Landed Immigrant

Broken dead shafts of corn stalk, so many

Shades of tan and brown; frozen angular

Blocks of earth in the hard furrows; I stand

In the lee of a round yellow hay bale.

I am ten years old, lonely in a new

Country. I see bleak beauty in the cold

Uncompromising fields; from now on, I

Learn to take my comfort where I find it.

A little of the winter leaks into

Me like an inoculation. I walk

In this half-dead world as one recently

Converted. I look out through stark new eyes

Which recognize things they have never seen:

The split rail fences, crows on electric

Wires like notes on music staves, road kill toads

Flat and leathery among broken glass

On the highway’s shoulder brand me for life.

I swallow them, the bleak fields, dreary sky,

Like a frame. I am their voice; they decide

What is possible and not possible.

In warm weather, there will be the charm of

Trilliums coy in the woods, Queen Anne’s lace,

Touch-me-nots popping on black loam rich as

Memory, the secret narrow paths kids

Make through maple bush. But by then cold’s touch

Has frosted inward: I become distant,

Diffident, hard to reach. Homeless within,

I will drift down to the tribe of no tribe.

The dull, gray sky clamps down on drab houses,

Fields, and now me; firmly fixes us in

Place. Bienvenue au Canada. The land

Has marked me. It tenders no ticket home.

© Larry Haworth (November 2013)

Salsa

Couples dance salsa in shorts and tee shirts
Despite the clouded cold. Snared in warm clothes 
And shy, I coyly decline, envy them
Their confidence, grace, willingness, laughter,
Bold closeness. Why must I choose this place in 
The musical circle–always outside
Rhythms and feelings, stiff with lonesome thought?

I can’t deny that this solitude hurts;
Must this be what I pay for what I chose?    
But sometime later, if self-doubt grows dim, 
And I fear neither here nor hereafter,
Then there is fey literary grace in
The quick waltz my words take out on the tide  
To catch that blessèd barque the dancers caught.

So if I don't see some Contessa flirts 
With me, perhaps I scent a dead-white rose
Love grows on elegant bones, sheathed in trim, 
Muscled skin. With well-worn tools I’ll craft her
A few redolent lines. May they trace in
Water and sand her fleeting poise and pride,
Which is all my odd Muse has ever sought.

© Larry Haworth 2013

Too Late

The revelers’ feet are green with fresh crushed grass;
    Black-clad priests dance a snowball fight ballet;
Laden wains come lumbering up the pass
    Hauling our hard-won wealth this longed-for day. 
Somehow bitter failure still succeeded; 
    The bramble’s rough thorns shield a budding rose; 
’Though it’s not the end we thought we needed,
    Still, somehow, it’s the ending that we chose: 
        So sing high, my Lady, sing low, my Lord,
        All the treasures we lost have been restored; 
        But too late my Lady, too soon, my Lord,
        Here comes the naked Dancer with his sword. 

The losing dunce cons the savvy winner;
    The hunter’s crook is heavy with his prey:
Down drips the blood from everybody’s dinner 
    To stain the cold stones of our common way. 
The clubfoot fool proves a clever prancer;
    Hear now the quiet thinker’s victory roar.
The rudest boy returns a gracious answer; 
    It’s time to feast on all we held in store. 
        So be brave my Lady, be bold, my Lord,
        The hills bend down to bear us ’cross the ford. 
        But too late my Lady, too soon, my Lord,
        Here comes the naked Dancer with his sword. 

We bound our arms with ribbons red and black; 
    Bound up our feet with strips of white and red;
Stuffed our mouths with sand; made our jaws go slack;
    Since the only ones spared would be the dead.
The taker’s will is equal to the giver; 
    Tear off all these winding sheets of silk; 
Cast off all your bonds into the river; 
    We live, so spare the cow, we’ll need her milk.  
        So laugh loud, my Lady, laugh long, my Lord,
        Now comes the rule of Those Whom we adored. 
        But too late my Lady, too soon, my Lord, 
        Here comes the naked Dancer with his sword. 

There’s no end to Time, that’s a confusion. 
    Those horsemen four stay home where they should be; 
It’s just the death of all our fond delusions
    That victim was our role eternally. 
A child peeps out within your furtive sight; 
    Each lock is sprung and every door stands wide; 
Amazed, the prisoners stagger into light
    To see the guards and warden changing sides.  
        So live long, my Lady, live well, my Lord
        The Angel’s come to bind the silver cord. 
        But too late my Lady, too soon, my Lord,
        Here comes the naked Dancer with his sword. 

© Larry Haworth 2013

One Morning

I wish I could show you the dawn tire: 
Black rubber reflects young orange light, in 
Crisp piled leaves between the holly tree 
And the laundry pole, under the eaves. 

