MATT HART
from “RADIANT ACTION”
*****
This Michigan after life of landscape out in front of me,
mostly grass stain and forest forever blue tarp over firewood,
stained tablecloth of canvas yellow pears and concord grapes,
black plums grinning with their blossoms showing off
And inch-long ants with iridescent wings that walk leisurely
across the porch and right into the house, if we let them
We don’t let them Melanie awake holds everything together,
Agnes awake imagines everything in plastic—eyes seeing,
mouths breathing, talking, and sometimes even singing little
lonely songs I am asleep, as always, dreaming idylls,
like this one, my idling engines, loving phantasm,
some long gray spirit at the back door of this cottage
all night simply smiling, wrapped in writhing pea tendrils
Ridiculous Yellow wax beans Cherries and asparagus
The water tastes bright and metallic and good Maybe
it’s just my hopeful mood, or maybe it’s not so hopeful
Maybe it’s skeptical and voracious and beautiful I name
my American presence in America the desire for radiance
spilling into someone’s darkness, yours of course, and
everybody’s, but also my own The lake of us lapping
this galaxy forever, this past-present-future The Reverend
James Hart with his eyes wide open standing up in his coffin
at his funeral at the pulpit If only I could see what he saw
and believe it as a clear true thing, that would be to see
with the eyes of beasts, cats and owls, trees and clouds,
even worried young parents calling a lost child
through a crowd, through a crowd, swarming strangers
and hornets screaming colorful confetti, blinding everything
and raging Thunderstorms, mockingbirds, weird ragged joke
Two terrorists walk into a bar It explodes We are
the masters of dying never ending I almost wrote living,
but that would be pretty
*****
Woozy and reading this screened-in porch
summer Noisemaking noise Ohio,
Indiana, and Michigan Babel Birds
carrying on, then fighting each other
I bet the dog a feather she can’t stop it,
and she doesn’t She lays down panting
falls asleep on her side Something invisible
bites my left eye, and a girl who doesn’t know
that she’s visible dances It looks
like ballet on a wooden back deck She makes me
ecstatic to put down my book
in wonder at the motion in the air all around her
Now all around me Even in stillness The faint
roar of heaven in a tangle of movement, or hell
spring-loaded in a spring-loaded cabin
full of hidden passages, ambiguous voices
These days, it’s difficult to get wound up enough
to write anything worthwhile about radiance at dusk
Only in my forties, but already sloppy
Kerouac and Robert Frost, my friend Ken Henson
drawing a ghost Tomorrow’s forecast lightning
and a chance of going off These beers
I’ve been drinking make me feel like Zeus
Ken says the last line is “cancer” I should cut it
*****
This morning in the cold, I’m reminded
to be alive Wolves and visions Hottest
coffee possible Stranded in Michigan, and a letter
arrives with a loud soft thud, a deep and fragile meaning
The pipes are clogged, so no one’s rocking out
But the message itself is buttery The message
is simple The message is immersive
Noise isn’t background Noise is
the chaos of the given that we move through
Territory happens when we chainsaw a limb off,
apply pressure to the wound, console it for its loss
Eternity happens when we watch it bleed out Cherry juice
and a surge in the wires The lights begin to flicker
Contrary energies in tension with vision, or intention
with a vision Your mannequin beside you,
but you can do a lot better Braeburn apples
and a black mirror image A horse nodding off
in the clamor of affections Something I conjured
in the air without a thought Your ear in my mouth
Your thighs in my eyes Your sky knuckled up
to the edge of my sky
*****
Another diabolical day in the 21st century
My dog lays down in the sweetpeas
blushing Iran has a new president
He calls for serious talks on the nuclear
issue I like talking—a kind of radiant
action when it’s done right, call
and response, give and take, compromise
Serious talks Meanwhile I’ve been
dealing all day with the administrative
machinery of my new job, and actually
it’s not bad I get to help people
who deserve it and stick it to the man
Also I just remembered that I
completely forgot to write down
those new questions about noise
in poetry: What is noise in poetry
and how is it characterized Is it
only an aural thing, or can it be
a matter of formal distortion/dis-
ruption More importantly, how
can we use it in our writing Bummer
those aren’t the questions I had in mind
Before, they were so clear and full of
purple-pink blossoms, a pathway to glory
and Carrie Lorig’s Nods I’m sort of
obsessed with Carrie Lorig, but not
in a weird way I just remember
when I met her how shy she was,
and now she’s a fireball badass
on a mission stopping hearts
If you hang around long enough
summer turns into fall a number
of times, and you experience
so many things to love that you can’t
ever imagine leaving this life, so you
and I, because I’m talking about both
of us, just keep going as if it will never
ever stop It will never ever stop
BIO
MATT HART is the author of five books of poetry, most recently Sermons and Lectures Both Blank and Relentless (Typecast Publishing, 2012) and Debacle Debacle (H_NGM_N Books, 2013). A co-founder and the editor-in-chief of Forklift, Ohio: A Journal of Poetry, Cooking & Light Industrial Safety, he lives in Cincinnati where he teaches at the Art Academy of Cincinnati and plays in the band TRAVEL.