person GJ Hart, one poem

GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, the Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.

::

The Ghost of Mole Hill

Not a soul on The 5.20
Except me, sitting
across in a seat
Silken over blacklands
And loam, a fleet ghost
Through newbuilds
and pubs.

If not dead it is me
Grown old
only four stops From London,
I search For my ticket
Like I’m fumbling
A telegram –
there have been
Many delays,

But now morning
Has completed
Its industry, offers
Anything if grey and nothing
Has changed –
The gap patched with ply,
I climb the gate
just a fucking field.

I remember pumpkins
like litters
Of suns – now fallow
And grief
Is gravity here, weights the weed’s
Gaze, turns the bird’s keys
Black –

I close my eyes and play:
Each time you rise up
I pound you back down
Again and again
And again.

::

person GJ Hart, one poem

GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, the Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.

Until Until

You are here
My friend, you are here,
Living one lung deep
As the wind twists
Its copper in the high oak
And animals burrow
Into future’s
Searching hands.

Stand and stand and
Stand again when
The day is fat as yellow,
Or thin as clouded stem,
Or when its base rocks
And it taps its nose and turns –
You are here my friend,
You are here.

So enough my friend
Enough, time to roll skin’s
Picnic and whisper
To the seed, whisper
To the egg, whisper till
The eating rain lifts
Its head and you hear

You are here
My friend you are here

person GJ Hart, one poem

GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, the Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.

*~

Ooh Ooh Ooh

What’s this hulk
Rolling me – a spider
Big as a
Saucepan
Or The Man,
The Electric King?
Says he can
Pour the universe
In one eye, says
They’re making
Skeletons
In the dessert,
With just the best bits
Stapled on.

I’m elbowed over
Bill’s page, Bill loves
Flamiche – says
he’s gone,
On a plane,
At the lake, says he’s
Never wrong –
It’s his birthday, says
He feels like star
Light across
The screen now,
But even I know
The dead
Have birthdays.

~*

person GJ Hart, one poem

GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, the Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.

/

My Luxuries

Please forgive me
My needs, these luxuries
Tipped by bitten
Wind and brash – also please,
The Finnish weave,
And stainless complications
That tend my materials.
You could not know!

But do,
How I cram them,
Or pile them at the strand,
But understand the intruder
Still intrudes
And the moon’s
Miry lash
Does as it will.

I Remember a city
Like me, content
To offer a hand
Across rag
Papered Breaks, to divy
Notes and rises,
Until nature’s table
Spun and winds
Coxed me
Down roads jammed
With talk Of filthy coups
And vitamins.

And I felt again –
Like a child, not thrilling
But poorly sewn
And belly stuck,
And without a penny’s
Choice demanded,
I wave goodbye
To the never
Always treasured things
Forever.

\

person GJ Hart, one poem

GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had stories published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, The Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.

//

Where No Meaning Lives

Weight – I longed only
For levity, had no wish
For my unplanned act
To become
Like sacrament,
But steady hymns
Of wind And the slow
Drawing on
Of winter’s vestures
Made it seem so.

Tall, my father,
With fingers thick
As hickory shanks,
I bore him now in a box
Smaller than an infant,
Quietly past the ruined abbey
And down to the peat
Black river, its oils and chromes
Idling as if paused
For me.

Busy village
Of clod
And colour, I joined
Crowds of phlox,
Watched the banks
Musterings beneath limbs
Taught and cast and hauled
Whisky from my pocket –
His drink, preferring its flickering
Heart to wine’s
Stuck blood

I toasted the day’s filament,
Its carving deck,
Its pistons sweeping
At the black ash wire,
And as water’s
Doors opened,
I lifted you light as sand
Cleared hours into lake’s
Train and waved until
My goodbyes
Closed at the line.

\\