FROM JUKEBOX
To The Tune Of “Po’ Lazarus”
Take in this sunlight, boy,
Thick syrup in the trees, before it all goes bad,
Take in that lazy river, that glassy river, spilling
Over bitter weed and rag weed, over
Soft porch-talk in the moth-soft evening;
Take in the lamp smoke from next door,
Take in the lard smoke there as well:
Only hot moonlight climbing through the window there
And sleeping with you, too;
So, fall into that crack
Between thin evening light and fleshy morning light,
And maybe dream about that river flowing there
A mile away, dark now,
With people bedding down nearby,
Under a bridge, I’d say,
Since night seems heavy of a sudden, full
Of rain about to shoot straight down,
None with your number, boy,
No, not tonight,
No, not tonight: a fat moon sprawling in the river
And taking all the damage that bitter rain
Sure wants to make.
To The Tune Of “Sun Gonna Shine In My Back Door One Day”
My girlfriend’s on the train and heading north
My brother’s gone out west,
And I’m alone and sweaty in my crib,
Near half undressed,
And anyways I think I’ll sleep an hour
But when I lay me down
The whole damn world goes spinning round and round
Like I’m on brown,
And shows my sister dancing in the street,
My daddy with the dead;
There’s nothing in my gut to puke, and so
I’ll drink instead.
But soon enough I’ll find another boo
Who’s good to Number One,
I’ll see her coming through my own back door
And she’ll be sun.
To The Tune Of “The End Of May”
The rich bouquet
of sweet vernal grass
Cut
On a lazy Sunday afternoon
Late May
in a so-so town
Turned way down low
in the deep South
Pine pollen
In dense heat
switchgrass out back
And a fly catcher high in the green air
They say the Light is far away
but we are pits
Surrounded by lush pulp.
To The Tune Of “Arkansas Blues”
I grew up thin
On unforgiving land
Out by a Podunk town
With one road sign
That hollered “Whoa!”
This toothpick state
Just ain’t my size,
So one fine day
I’ll fly away:
God willing
And the creek don’t rise.
I lived on grease
High in the gritty air
And got torn up
In some big smoke up north,
Where gussied girls
Sashayed along the street,
All tits and lies.
But now I’m grown
I’ll git on home:
God willing
And the creek don’t rise.
Kevin Hart is the author of ten collections of poetry, most recently Carnets (Cascade 2025). He has won inter alia the Christopher Brennan Award, the Grace Leven Award (twice), the NSW Premier’s Award and the Victorian Premier’s Award. He teaches at Duke University where he is the Jo Rae Wright University Distinguished Professor in the School of Divinity with a secondary appointment is the Department of English.