Like The Old Harry

–for my father, Jim

my father was an opaque poet
of blue collar verse
he’d sling odd terms
from the corners of his mouth
along the axis of a lip-gripped cigarette
entwined in curlicues of smoke
that ringed his cocked head
his eyes squinting from its sting
his playful gags filled my cups of ears
and I, with fresh curiosity, drank them in
to uncover the secret stuff of words

Up Laundry Hill,
he’d say to the question
Hey, dad,where you goin’?

as if the place he was headed beyond the door
was a high meadow in which my grandmother
with a bar of brown soap
scrubbed shirts beside a slow river
and hung them to dry on lines strung tree to tree
as an August sun drenched them with a bounty
of white light and a day’s-worth of heat

Like the old Harry was his expression
for the speed of a world that moved
like the old Harry as I, in new Keds
ran not like the wind but like the old Harry,
a quick little shit on white rubber soles
consuming the universe of our yard
in nanoseconds

Whoever Old Harry was my dad knew him well—
knew he could outrun light when it came down to it
despite the equation upon which Einstein,
regarding questions of velocity, stood

—there’s more to earth than science:
the music of syllables
the humor in their arrangements
the unexpected flash of odd conjunctions
the comfort of the syntax of tradition
the sudden crack of their smart whip
which sometimes drives us like the old Harry
up Laundry Hill
…………………….

by Jim Culleny, 5/3/11
…………………..
……………………

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s