Poetry R.W. Haynes

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: R.W. HAYNES

R. W. Haynes, Professor of English at Texas A&M International University, teaches early British literature and Shakespeare. His poetry collections Laredo Light (Cyberwit) and Let the Whales Escape (Finishing Line Press) appeared in 2019. Another collection titled Heidegger Looks at the Moon came out in November 2021 from Finishing Line, and the same press will issue The Deadly Shadow of the Wall in November, 2022.

No Time for Sonnets

a] Honor that old player, Aron Nimzovich, Whose best forays constituted blockades, Carpe diem, then, pull down the shades, Opportunity chokes when obstruction is rich.

Let there be no concentration, No strategy, wit, nor sophistication, Unleash the wild dogs of acceleration, Attack, attack, no hesitation. Let laconic grunts say what you say. Baffle no sophomores who might shriek, “I understand nothing when you speak!” Be the Muses’ bad-boy Hemingway.

When these things shape poetic law The subtle sonnet quietly will withdraw.

b] When you grow up hunting, out in the woods, I mean, not out on the plains, or in an SUV With four wheel-drive, and flashy luxury, You feel the forest’s living neighborhoods And know the trigger’s nature is aligned With a quiet, massive symphony You must try both to hear and somehow see As sweet death murmurs to your heart and mind. Then comes the sestet, whether or not you score, You just walk home in silence, assured the game Was played with justice free of nagging blame, Played with a freedom needing nothing more. So we ask this, as hostile questions rise, What’s wrong with this well-contrived surprise?

c] You thought it was my move, but I disagreed, And there was no clock at hand to set us right, So was a gambit left there twisting in the night? Urged by sacrificial pride and need? Hovering somewhere there may be a blade Enforcing all the rules on the playing board, But neither of us greatly feared that sword The night that final game of chess was played.

(R.W.Haynes)

Shakespeare Turns Off the Squawk Box

Whatever that sonnet subtly did has passed, Like an old smile someone’s pensive mother smiled Remembering fondly antics of her child, Who never calls now but may call at last, Was there to please your curiosity, Awaken you with its erotic call, But it rang in vain, its gentle plea unheard, With all its measures fashioned uselessly, Released out there in empty space by me, Reaching forth for the consummating word. Ah, well, now this is surely what we do, As I play my part, always, you play you.

(R.W. Hatnes)

Dukes, Traps, and Jumps to Conclusions

“We don’t need alchemy,” Orsino grated, “All I want is justice. Come and take it. Nuts. I have not yet begun to fight.” Cesario smiled. “Your love is overstated. Do not take an oath if you must break it, Or stumble in darkness when you may wait for light.” “But ladies are different,” groused the noble man, “They gleam like lovely lilies with little sense And crave our low submission, high expense; If you knew them better, you would understand.” “Γνῶθι σαυτόν, the Delphic slogan read, But who can tell what women have in mind? And why is it we men are always blind As devious Love lays treacherous traps ahead?”

(R.W.Haynes)

Erosion Management on the River of the Spirit

She thought that the ghosts that she once knew Had cut her off, that she somehow had lost Their friendship and would always face the cost Of that neglect, and that those days were through, But ghosts will often glide to hide away From dearest friends who count too much on them, While they still watch from shadows dark and dim, To lend their force when poetry’s in play. She reached for power somewhat cautiously And bumped awhile among our bumptious friends As if to learn where exploration ends, But disappointment smiled and set her free. Those spirits, hidden well, sent inspiration, And freed her fine, acidic imagination.

(R.W. Haynes)

Shipwreck in the Desert

One works around the old joke, as the aches Multiply and lose significance, Dreams mainly discarding magnificence, As the web stretches toward the place it breaks, But never mind any of that right now, And youth, like vermouth, needs juniper More than rue, that scented conifer Easing passion into rest somehow. The youth of old discovery of new plains Stretches forth a feast of delectation, With spectacles of vast consolation Erasing memories that dragged sharp pains. But I will not say words that you expect: Some silence sits well upon the shipwrecked.

(R.W. Haynes)