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Brad Ramsey approximately Twenty-three thousand words. 270 Milan St. Apt.205 Toronto, ON M5A 3Z6 (416) 928-1231 bradramseytoronto@gmail.com [Available in 12 pt. also]

Since I Left Helvetia (A Volume of Poetry Written By) Iggy The Dwarf

The ground of this popular practice might be the common opinion concerning the vertue prognostick of these Birds; as also the natural regard they have unto the winds, and they unto them again; more especially remarkable in the time of their nidulation, and bringing forth their young. For at that time, which happeneth about the brumal Solstice, it hath been observed even unto a proverb, that the Sea is calm, and the winds do cease, till the young ones are excluded; and forsake their nest which floateth upon the Sea, and by the roughness of winds might otherwise be overwhelmed. But how far hereby to magnifie their prediction we have no certain rule; for whether out of any particular prenotion they chuse to sit at this time, or whether it be thus contrived by concurrence of causes and providence of Nature, securing every species in their production, is not yet determined. Surely many things fall out by the design of the general motor, and undreamt of contrivance of Nature, which are not imputable unto the intention or knowledge of the particular Actor. So though the seminality of Ivy be almost in every earth, yet that it ariseth and groweth not, but where it may be supported; we cannot ascribe the same unto the distinction of the seed, or conceive any science therein which suspends and conditionates its eruption. So if, as Pliny and Plutarch report, the Crocodiles of Ægypt so aptly lay their Eggs, that the Natives thereby are able to know how high the floud will attain; it will be

hard to make out, how they should divine the extent of the inundation depending on causes so many miles remote; that is, the measure of showers in Æthiopia; and whereof, as Athanasius in the life of Anthony delivers, the Devil himself upon demand could make no clear prediction. So are there likewise many things in Nature, which are the fore runners or signs of future effects, whereto they neither concur in causality or prenotion, but are secretly ordered by the providence of causes, and concurrence of actions collateral to their signations. - Pseudodoxia epidemica; from, Chapter 10: The Kingfisher Sir Thomas Browne The was a spy, On the fourth of July, He looked at the sky, As the colours flew by. - B. A. Ramsey, Killing Time, under copyright protection, 1994 [unpublished] But I thought Werter himself a more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character contained no pretension, but it sunk deep. The disquisitions upon death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend to enter the

merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it. - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

This Book is Dedicated to Mary Apple

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/iv FOREWORD As Dr. Orion Lumen, Ph.D., in Clinical Psychology, it is my privilege to introduce Iggy the Dwarf's extraordinary volume of poetry, "Since I left Helvetia". This collection is a testament to Iggy's unique perspective, a perspective that is, admittedly, characterized by grandiose delusions. However, these delusions do not detract from the value of his work; rather, they add a layer of complexity and intrigue that is rarely found in contemporary poetry. Iggy's letters to Lord Montgomery and the Countess of Hertford, as well as his preface, reveal a deep understanding of the transformative power of poetry. His reference to the Royal Charter, "quidlibet audendi", underscores his belief in the poet's birthright to explore new realms of expression, to challenge the status quo, and to inspire love for nature and humanity. His concept of 'Traversal Poetry' suggests a form of poetic transference across time and

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/v space, a negotiation between what we ought to know of and what we owe to our past. However, it is Iggy's final assessment—that homo sapiens have been taken over by homo exterior or shapeshifters—that truly sets his work apart. This bold assertion, while indicative of his grandiose delusions, also serves as a metaphor for the profound changes that our society has undergone. It is a reflection of his feeling of alienation, of being a noble and rich individual separated from his estate, a sentiment that resonates with many isolated individuals in today's rapidly changing world. Despite the grandiosity of his delusions, Iggy's work is not without merit. His reflections on the evolution of language and the role of tradition in poetry are thought-provoking. His approach is not to discard the old but to build upon it, to create a pastiche of "dead" styles that pays tribute to the masters of poetry while also reflecting the realities of the present day. In conclusion, "Since I left Helvetia" is a remarkable collection

