Larry Schwartz
© Larry Schwartz 2019
First published 2019
by The Watermark Press
PO Box 1972
Plettenberg Bay
6600 South Africa
Compiled and produced by Mike Kantey
Watercourse, PO Box 1972, Plettenberg Bay 6600
Cover design: Rohan Schwartz
Artwork: Rohan Schwartz, living-emergence (2017-18), oil and polymer paint on board
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
For Ramola, Neal and Rohan
and with special thanks to Mike Kantey
“Another year gone –
hat in my hand,
sandals on my feet.”
Matsuo Basho (1644 – 1694)
Foreword
Larry Schwartz first walked into my small shop, Red Wheelbarrow Books, ten years ago, and we struck an instant rapport over our love of William Carlos Williams, Robert Creeley, and the writings of D.T. Suzuki and R.H. Blyth. I sensed that writing poetry for Larry was only ever an oblique pursuit, but over time he showed me some of his beautiful and highly accomplished short poems, and on one or two occasions I managed to twist his arm to read them at the bookstore’s monthly poetry gatherings.
And now Larry has finally, at the behest of an old friend in South Africa, put together this “padkos” (Afrikaans: “road food,” or provisions for the way). It is a collection that provides us with a poetry of deep affection, of a constantly surprising lyricism, of wry humour, and of the laconic Zen immanence of “just / so many words / to pierce / this greying / day.” A poetry with everything that we need to sustain us on the way.
- Paul Croucher, author of The Landing
Any old fool
Any old fool
can write a poem
about a man
who goes to town
to find out if
her hair’s still brown.
Any old fool
can write a poem
Any old fool
can sing a song
about a man
who stays too long
until he finds out
what went wrong.
Any old fool
can sing a song
Any old fool
can write a poem
or sing a song
about a man
who goes to town
and stays too long.
Any old fool
can right a wrong
Pennies
Let’s count up
all blessings
Our lucky stars
down
Cast out
old pennies
on the water
When fortune calls
if it calls at all
Sometimes
that call
is forever
Monkey’s Wedding
You can’t trust
the weather
to do the right thing
When you’re way
down in winter she’s
way on to spring
If it’s raining
in spades when
the sun’s piling in
You can trust
this cruel wind
to make the clouds spin
Tonight
Half a moon
is better
than
no moon at all
tonight dear
father this
half-moon
is not
half a moon
at all
Awake
My father
slept
with one
eye open
the other
kept him
wide awake
The Charcoal Suit
This portrait
my father
paints himself
in a charcoal suit
darkens
my frame
too
Where I die
Woman
eat soul
Man
climb up
high
Down
to where
I die
Autumn
Short and sweet
you left me
no choice
Her smile
She stayed gaunt
behind the counter
as I paid
for her
sullen smile.
Then I left.
She stayed.
Miss Opportunity
He took a
missed call
from Miss
Opportunity
She said it was a
bad cough, a big
mistake he said,
you bet
Phoenix
By the time
she turns
to find
me
back
again
I’m gone
Clapping
Let your left hand
do the talking
When the talk
is cheap
Your right hand deal
in dreaming
When the way is dark
and deep
Hold the ways of love
in each hand
Until each hand
touches each
For R
We’re not the only
heroes
in this story
Not the
only villains
in it, too
Seven billion
more
or less
Give or
take
a few
The curse
of being among
so many
The blessing
in being
alone with you
Blue Johanna
Because we are
immortal
Forever you
and I
On pot-holed
Blue Johanna
This wild and
wintry day
The Firstborn
As if it really matters much
if we are right or wrong
The courage of the fathers
the cruelty of their song
The splendour of the galaxies
spread-eagled in the night
That keep us in the darkness
that hold us to the light.
We stood up to the ocean
we summoned up the stars
We reckoned up long years ahead
and tallied light years gone
And in the cruelty of the dark
the courage of your song
The courage of the fathers
The cruelty of their song
The splendour of the galaxies
Spread-eagled in the night
That keep us in the darkness
That hold us to the light
We stood up to the ocean
We summoned up the stars
We reckoned up long years ahead
And tallied light years gone
And in the cruelty of the dark
The courage of your song
– LS
For Neal after some of a night under the stars 26 December 2016
Some Tantalus
Am I some
Tantalus
forever
reaching
at you?
Or will I ever
find you
and
drink of your
splendour
and tell you
that
I want you
for
mine?
Falling
When I met
my match
in mid-air
she was falling
proud
and free
I asked her if
she’d come
right down
to stand
her ground
with me
She told me,
then I know
my place
I’m falling
hard it
seems
While you
who stand
on solid
ground are
dancing up
to me
The Tyranny of Time
It’s the tyranny
of time
That keeps us
each in line
(which almost rhymes
with crime)
But that’s okay
– It’s fine –
As long as you are
mine, hey?
(which probably rhymes
with shine)
I’m sure that I
don’t mind
Breaking Bread
I’m breaking bread
with both hands
Saving the best
for you
Bits of laughter
bits of sorrow
For giving for
getting, too
Breaking back
With calloused hands
To share the best
with you
To sculpt
I long
to sculpt
I never
shall
your beauty
chip
away
The Famous Last Words
I’ll make a fine corpse
for you, darling,
I promise you, dear,
I’ll not stray
If only you’ll lay down
beside me
and sing out a dead
man’s praise.
