The keeper of the world

The Kitten

There's pleasure in a cat

To watch him play.

He pounces on a mat

Then runs away.

He backs up very warily,

Then jumps.

He walks the corners charyly

And though somebody bumps

The bookcase he is on

He doesn't fall.

Suddenly he's gone,

And that is all.

Composed While Taking A Dump

Some people live for love

And have a pet.

Others only love

What they can get.

And when the ore is gone,

They take the air.

You think they die alone?

Life's not that fair.

The bad will always get

What it adores.

Just hang on very tight

To what it yours.

Keep it if you can.

Perhaps you can't.

Yesterday a tune,

Today a chant.

Nothing but a god

Goes undefiled.

Look at what they did

To Oscar Wilde.

 

July Third

Winco was packed -

A grocery store.

Flags and melons -

July Four.

To mark the day

The country was born,

More important

Than Christmas morn.

Patriotic -

Might is right.

Bombs and sparklers

Tomorrow night.

Across the country

A single name -

All Americans -

All the same.

And coming out of

A crowded line -

One black man

With a jug of wine.

 

The keeper of the world

The keeper of the world

Can't run his own affairs.

Nor can I.

I f-ck up everything.

I do it unintentionally

Or by going nuts,

By loving too completely,

By loving not enough.

Compassion! I can feel it.

It's difficult to show.

And I was told with emphasis,

“For god's sake, ask a question!”
I don't. I don't know why I don't.

I'm curious as hell.

As well I seldom say what I am thinking.

So the world goes by.

How can I stop it?

Ask for its attention?

Write poems for its praise?

I do not write for praise.
In fact I do.

11-23-12

 

Impossible

Anything is possible

They say.

For instance – every criminal

Will pay.

That's such a silly notion,

And untrue.

What a motherf-cker

Does to you

Will leave you full of hate,

And that's the end.

Far worse is her mistreatment

Of a friend.

Perhaps she'll go.

Impossible for sure

That I will ever give

A damn for her.

The Soldier In Group

The Soldier In Group

A soldier went to war

Where he was horrified and traumatized

And went consequently crazy.

Back home the war was over -

The war is never over -

The army paid for therapy.

He sat there in a group

And listened to the patients

Talk, and saw the therapist

Sit aloof, say nothing.

And the soldier to himself

Wondered what the hell

He did it for.

 

The Fourth Of July

England is wittier.
Paris is prettier.

But the Yankees have the bomb

To top the wit,

Make Paris a pit,

And all with Yankee aplomb.

Death Wish

A Tidbit Of Denny's

A crazy little psycho

With tattoos across his face

Haunts the aisles of Denny's

Like he owned the fucking place.

It's early in the evening.

I came just after 9.

Why must they seat the lesbians

In booths adjoining mine?

There goes psycho number 1,

Making his egress,

The first of many. We are pawns

In nature's game of chess.

And I'll make mine.

It's nearly 10.

The place is getting loud.

People who have nothing are

Inestimably proud.

4-16-14

Phantom Love

Always thinking I'm loved

By people who don't know me,

I don't see the motley world

So easily forgo me.

Or happy to refute

This moment of my youth

Glad to have me with him

While he spits out bits of truth.

I don't live like Proust

In pictures of the past.

I leave that to the devil.

The next succeeds the last.

 

Conceit

At last I am a poet

As though rising from the sea.

These perfectly written pieces

Of music were written by me.

It's an unusual kind of music,

Not in language, but perhaps

In the thoughts and phrases.

Pushing through each lapse

Of talent to the next

Moment of the sea

Drunk by a beautiful angel,

Not blind and deaf like me.

I've always had someone to love -

Only just a friend -

A friend of lust and ambition

To life and to the end.

This verse is very bad,

The rhythm nonexistent.

Still as such it is.

Creation is insistent.

“Creation”! Oh my god!

The poetaster seems

Contented with a talent

That surpasses dreams.

 

The Poor

Starting to discover

As you and wisdom age,

People without means

Will put you in a rage.

Taking what you have

And groping for some more,

As Shaw or Lerner said,

“The undeserving poor.”

Taking what you have

And reaching for the rest,

A little lick of love

From the constant guest.

 

The Wicked

I watch evil constantly

Coming to 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.

 

Death Wish

You absolutely cannot tell a

Person what to,

If he crouched atop a building

And you hollered at him, “Don't!”

There's nothing more reliable

Than carefully written songs,

With all the syllables in place,

And a metaphor.

If he will not do it though

He needs it, then perhaps

He's living in a death wish.

