Bob Hart, who lives in Brooklyn, NY, was born in 1931 and grew up in Harlem, on 145th Street, 142nd Street, and 158th Street. He served in the army from 1952 to 1954, and was stationed in Germany during the Korean War. Hart first wrote poetry in his high-school poetry class. It was years later that he came onto the New York Poetry Circuit and started reading at various venues; he’s still at it. Hart works with other performers, including musicians, dancers, as well as other poets. He is a member of the No Chance Ensemble and performs with this group all over the metropolitan area. He has been dialoguing with Alice Pero in both dance and poetry for 25 years. His two books are Acrobat (2001) and Lightly in the Good of Day, (Bench Press, 2010.)

"Bob is acrobatic in his re-articulation of the bones of syntax........When he considers being a lover, he calls himself a spiderish Hamlet. But the Shakespearian character he most resembles is a "prank-spirit."
Flitting and fleeting, lightly in the good of day, Bob Hart the poet is Robin Goodfellow, also known as Puck."   Jee Leong Koh, poet, publisher from preface of Lightly In the Good of Day.  

THE HEIGHTS OF NOW

The heights of now are only now
with thoughts in altitudes of future's much to go
oh
skin of beauty deepening in me.
 
Your suite, my sweet, is all thought and beauty:
room for music (and so suited-
music to be worn like sugar, snow
or yards of stars as beauty's endless
dress of eyes that see (being seen) and
are seen (seeing)--music freshening with wearing;
stars and eyes against such skin
as warms them into greater glow.
 
A static craft of black hole porcelain
still bakes a percentage of that dress's
rustle
into space's gold: against rubbed silence
a manymusic of the spheres.

JUNE CHILL

This is the kind
of cloudyday light
turns into minor keys and pianissimo:
leaves verde into velvet folds of shadow;
braised rust out of bright pink brick.

Ah
but the weedy bitter vivid nostril intake
and earthstain
aftermood of damp:
a richdressed lady's bosom jewel
amethyst like grief.

from Lightly in the Good of Day

IN THE PLIC PLAC DANCE HALL

In the Plic Plac Dance Hall
they danced on the plic place floor   plicy placky,
they kajammed on the plic plac floor plic plac.
Red are the plics and black the placs plic plac
in the Plic Plac dance floor hall
plicky placky  plac plicky  plac placky
plic plac  plicy placky.
The walls went up a hundred miles   plicky placky
to a dome that dipped some stars   plic plac
and stairs like lamplight came from everywhere
and music plicked and music placked
like cigarettes in a flip top box
and heated like tips
and wandered like smoke
and spiraled everywhere where you saw
suits with colors suited to soot
sorted well with the slick
sorted well with the sleek
sorted with the gloss of the black gleaming shoes
on every masculine flashing foot  click clac
with the glassy flashing feet.
Women's lashed and lengthened eyes
were window witty and mirror wise.
They wore dresses as long as nights in France,
each with two double moons to season the dance
on the Plic Plac Dance Hall floor
where the plics and the placs were red and black
and the gowns waltzed a range
from green to blue, rose in a range  as sunsets do
from violet to purply blue
descended as night  all sparkly white
falls to rose and gold again.
So the gowns made a garden
amidst the plics  and amid the placs
and  plickety plickety  sailed and sailed
till the dreams and dreamers  melted in dawn.

From Acrobat