May apples still
hidden;
Black tractor mud;
Six acres of sugar bush
Pump up sap like blood.
Blood that powers bodies
Running out the door,
Lie amid the maples
Sweet, lonely, sore.
© Larry Haworth 2005
Friday, May 12, 2017
Branch Water
Branch water
blacks the riven rock,
Cursed by a
crooked line.
Sailor, slowly
breaking,
Stalks virgins
of the mine.
Moon-gleam gilds
the girders;
White engine
digs the mouth.
Sailor slowly
broken
By kindness of
the South.
© Larry Haworth 2005
Monday, March 27, 2017
Inheritance
It is summer in rural Tennessee
In the sixties. I am young in the back
Seat of our family car, a child of the
North coming south to visit my mother's
Relatives. After hundreds of miles on
Highways, we are at last driving down the
Dirt road to my grandparents' house. I love
This place, so different from Indiana.
On our left a wire fence is snarled with wild
Passionflower and honeysuckle. I
Like to sip the sweet drop of nectar from
The honeysuckle's throat, as my mother
Does. Beyond the fence stretch endless red dirt
Rows of cotton, white and fluffy in the
Boll on their dead dry stalks, ripe for harvest.
On the right comes a rickety grey shack.
I've see them before in the rural south,
Scattered by fields – assumed them abandoned,
Never thought people lived there – until now.
Several black people stand on the porch, all
Ages, all skinny, dressed in rags. They watch
Solemnly as we pass. I am unnerved
By their bleak poverty, unblinking stare.
I am guiltily relieved when they're gone.
I look away but the memory is
Fixed in place, caught like cotton on barbed wire.
One day, my grandmother asks me to take
A message to a black couple who live
Nearby in another grey shack. It just
Contains bare walls, bare floor, a stove. Though the
Woman at the stove is older than me,
She is deferential, like I'm her boss.
I notice they all are, like they've been trained.
Why? One warm night, looking at the cotton,
My grandmother explains Southern history:
How slaves stooped all day beneath relentless
Sun, worked their whole lives without pay, were whipped
If they refused. I imagine myself
Like them, toiling up the row, dragging the
Sack in the thick heat, hungry, thirsty, tired.
I am still young, so I ask, looking at
The field (this field? This very field?), “How did
They feel about that?” She answers dryly
“I don't think they liked it.” Something new grows
In me. I wonder how they survived, and
If I could have. I hope my ancestors
Owned and whipped no one, feel overawed by
The injustice, cruelty, needlessness.
I think about the people in the shacks,
Trapped in their inheritance by white law.
In just these fields their ancestors labored
Beneath the drilling sun, making white men
Rich, as these do now, with not much more choice.
When those ancestors lived in master's shack,
Surely they had better hopes for these than
To work for so little and go hungry?
That's all a long time ago now, and I'm
Much older. My grandmother died. The fields,
The wonderful woods, the shacks were plowed up
To build a subdivision. Of all that
Summer, I owe the most to the people
On the porch. Their silent dull gaze follows
Me down the years, watches me. I cannot
Ride past now, and I cannot look away.
© Larry Haworth 2017
In the sixties. I am young in the back
Seat of our family car, a child of the
North coming south to visit my mother's
Relatives. After hundreds of miles on
Highways, we are at last driving down the
Dirt road to my grandparents' house. I love
This place, so different from Indiana.
On our left a wire fence is snarled with wild
Passionflower and honeysuckle. I
Like to sip the sweet drop of nectar from
The honeysuckle's throat, as my mother
Does. Beyond the fence stretch endless red dirt
Rows of cotton, white and fluffy in the
Boll on their dead dry stalks, ripe for harvest.
On the right comes a rickety grey shack.
I've see them before in the rural south,
Scattered by fields – assumed them abandoned,
Never thought people lived there – until now.
Several black people stand on the porch, all
Ages, all skinny, dressed in rags. They watch
Solemnly as we pass. I am unnerved
By their bleak poverty, unblinking stare.
I am guiltily relieved when they're gone.
I look away but the memory is
Fixed in place, caught like cotton on barbed wire.
One day, my grandmother asks me to take
A message to a black couple who live
Nearby in another grey shack. It just
Contains bare walls, bare floor, a stove. Though the
Woman at the stove is older than me,
She is deferential, like I'm her boss.
