The Partisan

I

In the third revolution we were short on guns and boots.

Once we hid in the abandoned emerald mine at the foot of the mountain.

They sought us all night beneath pine trees.

We danced like mad when the Capital fell;

Only later I heard Mama was there. She died in the rubble.

I don’t dance anymore. Why was she there? I can’t understand it.

Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t fought. What good did it ever do anybody, except the arms merchants? They’re the only sure winners of any war.

I fell in love with your great aunt Clarice back then.

She looked good in fatigues. No one knows what they did with her body.

I don’t know.

We lose so much.

I’m an old man.

Listen to me, boy. Don’t do it.

Whatever they told you, it’s not what you think.

Don’t make us go through all of that again.

II

The battle raged over the City for months,

Going out here, reigniting there, like a fire, like a living thing,

Like an animal prowling the valley for deer, wild birds, whatever it could take.

It had us all in its teeth.

Firm resolutions were lost:

Babies became men-huge deformed men with no conscience;

Those who swore not to kill became butchers;

Those who gloried in war hid themselves in their basements.

We all did as we did, when the beast was with us.

There was no peace, no safety within.

III

I do not judge them; they did as they knew. They did their very best; everyone does.

We never know how much weight our brother

Is carrying in that pack he lugs around on his shoulders

And refuses to put down, no matter how heavy it gets or how many times

We explain to him its futility.

He needs it, or thinks he does.

We have our own pack we are loath to live without,

Which costs us a similar price.

So I do not judge them, these generations of brave dead men

Who went into the dark singing

Their songs of courage, women, and war;

Their lit cigarettes and butt-ends,

Their endless jokes about sex and death

And when the fighting would end.

There is no room for judgment here.

© Larry Haworth 2013

Haiku

Heaped coal cars steal from
Purple mountain's majesty
Their black broken bones

© Larry Haworth

Haiku

Lazy lizard eyes
Seize the woman, breast and womb-
Sly acquisition

© Larry Haworth

A Journey by Train

At East Falls Church I look out the window,

     And notice the way the trees are blushing,

     Fall’s always like this, and I’m always rushing;

The train gives a lurch at East Falls Church.

At Dunn Loring I’m still thinking of you,

     And dreaming of times when we were together;

     I’m framed by your loss, this train, and black weather;

And something is roaring at Dunn Loring.

At Foggy Bottom old folks on the train;

     Against a gray sky, gray geese are flying;

     Whenever we’re living, we’re also dying.

My mood is all autumn, at Foggy Bottom.

Stuck between stations, the tunnel is dark as the womb.

     Breathing in silence, so close to each other,

     I miss you more now than this time last year, lover;

Such is my ration stuck between stations.

At Capitol South I heard the truth:

    The old waitress said “You should be more forgiving;

    Whenever we’re dying, we’re still also living.’

At Capitol South she made me dry in the mouth.

At West Falls Church I pick up my journal,

     And jot down some notes on a poem I’m writing,

     The houses are tasteful, with pastel siding,

And geese on the verge at West Falls Church.

At Vienna Square, my mood becomes lighter.

     An hour ago, I would not be believing,

     That one hour later I wouldn’t be grieving

That no one is there at Virginia Square.

© Larry Haworth (2/20/2014)

At The Coffee Shop

The Portuguese are waiting

for nothing to happen.

It usually does

about this time.

They sit with coffee, with cigarettes

and argue in their rich tongue.

It sounds fun to speak;

round, and filling the mouth.

Tired tame sun

lies panting on the Lucite;

two feet dip in its liquid fur.

They are a boy’s.

He slouches back

and fishes for his quarters.

It’s time.

The talk spills on

It pools and rises

It laps the encircling walls

I slip my leash

and swim among

the Frogger sounds, the Donkey Kong

and the clear

Mediterranean noise.

© Larry Haworth 1983

The Journey

I never catch them at it

just suddenly

it’s dark enough

and everything has changed.

The roadside elm starts it

when he rises up to warn me back

with pale raised arms

then the pleased humming look

of berry bushes

like fat friars

about to get their way

and the artful way the grass has

of sprigging about their feet, like parsley.

Even this clean road

rests lightly in its groove

quiet in pursuit of its objectives:

ramps, turnoffs, towns.

Six slick tires

spin tight circles

over black tarmac

roaring away behind

lakes appear, cast copper coins

then a town, then no town, past

then another, where

all things are changing hats and habits

(they’re really at it, now)

The garden rake

tines up

waits for feet

the garden hose

wriggles

in arch new complicity

as a barn wood fence, that knows better

shrugs off domestic duty, lights a fag

and slouches at his post

they all

wink at me, then

look away, looking busy.

Even my watch keeps a secret. Yet

I’ll get there. This trip

will superficially resemble

its sunlit brothers, will deposit me

where I claim I want to go.

I look far up into the rumpled hills

(darker than the sky)

Where tiny, bright, the lamps that dreamed

coiled above our heads all day

refuse to say tonight

if they shelter in their staring skirts

the same house I left his morning.

The bus rumbles. I do not trust this road

making its move at last from the valley’s nadir

up into the heights. But I have no choice:

I want no other.

© Larry Haworth 1983

A Meeting

Night. Greasy rainbows

swim in alley pools. Fragile glories

reveal themselves like a priceless heart

hidden in costume jewels.

At the feet of gray tin garbage cans

the cabbage leaf and fish head

hold their tête-à-tête. I am coming.

Silent as the city,

trotting on tiny feet.

Soul of the city;

It’s epigram;

Nonchalant

and selfish.

Moving towards you, I

who passed all else by.

The rain upon the pavement

is like a black rubber rain slicker.

The alley’s red brick face

is a face of authority,

a cop.

When you pass this way by daylight

it will all be addresses,

acts and facts;

the bricks are made of bricky mud,

the cop waits for his bus.

Is this all that it is-

that we keep different hours

or different hours keep us?

Dawn. The sky creaks open.

Swim up from your dreams,

I am coming.

Soon you will proffer, and I accept

the chipped blue bowl of cream.

You kneel down in pink terrycloth;

I look up and purr.

My pink tongue rasps your thumb,

I fill your palm with fur.

© Larry Haworth 1983

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