James Haug
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James Haug’s newest collection of poems is Legend of the Recent Past (National Poetry Review Press). His previous collections are Walking Liberty (Winner of the Morse Poetry Prize, Northeastern University Press) and The Stolen Car (University of Massachusetts Press). His chapbook, Fox Luck, won the Center for Book Arts chapbook competition. Another chapbook, A Plan of How to Catch Amanda, was published by Factory Hollow Press. Haug’s poems have appeared in such journals as American Letters & Commentary, American Poetry Review, Conduit, Crazyhorse, Field, Gettysburg Review, Open City, and Ploughshares. He is a recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Cultural Council. In Spring 2010, he’ll be a Visiting Writer at the MFA Program for Poets and Writers at the Unversity of Massachusetts-Amherst. He lives in Northampton, Massachusetts.
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GARDNER EXCHANGE
In a field I was overtaken by a conviction
that another field lay just beyond it.
Some ex-firemen had unfolded a card table
in the timothy, playing whist
where no other field was found.
In a town I sat like a clerk on a municipal bench
pretending I knew exactly where I was.
The streets long and straight.
I could see far away. I could see Orange.
For ten minutes I watched a woman approach by foot.
She handed me a handsome pamphlet
concerning the manufacture of chairs in this
the town I belonged to.
A siren reconfigured an old complaint.
How little I knew about rattan.
How perfectly useless the world’s smallest chair looked
in my open hand.
I was the chair’s chair.
LEGEND OF THE RECENT PAST
I keep my shirt tucked because I don’t
want everything falling out. I like
to arrive in one piece. I keep my nose
clean and almost never blow my top.
When I was young I was very tired.
I hung around police stations confessing
to muggings, shopliftings, second story jobs,
hoping to give the police a break,
maybe send them home for a nice rest.
You could say I wised-up. You could
say anything you want. I keep my boxes
straight, my lids tight, my pencils sharp.
It’s almost like being in love. How
can I say that? I lived on the third floor
in a small town long long ago. And usually
around sunset I’d hear a voice, a small
croaky voice, an emphysemic gasping,
Someone’s trying to kill me, which scared me
since it was right outside the window
and there was nowhere for a person,
even a little croaky person, to stand.
I ran down to the street and found
no one. I looked into open windows
in search of a loud TV, or maybe some guy
strangling in a curtain cord but nothing
did I find, except a cop who chased me
way away. So yonder I fled upstairs
to my rambling studio apartment, which had
no kitchen, but did have a sink and a stove
(if you must know) behind folding doors—
a Murphy kitchen, of all things.
And there at twilight I’d hang wet shirts
from a line stretched across the apartment
and stir myself a scalding cup of instant
while my wee friend Croaky rattled out
his nightly bit of worry, and I never
talked back, until one day I closed the door
with a suitcase full of shirts and boarded
a bus for a place known to many as Albany.
NOSTALGIA FOR THE FINITE
A dozen or so scale models are parked
under the windowsill, vintage
sports cars, German, English, tops down.
I used to hang my hand outside one
like that, I tell the Dead End Kids,
my smoking hand, and drop a lit one
while stopped at a red light. Every-
body knew my name, but not
a soul was saying. Gas was cheaper
then because it was miniature gas
and we never seemed to have to go
quite so far. It’s not like things were
any closer, just standard practice
that you gave up going halfway there.
What I didn’t know could fill I don’t
know what. A secret anniversary
approaches, and a phalanx of tinhorns.
My favorite station runs tornado films
all night long. There’s a song I’m dying
to hear except I forget how it goes.
I remember where I heard it, though
that place is gone, pulled up through
a funnel, little town in the sky.
THERE’S NO NOW
I’m trying to avoid
saying what I usually say
in these circumstances.
Are those real palm trees?
You’re sitting on my hat
Honestly, I’ve never been
lost—I always know
the correct turn eventually
will pop up. That’s why
I’m here before you
and not where I should
be, which is a northern
climate, with only a few
war-era trees, some goats,
and a gramophone in good
working order. I get
funny at the mention of it.
Best just to keep driving,
looking for all the spots
where everyone else goes.
Remember steel piers?
How on Armistice Day
kids ran around grabbing
and stomping on everyone’s
straw hats? That was before
my time, though my time
seems before my time. Except
when I double back, north
of Newark, to my hometown,
that’s when I see my time’s
long after my time, that we’re
not likely to see my time
coming down the pike any time
soon, and if we did—
Yes, look, that is my hat.
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