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