Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Typishly Literary Magazine, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies.
The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired.
His book, Mark the Dwarf is available on Kindle. https://www.amazon.com/Mark-Dwarf-Jack-D-Harvey-ebook/dp/B019KGW0F2
(after Martin Codax) Waters of the sea of Vigo, Hast thou seen my amigo? O God, that it were given! Waters of the sea arising, Hast thou seen my beloved? O God, that it were given! If thou seest my beloved, For whom I sigh, O God, that it were given! If thou seest my beloved, For whom I bear great suffering, Tell him, tell him, I wait here, Tell him I wait for him, in the fading day, in the dead of night, in the rising dawn, Tell him I wait for him, O God, that it were given!
But From That Nest
Was there a kangaroo hopped and hopped on the desert tail down, brown top-fur burnt tan under the sun with his leg tendons tensing like ribs on a fan? Was there the tiniest yellow swallow swinging and dipping in gables and winter far off, far off to the north? Did he nest, did he sit on his own ancient crocket? Were there men building and breaking, creaking and stamping? Cities spread out on slick black roads, streaming metal over innocent meadows; concrete flows like manna, sets up skyscrapers transcending desert nights and tunnels deep as mines. Hopping, flying, kangaroo and swallow, refugees from the pride in human eyes, sorrowful grasshoppers in the barns of Jacob, try and try on shaky ground, in murky skies, to find the space in these black days, the place and time where no one can get them.
Caesar knew; in the carbonized palace, when the sons of dawn in blue array arranged their creaking knives about his heart. Caesar felt the distance of life; his ambitious courses sped away like spaceships towards the dwarfing sun. In the palazzo of tinted marble not a piece of royal furniture out of place. Lofty wars, bloody hands, bloody swords in the emperor's thorax become transparent as windowpanes; more than food for thought, history furnishes fresh and deadly meat. Inspired monks in technicolor illustrate the text; on some cold French winter's eve Roman Caesar lives and stalks in the pantry, free as grassy steppes; Caesar yet.