The HyperTexts

Corey Harvard

Corey Harvard is a poet and songwriter from Mobile, Alabama. His work can be found in publications such as The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes, Pirene's Fountain, Sense Magazine and Literary Mobile. He has served as associate editor for Sonnetto Poesia and editor-in-chief for Oracle Fine Arts Review. In 2009, he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He graduated from the University of South Alabama with a B.A. in English and philosophy. In his free time, he enjoys cooking and learning.

Schindler's List
"for the dead and the living, we must bear witness."
—Elie Wiesel

I see the aching words of Elie Wiesel
born in black and white: the metal eyes
of Nazi Germany on Israel,
the numbered numberless, the animalized
who once were men — whose children will not know
the innocence of childhood again —
and still, the falling ash, the burning snow,
the deep, remorseless appetite of sin.
And there am I, entirely, one of them,
lost in the heavy silence of the room
without the power to conquer or condemn
the tyranny, the terror, or their doom.
Too many think of hell and live in fear
of death, and never know that hell was here.


There must be hundreds of them    
punching holes in the clouds
round my house,

a choir of ivory fingers
declaring without volume,
suggesting without words;
street signs for lost sheep
like me.

How many times
have I longed to be found,
hiding in the shadows
of enlightened obelisks?

Oh quiet God,
if only I could open my flesh
and count the sweat stains
on my soul.

If only there were
a ladder long enough
to plant steeples
on the edge of the atmosphere
and point them down
to earth.

Could I But Show You

Could I but show you how a word can grow
into a thorn that lodges deep within
the softest places of the hardest men,
you wouldn't be so quick to let one go.
In silences, defenseless and alone,
security and self-esteem descend;
ambitions cease and aspirations bend
in the victims of a fatal verbal blow.

If I could show you how a word can rise —
bring laughter, bring excitement, bring rapport,
bring nations out of poverty and war —
perhaps your speech would seek a different guise.
What problems of this world could be deterred
if we revered the value of a word?

House-Sitting the Day After

You left your textbook
open-mouthed, pink highlighter
on top,

its dry tongue
a stale cup of coffee.

It rained
a fifth grade nose-bleed
that morning

when I found your home
sick with suggestion:

scattered mail on the kitchen table,
knife gutting the body
of an envelope,

and your dog,
lost in thought.

I imagine
when the call came
that your tongue couldn't fashion

but the sound of your sobbing
broke like a siren
as you fled—

the curtains
stiffened into steel,

the walkway
bled its colors,

and your car door

like that bullet


the house entire:
hand over mouth,
salt on the counter,
towels in the dryer.

The HyperTexts