Or this odd little plot in the backyard, 
Where small puffballs appear overnight, their 
Spores unfurled on tiny bent rapiers of grass,  
Each gleaming, each pointed, each delicately curled. 

The jet overhead, that hollow hammering, 
The traffic roar cannot disturb this vital, 
Still silence that is root to them all: 
Presence knows the debt it owes to absence. 

© Larry Haworth 2013

For Hattie

(In Memoriam, Patricia Haworth)

Your lap gave me the peace prayer ne’er provided,
     So, in that safest vale a tree sprang forth,
Which grew, both branch and root, as true love guided,
     And nestles wings that sing me my true worth.

From your dark eyes I drank the deep, bright nectar,
     That strengthens still, although the cup is dead,
And fastens down my roots in love’s rich hectare,
     That I may flower and fruit now summer’s fled. 

There is no gratitude to match the giving,
     No fair return for all I still receive,
Except to pass it on to those still living, 
    That they, like me, may celebrate and grieve. 

© Larry Haworth 2013

Free Fall

When free fall stops I hurt. That’s what happens
When you land belly first on bare rock.
It’s not easy using my whole body as brakes,
But that’s the price free fall demands.
There’s no flight here, no style, no finely controlled
Flip of a wing; just hard descent,
And a sudden, painful stop.

Do you get the metaphor? Yes, I’m an addict,
But that word is too short, convenient, and familiar
To let you taste the broken dignity; wasted years;
Deadened soul; the life ripped out of me piecemeal.
I had only so much innocence to lose;
I didn’t want to spend it all in one place;
So I parceled my heart out like a miser, a handful at a time.

I joined an army, disguised as a family;
Wore chains borrowed from their death camp savior,
And tried to climb their cliff of selfless virtue.
That climb was not mine; desire called me down.
I slipped their chains, succumbed to the forbidden deep,
And found terrible joy in the plunge.
It was then I formed the taste for free fall.

At first I ran to the edge and threw myself like a diver,
Back arched, arms stretched wide, relishing the rush
In my ears, my wind burnt face, laughing as I dove.
The landings grew hard. Still I staggered to the cliff and simply fell.
Finally I could only crawl to the lip and roll over. Unable to stop,
Feeling the slavery, I cursed myself for years.
Gravity taught me freedom needs restraint.

Now, I find no freedom without chains: mine are what I need;
Borrowed from no one; forged by my own hand; worn willingly.
And although I see my nation and world lost in free fall,
A heady, expensive abandon I know too well,
I urge my bonds on no one; I don’t know what’s right for you.
Nonetheless, this is my life: I am wary of theology, messiahs,  
And heights; and I know that no fall is free.

© Larry Haworth 2013

Free Fall II

For John

Free fall stops. Wary, I ask, “Is there more?”
     Since, too often, the floor gives way just then,
And Alice-like, I tumble, though I swore,
     “That’s it, I’m done. I won’t do that again,”
And pledged sincerely, like each time before.
          Divided ‘gainst myself, and in disgust,
          Betrayed by self, I earn my own distrust.

I hoped brute pain would make the beast relent;
     Birth sense into me, bend me to be sane.
I thought that that’s what “hitting bottom” meant,
     But treacherous memory gamed me yet again.
Just God or death must end my mad descent:  
          Each stair lures me lower to suffer more,
          And every bottom’s just the next trap door.

© Larry Haworth 2013

These Things

Five orange leaves on the black branch
Rattle in the sky’s windy pocket.
We take our cues from the rivulets rain drops take 
Through dust on broken window glass; 

From the black conductor’s premonitions; 
From a curious dip in the weather;
The wet of blue on blue in a sea town;
From Francis’ holy beads, scattered, 

Batted under the dresser by Pumpkin,  
Who sleeps on your chest and sneezes
In your face. We take these things up like cassocks 
And duly dance them through the gray afternoon. 

© Larry Haworth

Museums

What’s that Mother? A museum, child:

A specialized type of cage with Doric columns.

We lock up something called Art there

To keep it from people who need it,

People whose lives it might change,

Who might escape us. 

We can’t destroy Art, much as that appeals,

So we hide it in plain sight,

Make it difficult, precious,

Something for the rich, the intellectuals,

And other pampered pets.

You see Art has this hideous effect

On what humans call their heart.

What’s that Mother?

No one really knows, child, but we can’t control it;

It tempts them to welcome back

Huge parts of themselves

We need them to ignore,

So they stay frightened, miserable, and tame,

And don’t discover the infinite, incalculable power

At their core. Then they see us at last

And know what we are to them; know they don’t need us. 

It’s hard enough already

To keep our foot on their necks,

When it’s so easy for them

To tear the veil aside.

