Three poems by alumni Matt Hart (poetry, ’02) appear online at The Good Men Project.
The sound of the train and the breeze
take me whistling. I walk down the street
and greenish light floods the world,
but only for a second. I am wrestling
with how green isn’t really green here,
and wondering if green is ever really green
anywhere? And could this line of thinking,
by virtue of its subject, be pastoral?
I doubt it. I’m having a hard time seeing lately
how to do things with words. I’m coming down
with a cold, and it’s clear it’s going to rain,
which is odd. Odd that I can feel it
before it happens. And I am still adjusting
to these ordinary thoughts about an ordinary day
using ordinary language in the ordinary ways.
But in my head the voice always wondering
if I could’ve done it better? All this revision
and little revelation. Something about heaven
at the earth’s sorry edges. Something I deleted.
And something else too about language, its limits.
I will stop this nonsense soon, or I will get
distracted and forget it. I will move on
to a hundred other things. Now rain
pings the roof of the house more or less.
Just as I predicted. I look out the window
at dark, wet leaves, and a grass-green house
that isn’t really green, streetlights reflecting
on themselves in the puddles. They don’t wonder
how to do things with words. They shine
a light, and it’s simple.