out racing --
not to long for, but to go!
So the long days curl,
red edges closing together --
fashion avenue is intense with dyes
more crimson than sunset
more blue than sky,
sky nor flesh is necessary to the distance,
nor wind to the stirring,
wine only wanted in the stain
for its intoxication!
Autumn is blood no matter what.
Whatever blood is, in the vat, that's Autumn.

Damp Similes and Mossy Messages

Like someone diving into diverse rivers
somehow always arriving
at the exact same shore
I return to the same metaphors, even find
the sandpiper prints
of the same messages
in my different poetry.

Gosh. Look at that. The same images.
Like in this poem: river, shore.
Already second hand images
visited by Victorian families on weekends
I still wear them like a favorite old vest
to solemn and light occasions.

Pond river puddle lake -- see? Sure.
If you dip your hands
into many of my groups of words
they'll always come out wet with water, and
examining your palms you'll likely find
some shore. I am enamored of shores
almost as much as faces.....almost
as much as eyes.....almost as much as distances
and clouds (damply obscure in my
unoriginality) I routinely describe as bright

punning on the genius of
a vapor thread that waved them,
the story threads that brought them there,
fingering the image lightly of that
silver-irised multi-flowering of myth --
am I bright? No! I'm flashy -- I mean splashy --
all wet, since it doesn't make
me shine like a mirror to
be so slow to keep lightning out
of the world of my words like sunrise-growing weeds
its accumulated dew-globes such a
fertile glare of repetitions
it bursts the thermometer from which
a facet-minded god is proposed to leap.

To leap and multiply.
Beams on the waves. Sea what I mean.
Pacific. Atlantic. Mythic.
In the
eyedrowned disorientation
of the below-wave dive
fin-wave hope to come to/illuminate
a new ascension of an unfamiliar shore.

Human in a Foreign Country

Ask him what Hamlet place he was coming from
to look out at this peopled place and decide
all the children are doomed.
Was it that in his own self-detested lewdness
he saw the world as only
the great cradle of corruption?
How vast to scan
through freshforest odor and
all paths and towns and elder growing
and eyely multiply each coming seed
of childly look
to unpassable grimfall future!

Not to call it alien. Nature is in the nutshell
and from in a shadowed rotting husk
a fertile visionary eye can turnip to
an unusual shape of telescope --
a viewer of vistas original
not to call it wholely exile.

He might have been a maker of symphonies:
have left behind
what voyages? --what nights? --
to look so on the color of this day
where he'd arrived befuddled
son of a mother
groping for an all-circling truth
to ever-begin-and-end in
his spirit he never knew was this dark
a marriage ring to make
compassion out of despair.
Oh the journeys are interesting:
dark nights and the weapons there
the sometime stars
the mirrors of black holes
companion walks; beds and
some of them left bloody
so many smells that mingled
with the pining under pines.

But see how even a blade pierce of blackness can be
a light of vision if
the stroke is seen as one's own.
But those children
standing in his outer and
his inner eye
small with their little
hands to grasp the to-come
he must meet them someday
Another moment
he must make another future
to meet himself and them in
their looks
and all the looks
arriving in a multiplicity of curious-to-find.
The heart is a journey. Perhaps
we choose and
not choose what it carries.
Journeys themselves
arrive at places
mix visions there
make music as
the boat is overturned or rides the waves.

River of Ending Day

It really comes up on you.
A street with a bridge at the
end of it. Darkness promised by
the dimming blue.
And all the people going
home or somewhere
Their hands have handled
glass or fruit,
metals, fish,
diamonds or paper with
the requisite familiarity of the day.

Their skins are not
but it really comes on you to
in the distances of evening
in the coming cool of evening
what they touch.
And would you want to be them
touched as you are by
the invisible warm river?
In the flow would you
want to be
a number of them at once,
seeing, seen,
wife, old woman, man with
hands in pockets, baby;
wearing what they're
wearing; warm or
cold as them, as
naked to their skin in bed?

The paper colors
put up newly every day,
the things that
hands can handle and pass on.
Are they enough?

On top of the cracked ice
in gleaming cold wait
for the gleaming knife
are the things of the sea.
The muscles in the palms and
The feel of fruit and
the feel of silky hair,
they are plenty, plenty, plenty,
but what is the meaning
of the bridge?