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/vi that showcases Iggy the Dwarf's unique poetic voice and his insightful commentary on the human condition. It is a testament to his belief in the power of poetry to traverse time and space, to connect us with our past, and to illuminate our present. As you delve into these pages, I hope you will find, as I have, a wealth of inspiration and a renewed appreciation for the art of poetry. However, it is important to remember that while Iggy's grandiose delusions add a layer of complexity to his work, they are also indicative of his struggle with mental health. As readers, we must approach his work with empathy and understanding, recognizing the brilliance of his poetic expression while also acknowledging the personal challenges he faces. Dr. Orion Lumen, Ph.D. Clinical Psychology

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/vii AUTHOR’S PREFACE GONE are those unblest times... When Genius, trembling with unmanly fear, Claim'd not the wreath, which he deserv'd to wear, Till nine long years had lent their tedious aid, To touch the forms his magic hand pourtray'd…i It remains the honorable characteristic of the poetic arts that its materials are to be found in every subject which can interest the human mind. The following poems are to be considered as experiments. They were written chiefly with a view to ascertain how far the circumstance of homo exterior of today’s society is adapted to the pleasure of traditional poetry. For the result of the presence of those beings has caused the displacement and considerable loss in global populations of homo sapiens which finds precedents, for example, in the Enclosure Act of the Parliament of the Kingdom of Great Britain, passed during the reign of King George III, which removed the right of access to common lands that had been the laborer’s heritage and source of income for ages gone.

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/viii An English poet, William Wordsworth, extolled the virtues of old Michaeliiand his wife, in their struggle to maintain their patrimonial fields, while the unenclosed commons became largely restricted to rough pasture in mountainous areas and to relatively small parts of the lowlands. The result was an upheaval, about which much poetry was written in the Romantic era, that was preserved in a language of conversation idiomatic of the middle and lower classes of society. Compared with today’s colloquial expressions, this language is archaic and unnatural but perhaps homo exterior will excuse the anachronisms, if the book nevertheless contains a natural delineation of human passions, human characters, and human incidents found in twenty-first century underclass society. Yet even if the reader will accept the anachronisms, it is now generally admitted that the Greek and Roman poets, together with those of the Classical tradition in English, who have copied their manner, should no longer be considered as

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ix examples for youth of the present day. Those critical compositions, therefore, which in an earlier age were drawn up, either in prose or verse, for the direction of the antiquarian, since the precepts, which they contain, are derived from the outdated examples, must now be entirely useless, or what is worse, must mislead many into a style of writing, which will defeat their purpose of gaining wide acceptance. Still, it becomes very desirable, that a book should be arranged, suited to the tastes of the present day; in order that youth, whose genius or inclination leads them to cultivate the art, may not only enjoy having examples to transmute, in the traversal of plentiful poetry by which literature is distinguished, but may also have this representation, to which they may easily refer in cases of doubt and difficulty. This task I have ventured to undertake; and I assure the reader, that however imperfectly in other respects it may be executed, he or she will find the postmodern precepts to be fairly and legitimately deduced from

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/x the most popular authorities of the tradition.iii For, there remains one maxim of the critics, which we still admit to being just; that the rules for writing in verse cannot be laid down by way of previous reasoning, or as the metaphysicians express it, a priori, but must be drawn from poems before, which have been crowned with the greatest success, and which, therefore, we conclude to be the best. Thus Aristotle, in the first art of poetry that was ever written, derives his maxims from the works of Homer; and an English classical poet, Alexander Pope, admits the propriety of this plan in the following lines of his Essay on Criticism, Just precepts thus from great examples given, She drew from them what they deriv’d from Heav’n Waving therefore all claim to the invention of a new poetic art, I merely pay myself the credit of collecting and copying some masters, which lie scattered here and there throughout the successful poems of the past remarkable eras. In suiting the