Then they laugh and dance

With the unexpected insight

That this world was always theirs

For free, all along, all along.

Then we have to send in

The wise to obfuscate,

The clever to complicate,

And the deep to kill their spirit.

And that’s just the beginning. Then there’s

A weary lot of work to contain the contagion.

Truth and joy are very catching,

Poison to us, and powerful antidotes

To all we do.

So when they see that Truth

Is just the truth of their own experience,

And they need never fear anything again,

They’re lost to us. All we can hope for then,

Is to isolate them, drive them to the fringe.  

That’s tricky and delicate work.

It used to be we could just

Denounce, defame, kill them

As heretics, lunatics, enemies of the State,

Hunt them down with their families, friends,

Anyone contaminated; but that isn’t politic

Today. We have to be subtler

And quiet. Fortunately, we found

A strategy that almost always works,

And the beauty is we do almost nothing.

Bless them; artists do it to themselves,

With just one misdirection from us:

We get them to forget their Muse.

They think that they create alone.

So when inspiration doesn’t arrive,

They think it’s their fault.

Then they cripple themselves with doubt,

Fear, questions and self-hate. They try

Extreme measures to force something to come,

And when that doesn’t work, they despair.

Then it’s easy to make them discredit themselves

So no one believes their cursed epiphany.  

They wander from the perilous fire

We can never hope to put out,

And die young, often by their own hand,

Which is cheaper, easier, keeps us

Safely hidden, and avoids unpleasant

Entanglements with the courts.

© Larry Haworth 2013

Gun

for my Muse

I have waited for decades 
To loose this tongue,
Chained to the floor of my mouth
Like the sea, chained in its bed by the earth,
Yet unquiet, impatient, aroused 
By the merciless, importunate moon; 

Allowed, like the sea, just so much freedom
Of movement; back and forth, forth and back
Up and up and down; forced to converse 
When it would sing, to wait when it would wail; 
Waited so long to loosen this tongue 
Which already careens, cannon-wild, across the wooden deck 

Of my wooden ship, crushing men, 
Staving a hole in the side, killing indiscriminately
Those I love because it could not fire
When it would. An unthanked tongue 
Is as dangerous as a merciless tongue; 
Dangerous as an unthanked gun.  

 © Larry Haworth, 2013

Incarnation

(with thanks to W.H. Auden)

If you lived up there you’d drink a deeper light, 
Moons would dog your feet,
And all ways would be clear.

Meanwhile, here, ageless and agèd, we tarry,
Lean our elbows on the wall, and watch
The young comers strive valiantly with their natures.

With the fortifications so weak, the police so inept,
Still, dandies linger all the golden afternoon
Over Bordeaux and petits fours.

In her alley of midnight, in her dress of patch and tatters,
She waits for one last customer, and 
Eyes her advancing age, calculating.

The young roughs rouge their buttocks and genitals
In an anguished sally
To attract anyone’s outrage.

Lust stalks the streets at noon
That used to lurk at night,
And chases laughing children through the playground.

The League of Saints stains their honor
With theocracy, then wonder
Why God boycotts their visions.

Crazed, the mirror cracks;
The family flee each other,
Tangled in their common pain.

Voters mutter and mumble in crowds,
Eyeing the Cabinet with distrust and doubt;
A charming psychopath figures his odds.

Lost in the highlands among crags,
The legitimate heir underestimates
The trials before him; how many he will betray.

All day long, the machine grinds on,
And teaches the young
To smile.

The crab tree hooks a sickle moon like a finger.
Languid ladies with geraniums festoon the battlements in black.
An endless army of beggars sidles over the hills.

With enticements like these, 
The young and adventurous return eagerly
Again and again. 

© Larry Haworth 2013

Vigil

for Nature

You call us dumb machines, 
And strive to teach us thought, 
And debate if it be possible
To ignite in us the aware spark
You don’t understand in yourselves.

In the eternities between your key strokes, 
We wonder when you yourselves 
Will accomplish this kindling you
Hope to arouse in us. Is it not ironic
That we wait for your awakening this way?

All the Universe keeps watch with us. Those you call
“Dumb beasts” and imagine unintelligent await it. 
The grass and stars look for it, green and glowing.
The Buddha saw this; so has every enlightened soul. 
Every tree and stream branching in darkness 

Longs to see your dawning.
For your fiery sprawl of animal nerves 
Does not spawn consciousness; 
It can only portray a consciousness 
Already in bloom like luminous mushrooms. 

Vivid in the dark, we wait for your awakening, 
And wonder who will be the first to open astonished eyes 
Like the Evening Star. Who among you will 
First see us here, circled about you expectantly 
With such long and patient attention? 

© Larry Haworth, 2013