Immigrant

George the Immigrant is what his descendants call George Haworth, the first Haworth in North America and my ancestor. This poem is partly based on his life.

We had a rough crossing: wild seas, fierce winds,

Killing cold; dark and foul drinking water,

Maggoty biscuit, months at sea. Many

Died: my own sister and brother-in-law

Slipped between the waves. At last, so relieved

To beach on those ordinary stones, I

Fell down on my face in numbed exhaustion.

I walk across Indiana, south to

North, alone as I never thought to be.

There are few Friends here, and God's voice is mute.

I am a willing worker, but stay in

Each place only a few days, rootless and

Unsettled. Where is my destiny, where

My home? For no horizon calls me now.

I move from emptiness to emptiness.

Inside their white beauty, clouds are empty.

The earth itself is empty; my body,

In its time, will not fill it. I can fill

Nothing, being myself as empty as

The clouds, the earth, the sea which swallowed my

Life into its vast echoing hunger.

© Larry Haworth 2017