See the people he holds dear.

But do not ask a doctor

Or a social worker what.

They'll pat you on the head and send you

Out again to play.

She's treacherous and greedy

And she plays upon the souls

Whose mothers wished them dead so very

Many years ago.

 

Praise

He gradually sat waiting

For the word that he was good,

And it never came. He finally

Knew it never would.

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.

Two

Two

In the dark don't ever ask

What someone else is thinking,

While the ship is floundering,

And finally is sinking.

So much we don't and will never know

Despite the books we've read,

We'll leave this life as we came in -

Ignorant and dead.

Two points of view – two single lives -

And his a life of growth -

After what he said last night,

I begin to see them both.

I don't grow – I hate the word -

Come fertilize and grow me -

The bitch who told me I am bad

And didn't even know me!

 

Morning

Let's be grateful we're not in Iraq

And thank god for those who are,

As though there's mercy or justice in that.

Let's wish upon a star.

Little Tina who just let me have

A cup of coffee free,

I doubt I would if in her place

Be as generous as she.

Tonight when my check is in the bank

I'll buy a book for her -

And donate money to his amour

We'll have to disinter!

Last night he said what I had thought -

Like the Elegy of Grey -

He wants a friend – and doesn't see

He doesn't have to pay.

Despite his parents – such godly folk -

Who make the rector glad -

He's just a man with feelings and brains -

And he was never bad.

 

The Child

Before he was a man

Prepared to sneer at love,

Mock all altruism,

Work toward the top,

And in the name of Jesus

Get it for himself,

When he was a boy

He told me I was nice.

I thanked him. He was angry

And told me not to thank him

Because it was the truth.

The workings of his mother

Have taken their affect.

Now he is a person

Who won't say that again.

 

Sweet Songs

Is this what Orson Welles

Was doing at the end

Of “Kane” - a simple song

Not written to be sad?

Now it's what I'm doing.

I very softly sing them,

And suddenly I'm crying.

Though not a song in Kane.

“The Red River Valley”

“Apple Blossom Time”

“Let Me Call You Sweetheart”

And then The Rose was dead.

 

The Doctor

Trust your doctor. He knows best.

And he's your only shot.

You'll be well when dispossessed

Of every dime you've got.

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

The Immortal Ones

Lifestyles

A life of pot and television,

Beer and loveless sex -

Nether Coward, Wilde nor Kaufman -

Television isn't funny -

Never Kafka, only King -

When you've read a hundred stories -

La Scala or the Great White Way -

Interesting anecdotes -

No one you can tell them to -

No one who can tell you others -

But the freedom to discover

What you love and make it home

Before the preachers and the people

Tell you what you ought to love -

Love what everybody loves -

Get tattoos and get in step -

To be someone else's poet -

Millay and Brooke and Keats are mine -

Nothing lower than a license

Plate will tell you what to do -

Get tattoos and go to Jesus -

No one's funny anymore -

Who?

Who has ever told you

You are odious and wicked?

Do your sycophants

And lovers and your friends?

The sea would be a desert if

Your lover were Poseidon.

You would siphon up the water,

And you'd never pour it back.

The sky would have no stars.

You'd gather them in baskets,

Leave the midnight in a darkness.

Even Hades has some light.

But hell is where you came from,

And it's hell you will return to

When all destinies are over,

And the fate of Man is death.

 

Various Psychos

First are the psychos

Who murder and kill,

Do what they want to

And do what they will.

Then are the psychos

Forgiving and shy,

Wouldn't say no

If it meant they would die.

Psychos like Elwood,

Gregarious drunk -

Psychos like Stanley,

Inarticulate hunk -

Or psychos like Cato's

Malevolent punk -

The Immortal Ones

The false conviction – immortality -

A name, a face and notwithstanding wrinkles -

Oblivious to life's finality -

Like a star departed that still twinkles -

Sensitive sadistic little creatures -

Anything is better than alone -

Self-observing players in the bleachers -

Believe until the final shovel's thrown -

10-2-12

The Chalk Garden

A garden sewn with chalk

Or salt, and verses carved

From the poet's bones

In intricate designs

That stand upon a mantel

Warm, but from the hearth.

The room is big and empty.

The grate's aglow at midnight

In winter. But it's summer

Now. The fire's gone.

6-17-13

 

The Castle

Is anybody ever all that free?

The drawbridge down, the battlements stand high,

And a ghost will exit cross the moat.

Clouds appear, the dark is nigh

And rain incipient. A wooden boat

Floats toward the castle from the sea.