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/xi posthuman world, I abandon much of my claim to authority, and, with a predilection for nostalgia, suppress the satirical impulse for parody, in preference of a pastiche of "dead" styles, to pay homage to famous poets, who are perpetually present, and who shall hopefully outlive our present day. Whereas in the schools of our universities every sentiment is no longer discoursed in a learned language, but presently, in English, there remains a fact, that in the school of traditional poetry, it was customary to use only the language of verse, even upon prosaic subjects. And so, they threw into a metrical form their critique of poetry, which might perhaps have been more explicitly and methodically described in prose; and they preferred the imaginative strains of Horace to the philosophical discourses of Aristotle. Hence it is, that, although a discussion in prose, upon principles and rules of what constitutes adaptation, has already been laid before the public many times, I thought it due the discoveries of youth, and indeed all

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/xii antiquarians, that, like the English classical poets, they should have (if I may so express myself) this chronicle to which they may refer. If it was to be expected, that my verse should have been itself an illustration of contemporaneity in the rules which that prescribes, after the manner of Ezra Pound, who yelled “Make it new!” rather the reader will find that, not being able to root entirely from my mind a lingering fondness for the examples upon which my formative judgement was formed, I thought, that both the reader and the antiquarian, if I resemble the English masters in the spirit of my compositions, shall find as I have found, a definite worth, since I left Helvetia. Iggy, the Dwarf Toronto

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/xiii TWO LETTERS (1) Toronto Lord Montgomery Your Lord, As the CHARTER a mari usque ad mare authorizes the attempt of every new species of poetry, it is belonging to the Royal Charter, quidlibet audendi, the birthright of every poet beforehand, the hereditary obligation to patronize the Muses, with an unaffected Love, to promote the Love of Nature and the interests of Humanity. In Envy, the Obvious Bounds that still divide foul Flattery from fair Gratitude, would you esteem a Tax on the name of the Countess of Hertford, who can by no means dispense with so essential a privilege, of a Scenery of Nature more adapted to the genius and disposition of Poetry? Your Dwarf, Iggy

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/xiv (2 ) Toronto, Her Countess of Hertford Your Lady, These poems are an attempt at ‘Traversal Poetry’, for transference between two or more politico in time and space, would thereby not exclude a negotiation in our words of ought and owe. With respect to Oxford Poetry, XV.ii., the book review of Miss Balmer’s work entitled, “Translating Classical Verse, Creating Contemporary Poetry”, mentions Cicero’s De Optimo and compares interpres, adnumerare, and appendere with the dignity of the translator, who negotiates scholastics and creativity, and a wringing out, or exprimere, according to our human search for an authentic humanity in the art of contemporary poetry. In passing my life as a dwarf, I acknowledge that because the past of humanity is humatus - interred, or laid in the ground - that the men and women from that past who are dead are

Ramsey/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/xv those whom we ought to know, and whom we owe our itinerary, that we must chronicle in our passage through time and space, which we ‘traverse;’ Regarding that word, I find myself at the bounding-line of my life and the departed life of former homo sapiens. Yet, there remains a toll which must be paid by homo exterior, itinerantly during the traversal from a former to present time, retroactively. Your Dwarf, Iggy

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 16 1. THE CITY The subject proposed – Remarks upon George Crabbe’s Poetry – Fortune described – An impoverished city – Rude manner of the inhabitants – Ruinous effects of the sex trade –The city life: more generally considered: evils of it – The youthful laborer – The old man: his soliloquy – The sick poor: their pharmaceutical– The dying pauper – The city priest. The city life, where every care still reigns, O’er youthful peasants and declining swains; What labor yields, and what, that labor past, Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last; What remain the picture of the poor, Recall a song – the Muse shall sing once more. Gone are those times, when in heroic verse, Their Country’s honor or its joys rehearse; Few poets laud in captivating strains, The beauty of long, industrial plains; And chimera to all the pains we feel, The vibrancy the city lights reveal; While he who condemned the pastoral lay, Might damn a city in our modern day.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 17 In ancient Troy, in Priam’s bloody reign, Around the city walls, and twice again – But Shall this poem the classical prolong? Mechanical tribute to an old song! From fair market price do I not soon stray Where homage, not the evening, paves the way? Yes. The Muse sings in the Romantic Age, And all since then has fitted to a page, She sings of peasants’ pipes, but the throng, now, Chase muff around and like their pleasures low; The Muse for all her masses, has no rhymes, As concord lacks in our discordant times. Save I, what son of verse would even share, In heroic, eighteenth century care? Or would the rarer flower of the field, Increase the value of the garden’s yield? Would land enclosure suit my modern hand With repercussions felt throughout the land? Still, in Romantic thoughts I needn’t ask, For Rip Van Winkle ‘twas no easy task –