I notice they all are, like they've been trained.
Why? One warm night, looking at the cotton,
My grandmother explains Southern history:
How slaves stooped all day beneath relentless
Sun, worked their whole lives without pay, were whipped
If they refused. I imagine myself
Like them, toiling up the row, dragging the
Sack in the thick heat, hungry, thirsty, tired.
I am still young, so I ask, looking at
The field (this field? This very field?), “How did
They feel about that?” She answers dryly
“I don't think they liked it.” Something new grows
In me. I wonder how they survived, and
If I could have. I hope my ancestors
Owned and whipped no one, feel overawed by
The injustice, cruelty, needlessness.
I think about the people in the shacks,
Trapped in their inheritance by white law.
In just these fields their ancestors labored
Beneath the drilling sun, making white men
Rich, as these do now, with not much more choice.
When those ancestors lived in master's shack,
Surely they had better hopes for these than
To work for so little and go hungry?
That's all a long time ago now, and I'm
Much older. My grandmother died. The fields,
The wonderful woods, the shacks were plowed up
To build a subdivision. Of all that
Summer, I owe the most to the people
On the porch. Their silent dull gaze follows
Me down the years, watches me. I cannot
Ride past now, and I cannot look away.
© Larry Haworth 2017
Thursday, March 16, 2017
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
Monday, November 14, 2016
No Traces
By the long rocks, where fear is;
Or the temporary ocean’s center,
Hollow as a vowel, I move aside,
That everything may enter.
The one choral voice never heard,
Without whom no singer could compose;
The ground that ground must root in
Before it prompts the rose;
Love and I alone endure;
Sing the eternal pause;
Loosen the over-strictured tongue
From busybody laws.
All persons, nations, creeds, locations
Are holy, chosen, blest;
Born of us, to us returning,
Seeking sorrow, finding rest.
© Larry Haworth April, 2016
Or the temporary ocean’s center,
Hollow as a vowel, I move aside,
That everything may enter.
The one choral voice never heard,
Without whom no singer could compose;
The ground that ground must root in
Before it prompts the rose;
Love and I alone endure;
Sing the eternal pause;
Loosen the over-strictured tongue
From busybody laws.
All persons, nations, creeds, locations
Are holy, chosen, blest;
Born of us, to us returning,
Seeking sorrow, finding rest.
© Larry Haworth April, 2016
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
Chagall
Chagall opens the eye on a world where
Lovers, musicians, fabulous beasts love,
Play, have their being in the middle air.
Demure round-breasted women, impassioned
Encircling men ride their longings above
Sleeping homes. The crimson-faced violin
Player on his blue chair in his blue night
Suffers birds to perch on his shoulder, thighs,
Moon and bouquet beside. And this huge white
Goat sedately cropping the roof-top grass
Achieves what poor religion only tries:
To make emptiness intimate with mass.
© Larry Haworth April, 2016
Lovers, musicians, fabulous beasts love,
Play, have their being in the middle air.
Demure round-breasted women, impassioned
Encircling men ride their longings above
Sleeping homes. The crimson-faced violin
Player on his blue chair in his blue night
Suffers birds to perch on his shoulder, thighs,
Moon and bouquet beside. And this huge white
Goat sedately cropping the roof-top grass
Achieves what poor religion only tries:
To make emptiness intimate with mass.
© Larry Haworth April, 2016
Trees
What self-clothed soul could hope to charm
These tall and naked lives?
What monarch did so little harm
And told nobody lies?
They patiently outwait our madness,
Patiently persist,
Unequipped for sadness,
Unminded to resist.
© Larry Haworth April, 2016
These tall and naked lives?
What monarch did so little harm
And told nobody lies?
They patiently outwait our madness,
Patiently persist,
Unequipped for sadness,
Unminded to resist.
© Larry Haworth April, 2016
Friday, February 19, 2016
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
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
Monday, July 20, 2015
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
Monday, June 8, 2015
Haiku
Heaped coal cars steal from
Purple mountain's majesty
Their black broken bones
© Larry Haworth
Purple mountain's majesty
Their black broken bones
© Larry Haworth
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Thursday, February 20, 2014
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.
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)
Saturday, January 25, 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
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