Song comin' outa the wind
goin' back into the wind again

I ain't sayin necessarily you're my friend
or the hawk or the eagle either
neither the low swamp has to be
or the high snow
the child laughin' in her carriage
nor the infant screamin' in his rage

Song lightin' down to look at you
song sailin' back into the mid-sky ice
boomerang through a high window room

I don't cry if a hill grass quivers
or the green lover smiles in the sun
if those who were parted meet again
if a reborn people sings me as its heart

They say
they say
they say a song outlasts erected stone
I don't know that it's even heard
and I don't care
where it begins may be invisible
and I may be invisible
neither friend of the hottest necessarily
or the coldest
as strange to an awakening wind
as to the iron forest on the edge of the universe
or any longings air or iron in there

Song coming outa the wind
takes more doin' to move outa nowhere
and I like the moves of the wind
like the friend that has no face no eyes
like those moves
say I kiss you somewhere
remember from my nowhere
I only unsolidly guess
the shape of your heart

Airy Mood Lets the Hawk Know When to Fly

"Yes" he said
to himself -
and to her
In that society
they certainly touched
but with the
outspoken question: "Is the
moment okay - may I?"
Even the pleasant
voice of greeting
must respect the timing
of another's inner music.
They were as ready as
you or I
to bottom-sound someone's
ocean of privacy
to self-widen where another
was breathing their ownness alive.
Their formality
light to be lawbound
as the spacing of geometry
the heart count of
a tapdance step
still could teleport
at inspiration of permission given
to a deeper station of communication.
A civilization it was
where virility and lighting of
"I will"
kept graceful wait
at the magical appearance-door
of "You are allowed."

Love in Black Ink

Just as he began to draw, it
happened again - that
feeling as when he would, with
all intentness, draw
a scene of a miracle; the
distant wood; a nearer field with
people spotted here and there;
animals, an elk, a rabbit and
a fox included; every hair and every
leaf alive, texture and ornament of
edge, and even a
blooming rose in front
of a house: a whole
world there in
black pen on white paper - then when
with pale water he daubed on color,
as if the life were too
much to be contained, a
thing would stir in him
as if, still himself, he had
become another person.
softer, larger, simpler.
His hand resumed
the act it had begun,
the drawing of
the head of Saint Apollonia,
tilted as if
without resistance and
lids closed,
containers of her inner vision.
A smile. That told the quality.
He paused; let the
feeling stir him to a
larger stillness - then he
drew the glow around her head.

floating alone in worldly company

penthouse ledges are for the birds
a little lilt of upward notes
stray help for
balancing on the edges
or a trapeze hello
to float some silver
passing to where
the yellow castles went
with gardens purpled
where the gold goes

all the day
is glowing to go there
slowing to sleep to
dream it more
dancing in slow motion
melody silking deep into evening

Small Miss Mann Again

it's a water thing
buoyed girl

if bottom is not far down
how endless it seems
finning your arms
holding your breath
where light and sound speak
more marbled languages

under place
not to take root

isn't that high for a limbslim thing to dive?
point enter is okay
gleam and gloom wobble in equal enticement.
mother-camera must
have her dreadless water baby

Inspired by a Lord Byron Poem

Pardon me a moment.

Oh. I came back late?

You've left two lifetimes behind

since I left you?

How is it I recognized you anyway?

I think I spent the whole time dreaming.

Except a second or so: you know

that star we looked at? - I was on it.

In it I should say.

It was very hot

at first

white brightness all around me, then

I dwindled til I

got all cold

and its heat was far and distant stars itself.

But that was just

a second or so.


brings you to strange people in

strange places.

You and I most often meet on ski slopes at full speed

making whiteness rise behind us.

Or one of us meets Mark.

The strange people would find

those strange ski slopes I mean.

In the dream? Something like it.

A terrible lot of fun.

Oh they were fun! Like the ones a long long time ago.

Do you trust me to

hop off for just a moment? I'll

be right back.

Vulnerable Wall Where Pride

That vulnerable wall
where pride takes off its clothes
submitting glory's armor to
the male and female cell;
North and West intelligence disboating into
the kissing sea
whose sunlit orange is a cusp between
an outerness to dazzle day's expansion
and skin's shimmering invitation to
its cups of dark.
Gods go down
and goddesses too
letting ordor ooze to serve
a mutual swirl
and rise again
to compasses and day and dignity.

Doorway Birdsong

Something tight
about a bud
like a green angel before desire
Something about this cup
I have castle kept
from climbing strawberries.

Something before
high vanilla blue
about translucent shade.

Many Much

Icing smoothness for the manyness of kinds of cake;
fullness always seasoning season; salad of
faces an ever of leafage sprouting:
no shortage -- never. Avid as mosquito spear,
deliciousness attacks by surfaces;
roundness declaring ripeness as
wave to ripe on fall in rudely ride;
the gush of skin mysterious with multiplicity;
repetition bright-berrying another circus and
pulse push of clownishness blos-
soming sprigs of new tumbling.
Juice of ripeness colors the picturing tangue
behind its white coral. It pearls.
Warm speech to well? To brim? To blossom from
the puckered coolness of silences?
Taste is taste but summer simmer smell
wafts of sauce, being self
a prime ingredient.