Who carries my casket
can grin and bear
to cradle a good
man’s grave
Small miracle
She carries
the world
of a child
in her belly
the universe
The Charcoal Hours
My children’s
sleep draws in
the night
The day
is always
with them
In charcoal hours
each braves
his dark
Makes light
of each
again
Praise
when the lord
be god blessed
be he
leaps across
mountains, rivers
and trees
sun and moon
stars and seas
all leap
the lord god
blessed
be he
The Whisky Priest
What hands are these
to bless
a congregation with
fingers bitten
to bleed
for you
or just a bad
habit I picked
up on the way?
Who’s to say that
God is not
aflame
upon the mountain,
cross-legged
with Buddha
or Christlike
palms
impaled?
Circle
Old father
white beard
cries
til laughter
laughs
its circle round
The Gift
Mountain snow
drifts the road
down to
Cooma
twenty-eighth
birthday
(ha!)
this gift
of a poem
Poet’s Lane
Passing
traffic
passes
unperturbed
Fool Poetry
What currency, kid,
thy cosmos?
Cruel needs
These feeble lines
The Camera Kid
The camera kid
she flicked a lid.
she snapped my light
in black and white
She said she did
Mirror
I gave a man
a perfect smile
a perfect stranger
he replied with
such a smile I’d
never seen
became this man
who might
have been
She
She can move
across the sand
the tide come in
or back again
it pockmarks at
the soul
Our Lady
These bits
of bread
are for the
birds
Our Lady
feeds
the skies
The Cowlick Crown
I have a
beard
I have
a belly
a cowlick
crown for my
kingdom’s plenty.
Hands that
hold all
are hands
that are empty
No sky
No
bird
clings
to
the sky for dear life
No
sky
clings
to
a bird
Wince
When I cut off
my ear
there was no envelope
to wrap it in
no fainting prostitute
to send it to
no fancy history book
to paste it in
only half
a bloody ear
Season’s Wind
Not for me
the wind
that makes
this morning
an autumn
of a spring.
Fifteen grey hairs
you once found
in my beard
will be dust again,
darling,
in some other
season’s wind
The Distance
It’s just a trick
of light
that plays on
you and me
a sleight of hand
that deals the dark
also daylight
brings.
The flicker
keeps us
out of sync
in our antipodes
- for M.K.
Head start
We have our work
cut out for us
just to make
ends meet
all points due
north to south
and west is
also east
You put your
best foot
forward – both
best feet
The Cape Doctor*
Would a summer’s
breeze on water
blow this
Table Bay
-for MC
*The south-easterly wind that blows through Cape Town
Another man’s country
Go live in another
man’s country.
Sing another man’s song
fill your heart with longing
for a dream that
sours at midnight
sweetens
the breath
at dawn
First Blood
I reached
to touch
the rose
my heart
withdrew
before
the red
my blood
the red
my blood
Returning
I saw the wound
and watched it
well and deep
I knew
there would be
no returning
Word of mouth
Word of mouth
is but a breath
at the tip of the
tongue
the wind
is nothing sacred
To fly
It is only
when things
get right
out of hand
that this little
finger
can bring down
the sun
What a way
to fly
At the corner*
And the swing
lashes the sky
with little Jane
kicking to eternity
then down to the
white sand
white like death
*Years after I wrote this I received a photo of the beach with the swing with a nearby sign in Afrikaans that said “blankes alleen”, whites only
I didn’t cry
I didn’t cry when they
took him down to the gallows
it was only a stranger they
took down
I didn’t cry when they
took him down to the gallows
it was only a neighbour they
took down
I didn’t cry when they
took him down to the gallows
it was only a friend they
took down
I didn’t cry when they
took him down to the gallows
it was only a brother they
took down
I didn’t cry when they
took him down to the gallows
but I cried, yes I cried,
when they came for me
The Word
Who will speak for us
when it’s over?
Who will say a word
When all is said and done?
Who will speak for us
when there’s nothing left to say?
Who will
say a word?
Song of the Migrant Birds
Two migrant birds
wet and weary
settled before
a window pane
Inside the room
a fire was burning
canary perched in
a silver cage
Where you going?
said the canary,
Where’ve you come from
in that grey?
Come from where
a storm is raging,
going south,
far away
What is south?
said the canary,
Why is south
so far away?
South is where
the sun is golden
melting butter
on turquoise seas
South is there,
some day we’ll find it
South is the freedom
that we seek.
Chorus
Who needs south?
I’ve got comfort.
Who needs sun?
I’ve got fire.
Who needs freedom?
I have found it.
Here is the freedom
of my cage.
Lift up your wings, then
said the gypsy birds
if you are free,
fly away
The canary turned
and turned away
I will not hear
the words you say
You speak of lands
you’ve never seen before.
Mine is a world
that I have touched.
But as he turned
towards the window
the migrant birds
had flown away
Way out there
in the distance
two tiny specks were
drawn to the sun
Then the bars grew
cold and heavy,
the fire became
a mere flame.
Chorus
Who needs south?
I’ve got comfort.
Who needs sun?
I’ve got fire.
Who needs freedom?
I have found it.
Here is the freedom
of my cage.
In just
In just
so many
words
to pierce
this greying
day
What bothers me
What bothers me
is not
the sound
of children
at play
Just this
Just this
taste of
death in
the mouth
of sweet
illusion
Light again
A festival of
light again
a full moon
each emptying flame
each cruel flower
a little hope
I thought
I might redeem
Larry Schwartz Writer 