Madmen who have wept no longer cry.

5-27-13

The Carnival

The dreary similarity

Of everything I write,

Like going to the carnival

Every single night

Knowing that the Ferris Wheel

Is shut completely down.

Nothing is as boring as

A repetitious clown.

Should I go back and resurrect

The ones that I did best,

Or leave them in the past to be

Forgotten like the rest?

3-19-13

The Castle

We are living in a castle.

We can hear outside the taunts.

Denying himself anything

Except the things he wants.

7-10-13

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

Flies

Saturday

Another day spent half asleep!
I sit by the computer.

No book I want to read except

Some poems I have written -

Not for pleasure, just to judge

Their merit one more time -

Haydn on the stereo

But in another room -

Beautiful – the same ones keep

Repeating – I may change it -

Don't expect a person to

Be kind because you love him -

I was kind but once – no twice -

No three times – this is endless!

I can hear an English teacher

Talking to his class

About my poems – telling them

What I did, what something means,

Or something indicates -

Like in all the criticisms

That I read of Keats -

At Cathexis people worry

How they come across -

How they seem to other people -

I once worried too -

I'm 67 now and I'm

Not worried anymore -

Haydn's big like Mozart,

But I like Haydn better -

There are questions I would like

To ask a therapist -

But one who's not a phony,

And one who won't say,

“Puzzling, isn't it.”
For this he's paid a mint

And went to college!

This is all the shit I got

For – god! How many years! -

Or else they looked disgusted,

Threw a book or yelled at me.

Improve your self-esteem -

Knock off a shrink!

You'll feel really good about yourself.

Love

Deep in the undergrowth of my

Personality

There must be a need for love,

But I have never felt it.

When my grandpa died I cried -

My only loving parent -

And yet I feel no fondness now

Especially for him.

Nor did when he was living. Stillborn,

I was on the earth,

In the way and awkward. Only

I just loved to talk.

My grandpa gave me money, nickels,

Pennies, dimes and quarters,

And inexpensive presents. These were

All I really loved.

I felt obscene and guilty taking

Money from my grandpa,

And daddy called me bad.

Eleven dollars in his life.

Some go out and look for love.

To some it simply comes.

Some find it at a party unexpected.

Others sing sad songs and live alone.

 

The South

The values and the morals

Of the patriotic south,

Eulogized on Broadway.

I was there once.

Hypocrisy and bigotry

And Jesus Christ forever -

The hangnail on the Union

And the death of liberty.

 

Simile

No one dresses up today -

America's their house -

I must look like Fauntleroy -

The only praise I got.

How like paper to a fly,

I stick to what he told me -

And my penchant for a simile

Came probably from him.

His were nasty bitter things

Intended to be cruel.

Mine are only poesy.

The last from he who sired me.

Grammar is my nemesis.

“Like he -” “Like him” - I'm baffled.

I aced a course in grammar

In college – and forgot it.

 

On Not Dying

I can't die. And I won't die.

Until I'm recognized

And famous just like Keats -

Or see it in the offing.

God's gift to Keats was typical,

Uncaring and obscene.

He died before he saw success

But in imagination.

And I have four cats – one dying -

Until they die themselves

They'll need water, shelter, food,

Fresh litter, daily love.

I write a hybrid poetry -

A modern cynicism,

Confessionals in simple form -

The form itself passe -

 

Nuskey

Nuskey wasn't crazy said the shrink.

Every feeling whether it was nice,

Fair or just unreasonably selfish,

Nuskey showed. For showing it he paid.

He lived alone and ridiculed my manners

And discomfort. Nuskey was a charm,

Sane or crazy. And he said he was

Like everybody else, waiting to die.

Nuskey has his moment in my book

Whether it is published or forgotten.

Like Nuskey I am waiting – just to die.

But I am writing poems while I do.

 

Flies

I was crazy – most likely insane -

And certainly naïve -

Just before I ran aground

I was stormy, but not the sea -

I was human – a virgin life -

No psychology -

Clinging to the bannister -

Descending endless stairs -

I suddenly slipped and slowly fell

Into a deeper sea -

I grabbed a raft and thrashed around -

Then on a foreign shore

Transactional Analysis -

It is the devil's game -

To confuse and baffle

And tangle darkling minds -

Never again will you know yourself,

Be yourself or feel yourself -

And the words you can't explain

Attach themselves to what you think -

Like flies in an aquarium

That float defunct forever -

To rid my mind of psychology -

Especially TA -

No so much the words, as those who said them -

The edifice collapses in the night!

7-17-13