The Real People

A Two Way

Here is a story of life.

It is a story of Man.

The wife, supplanter, and jilted

Reach agreeable terms.

They talk the jilted out of his rights,

Out of the rules,

Out of his thoughts

And all of his feelings.

He enters another world.

Then the three of them

Amicably

Live together.

The jilted is crazy now,

Wants to be dead.

But without the decision,

Bravery, strength,

He simply cannot do it.

Nor leave. The house is his.

(I think this is close to a plot by Iris Murdoch in a book I think is called "The Severed Head".  But I don't know.  Anyway I like the story.)



A Valentine


Through the eyes of a psychotic
Or a child
Everyone is beautiful and free.
The sea weed on the sand
The ocean piled
Leaves a vague impression of the sea.
The whole unmelancholy smile you smiled
Is more endearing
Since you smiled for me.
I wish that you
Were with me now, and we
Were close together,
But differently.

Thinking

Here is someone who could drown a kitten

And laugh.

Money! Ebb and flow.

I love to see it come,

But I hate to see it go.

I could not drown a kitten.

I can't think it.

Tie a rock around the thing

And sink it.

I dismiss all Christians at the door.

I've begun accepting that I'm poor.

Thanks

Straight shooting, god.

You took a little baby

And mixed it with a gene

Or maybe momma

Or a repetitious family drama

Or a one time once forever trauma -

I don't know, lord,

You knew what to do -

And turned him into death,

Although with every breath

He thinks the neverending world of you.

A View

The old verse is unconscious.

The new verse is aware.

I read no modern poets.

I'm unable to compare.

Maturity is all of life,

Expiring in the tomb.

My poesy is older now

And bursting into bloom.

Every life is bound to earth,

And only death will free us.

My talent isn't music, only

Poems of ideas.

This fact I hate completely.

I have music to the quick.

But rhythms and ideas

Are my only bailiwick.

I want to be a genius

With the freedom of the sea.

I seldom think of phrases

That are much like poetry.

6-20-13

Curious

How I make a book.

I continue like the sea

All night and every morning

Writing poetry,

Until I'm want a book,

Or tired of what I write,

I gather up the pages

And urged to expedite

The making of a book,

I edit the whole thing

With revisions and deletions

And all the hope they bring.

Then format with a title

And send my child away,

Having seen some good in it,

Which I hope will stay.

With such a way of writing,

With no plan or druthers

I don't see how one book

Could be better than the others.

 

The Real People

The Gary Cooper people -

Silent as a tree,

Never saying anything

That's not significant,

And also has complete sincerity.

Noel Coward's out.

And grim sincerity

Takes the place of

Life, society.

Howard Roark walks,

Laughs when it's important,

And doesn't say unnecessary things.

 

The Wicked

I watch evil constantly.

It's living in my house.

Kindness and benevolence

Do nothing to deter it,

But give unhindered freedom

To operate at will.

Evil is an ugly thing,

To see it in the face,

And very often dresses in

A fashion for the part.

More often though it passes without notice.

Then it strikes in smiles,

And your wherewithal is gone.

And if you're kind, forgiving,

Sick or fall in love,

Then you're an endless source to suck.

Mosquitoes by a bog.

 If you like my poems, I have some collections on Amazon, both paper and Kindle.  To see them, type Joseph Hart Poetry on the Amazon search bar.