Harry's Poetry
The last things to go to Scotland have been shipped; only the piano with its leather stool is left. As long as it sits there, waiting, there’s always the chance of a song. Songs have been some of my longest-known friends, and still, new ones appear. I’m writing this on my iPhone, with no beautiful desk, no computer, and through the window, the day has opened up as mean as a grizzly bear.
Songs fly, don’t they?
Migrating birds, some fleeing before winter, returning in the spring, that familiar song heard once again. When I’ve written a song, I let it go, and with hardly a lookup, it’s gone, flown, to you, to someone.
Poems are not songs. Poems are old men, if not gathered around a warm chimney, then lying under a stone, sheltered from the wind, and where they will sleep for a long time.
The bird’s song goes so far away we wonder if it will ever return. Poems are reminders that there is something more to us, something left, stationary, sleeping, and more beautiful than songs.
Writing is Flying
There is not much room for creativity when traveling at Mach 1.
It’s beautifully black and white, alive or dead,
and called mechanical failure.
The ejector seat demands a split-second decision,
and it’s going to hurt.
For me, all my writing life, I’ve written as if my hand
is on the ejector handle.
To hell with romantic ideas of safety.
Get me the fuck out of here.
Between Flights
I’ve never been loved by strangers
Nor comforted by arms in a bar
In Sausalito or Santa Fe
Not by a woman flying away
I’ve never felt that kind of love
From people in quiet places
A voyeur of their loving affections
While thinking of life’s reflections
Missing You
I could mass battalions, gleaming in silver,
and join the armies of St. Cloud
to ride on God for an explanation.
Instead, I sit on wooden benches,
stand on street corners, eat chocolate,
listen to music that puts her
back into my arms, into my life, and back into my heart.
Love Is Sometimes Clumsy
Love is sometimes clumsy.
I remember we sat in front of the fire.
It was crackling with dry wood, spitting sparks,
and you asked me what I loved most in the world.
I was enthusiastic. I love Brahms,
Chopin, corn on the cob. I love movies,
those about crusader knights.
I love the sun, too, walking on the shore,
chewing over tales, sherry on the rocks,
Sophia Loren and “I remember when.”
I love Hampstead and Chelsea,
Irish Setters and Palma Nova.
The Household Cavalry turns me on.
Spaghetti Bolognese with red wine
relaxes me no end,
but most of all, I love the sea
and the wild underworld, some of which I’ve seen.
What about you, darling, what do you love most in the world?
She paused, stared into the fire with ice-blue eyes.
I love you.
I love your lips on my thighs
and your fingers tracing love lines down my spine.
I turned away, ashamed.
Tears were falling down my cheeks.
The Pequod
Don’t sail to the edge of the open sea
’Cause likely you’ll fall off
But I was young and bold as brass
On me such words were lost
The whalin’ life is a magic wand
With the pull of its magic worth
The frigate lies ‘neath an azure sky
’Twas the Pequod at its berth
“This vessel’s cursed,” said the seaman’s words
As the spit ran down his face
Long shadows fell across his path
When he turned and walked away
While high above up on the bridge
Stood a man with an oaken leg
And troubled eyes sunk beneath the ridge
Of the brow on Ahab’s face
We soon set out across the waves
On the winds of the seventh sea
Our harpoons lay in idle hands
As the pods of whales swam free
’Cause Ahab had a silent goal
And it ne’er was greed or fame
He was bound, they said, to avenge his leg
With the great white whale to blame
So whaling still runs in my veins
When the wind doth blow a gale
And I’m on the quest ’til I’ve won a rest
And I’ve found old Ahab’s whale
Old Queequag spoke his heathen chants
As he tossed the bones once more
He saw the gloom as he read the doom
In the patterns on the floor
But he knew his box wouldn’t hit the rocks
As it nudged against the shore
He’d be safe inside where his spirit hides
When the Pequod was no more
The sun grew dim, the wind fell thin
And the time just barely passed
Then Ahab held a gold doubloon
And he nailed it to the mast
“He who finds the dreaded beast”
He said as he caught my eye
“This treasure will be his to keep”
And so I reckoned that it’s mine
’Twas the scent of loam and the thoughts of home
That swept the sulky sky
But my skin went cold if the truth be told
When I saw the monster’s eye
The sea was split into shreds of foam
By the slash of a mighty tail
And a hundred tons of devil’s flesh
That I knew was Ahab’s whale
Soon the crimson seas lapped upon our knees
As our weapons took to flight
But the whale held fast to a steady course
It had Ahab in its sight
And the Pequod broke like the fragile yolk
Of the egg of a landside quail
If revenge was sought, it would ne’er be wrought
At the expense of Ahab’s whale
Now the sea lay down to gentle swells
My doubloon’s in Davey’s grasp
I sit as stone while I drift alone
But my mind still holds the past
It’s the sight of Ahab’s lifeless form
In the snarls of harpoon tails
As he waved farewell and dove straight to hell
On the back of his mighty whale
And whaling still runs in my veins
When the wind doth blow a gale
And I’m on the quest ’til I’ve won a rest
And I’ve found old Ahab’s whale
Mendocino
On the shores of Mendocino
where seagulls perch and soar,
an old man stands alone,
No adventures anymore.
His life ebbing and slowing,
adventures etched into his face,
a sailor who has found his place,
weathered and cracked by storms.
A saddened old man he is not,
even when life has been unfair,
whose only adventure these days
is thinking.
Walking the shore and climbing stairs,
then descending again,
in houses and hotels,
Mendocino to Maine.
And his tales of the sea
grow wilder each year,
stories in his heart
and a belly of beer.
Alone in his bed,
a sailor’s heart dies,
o’er seas empty and wide
under the vast open sky.