After Purging Old Books

After Purging Old Books

He's determined never to get angry.

Apparently there's nothing there to fear.

I'm dwelling on the edge of my existence,

An emasculated chanticleer.

I can write. My poesy was better

Several years ago when I was dead.

Reading it again – I've lost my talent.

Can I recreate what I just read?

Or I'm foolish. I'm not really good,

Then or now. Hammering at god,

A poetaster, just like any other.

Untutored and inept. Another fraud.

Is it in my genes or situation?
Better than alone it would appear.

Running from a phantom malediction,

Why do I live in dread and constant fear?

He is good. And anyone who sees him

As I have, and listened to him talk,

Knows he's worth a heaven, not for milking.

Small myopic refugees of chalk!

Flowers that will never come to bloom,

With a single end in mind – a tomb!

1-21-14

Foretaste

Boring conversations

Of the trivia of life,

Like reading something deep

By William Inge -

Without a little humor,

Little gossip, little life,

Are deserts filled with sand,

A little taste of real death.

1-20-14

Aggression

I am not aggressive.

I never had a friend.

Perhaps there's some connection.

The others came for me.

They expressed affection

And made me feel at home.

I did not reciprocate.

So they went away.

Yet a little residue
Lingered in their souls.

I don't know whether

Or how much I cared.

Like Nietzsche I ran out

And kissed a horse.

1-20-14

 

Garrote

Twice I took a chance

And asked someone for friendship.

Either time was landed on my face.

But he and I approached each other slowly.

Then like the sea, I flooded over him.

To a gibbet reaching outward from a cliff,

I dangle in the morning

And turn circles in the moonlight.

I am dying slowly in the rain.

Terrified of heights,

I don't look down.

1-20-14

 

The Fool Speaks

“Animals were put on earth to serve

People, fool! The Bible makes it clear.”

I said, “Like roaches, sharks and silverfish?

And lizards long before there was a man?”

She invoked the wrath of god on me,

Then fell into a faint. I left her there.

1-20-14

 

An Artist

People who prevaricate go crazy.

I don't know why. Maybe they forget

Or else it's in the stars. A ghostly brother

Who never was remembers what was said

Forever, til his brother's in the grave.

Spectral tombs and stars invite the ocean

To the poet's page. Amanuensis!

An artist's only an amanuensis!

But anyone who calls himself an artist

And can do nothing – writes for none at all.

Artist was a word of fine distinction.

Now it is a coin that is debased

By iron, lead and copper. And the crowd

Loves it – like the promises of god.

1-20-13

 

Geeks

Never read a poet

After 1983.

Ignore the aging geek who goes for

Shakespeare, Keats, Millay.

Or leaks that he likes Bach instead of rap.

Vilify the phony with his

Seven dollar words,

Pompous authors, rhythm, meter, rhyme.

He's forgotten.

We will last forever.

Inspiration, beauty and a Muse

Are artsy words that winners never use.

1-20-14

If you like my poems, I have books on Amazon, both paper and Kindle.  Paper books are mostly $10 or less.  Kindles are mostly $1.  To look at them, go to Amazon, click on Books on the drop down menu, and type Joseph Hart Poetry in the address bar.