Mann Photo

Deep water. Not too cool for the nude --
Sheila's little body in its
wobbly shadow face
smooth and proud against
the knotty rock she stands
front of above below on.
Feely-footsole-careful, hard stone is nice.
Mirror holds you - splash - then
smoothly under-forward like a fish.
Goddess-child, then fish, then
she-who-shivers -- emerging --
water's fall in wrestling left behind.
Deep little nude, undressing mind
to brimsmooth dive:
slick paper skin for naked touch.

To One Who Speaks to Stones and So Vice Versa

Yes that's the way. Three year olds do it

and when we look away their dolls walk.

Behind Virginia's closed door

you may hear a chorus of voices.

She talks to them so well and long

they prattle all night

and carry her banners in her dream.

Yes and out your window I see

the trees and rocks are marching

and mouthing a personal language.

You are quite right to angel-trouble matter

make it bathe and birth itself.

I must learn this too

seeing as I do that fire earth air and water

whirling like snakes

become a face of stone that turns

its voiceless workers into stone,

seeing where streets drown into solid thought,

I must, against the body's old age weight

and gathering crows,

lift matter to breath if I want it alive,

if I want not to lose

the personality the childish crafts man put

in the shape of the coffee cup,

not let the square TV in the sunless attic

make dust of temperature and mercury.

But fire earth air and running galaxies are legion

and, hardening, their single name is death

unless the space poured from your eyes or mine

outhuges them so in our skyness they fly.

Direction moves. It's one way or the other.

The spider depends on you or me

to keep him undust and dangerous

on me or you

to turn a window brightly toward his lively shape

to space his dance.

Call Me Hypocrite and I Shall Answer

Standing on the stage and

dying in my arms with all

the strength of beauty in your face

and what colors of Goya

am I wearing now?

You cut the lines into yourself, say

"these grooves are my life on this place!"

and then you press yourself against the paper.

And I say "pity is as horrible as suffering"


I hold only ink on my heartshaped stone

no blood.

My blood in some distant place

I may have long forgotten. I might

hold you there

and cry your tears as warm not freezing salty sweet

forgetful of how flesh so smooth a spread

is natively susceptible to rankness.

The horrors of war. And where - if I

could mine it in me - would tenderness take me?

We have the harmony of seasons

in atmosphere as thin as cellophane

and frail as tissue.

Shall I come back (fresh from the dead)

with your grandmother's comforting lips on

a childish smiling brow

wearing the blue of the homeland river and

a russet in my storytelling gown

weaved all of sunrise after purple nightflow?

Shall we together seamaiden swim

where age is no rotting but only a wine

and kinder never toten only lieder -

liebchen: shall we?

My sleep is my drug and will you wake my gray nerves

to the toothache of this world?

If I'm a glass and if your dying stains me

don't you see that you must

live to make my colors shine?

Mechanical, Electronic, Etc.

Old Fernande Leger
bulging his muscles lifting paint
to sweat the wrenches pipes and gears
onto canvas moderned as Mechanique.
Oh but see the humor winking from the flatness.

Now reach into the TV screen
to grab the puppets bobbing there.
Oh no. The plastic hits your hand.
The color picture's made of neon threads
(not steady and staid like comic strip dots)
all nervous rushing across and cross
like Roadrunner
but without then life you give him.
You would have to wax electric yourself
to un-net these wires of light
and leap into satellited air
to chase the flying voices -
cowboy taming mechanical horses.

These beams from the computer glass
hallucinating toward reality
as cutting edge as dexedrine
electronically pilled;
ghosts without souls and
scanned as memories
lacking touch and personal solidity and motion
by being virtual - subliminal joke! -
they mock imagination.

What current fool would dare excite himself
infusing life into mere thought
and dare excite another so
they use that prankish fancy for
mutual play?


Park within streets
with wood tables high branches
and crowding paths between herbs.

Evening trees soot into silhouettes.
Oh blanket me
as you are blanketed
by deep'ning blue.

I do not know the moon is rising,
me a ghost in a faraway place
glowing through the dark.

A Grade of Skin

W.B. Yeats: "the face you had before the world was made"

Flesh ash -
how to shake off the ash:
find the redflow of flesh.
Or better than that:
how no longer allow
ashes' smoke to symbolize spirit;
admit that death
is not a soul nor its surcease;
that flesh is live because we say that life pours flesh;
that no space confinement
can extinguish us
the way that we by effort/will can drown
a huge or smallish fire.
A forest or a planet may be left as ash
and so reality seem only ash
because the burning had a face
so universal.
I was a fire a minute ago
maybe harsh or maybe beautiful
and now in the mirror all I see
is eternal gray.
More solid as it cools into
all I can remember.
Mirror mirror on the wall
who is the hottest fire of all;
who the coldest coldest ash
and what the how of greatest fall
and how the what of oxygen and rising?
Oh see the glass
the air invisible
and yet so bright -
before the world
before the world
all beauty yet to come.