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 18 Who went to sleep two hundred years ago, And dreamed the working class had caught their foe, He woke today supposing King George well, But wondered if the vote was worth this hell. I grant indeed Postmodernism fair, When money grows and there’s no other care, But when amid this new romance we trace, This postmodernist might lose his place – As Fortune smiles on some, with fervid ray, On some donned heads, or some other array, While some with softer head and fainter heart, Deplore their Fortune, but still play their part. Then shall I – this most caught out kidder – abide, In H.D., out of some poetic pride? No, my lesson comes from an unique Bard, Where groves and happy dales are duly marred, Where the real endemic cares he relates, Exemplify his pastoral’s finest traits. George Crabbe once wrought a picture of the cot, As truth would paint it, and as Bards had not,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 19 Nor you, dear reader, a poor pastiche disdain, And say, my latest song is sung in vain; O’ercome with hunger and still losing time, Allow me the example of his rhyme – Would George Crabbe deny me a little bread, If I, for Village life, went downtown instead? Let this passing song distaste o’erpower, And make you more forgiving from this hour. Lo! How this city with steel beams spread o’er, Sprawls in its greyness for the rich and poor. Like a dark labyrinth the grid appears, Where all shall walk their block despite their fears. Fortune, that real kidder, I yet defy, Looks o’er the land, with greyness in her eye; Supremely she stands, her arms spread afar, She rules this City, her subjects at war; With laughter she mocks the hope of toil, Success is hidden in her winding coil; Her song is a child’s in these busy streets, Till the music stops all dash ‘round their seats;

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 20 O’er brightest hopes Fortune casts her dark shade, Denying to good hearts that light must fade; As mingled rays her promises abound, And an uncertain splendor shines around, For, no certainty can dress or adorn, The threads come loose as she stitches with scorn – Whose lips, in vain, are like the two-faced rose, As crimson flush and pointy thorns disclose; Whose only reward is fool’s happiness, Poverty her fine – so then, deep distress. Here beaten roam the poetical class, And true, ‘tis woe for every lad and lass, Who without clear prospects from markets fly, And barter their exchange with wanton eye. Here, too, the lawless merchant of the block, Draws from his cloak the mind-altering rock, To feed the street claims the labor of his day, And yes, Vice steals his nightly rest away. Where is the nymph, who, daily tidings done, With long kisses played down the setting sun,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 21 Who, with wide eyes and in earnest love shall, With forthright feeling, not suffer to fall? While a large swain, exciting and strong, Engaged some welcome slipping of her thong, And fell beneath her – lay’d – while far around Deep thunder rose, and they returned the sound. Where now is she? Their lovemaking a sin – A sprite they each regret, has seen their skin. A complaint has been filed with the law, The swain was roundly beaten to the raw, Exchanging what they shared for what each lost, And charged the unfair fine, they pay the cost, No love is offered, only tawdriness, Exchanging innocence for bawdiness. Here, wondering long amid the downtown core, I sought the glamour of the City roar, Assault and Wrong and Fear usurped her sass, For the sick, conning, unemployed class, Who, might be skilled to trap and skin a hide, Yet in the hunt, would let the prey abide.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 22 Out until late, and after getting high, On the homeless man fix your eagle eye, Who wants money – he won’t be forgotten – Spare him some change because life is rotten. How lucky is the goose who leaves the land, Who aims his wing o’er gentle sun and sand, At the least sign of frost his wings are spread, Like him I longed to be but never fled, Couldn’t fly from the brutal gales that reign, But cried – Ah! Hapless we who yet remain, Who yet remain to trod on slush and snow, And curse the floorboard heaters, row by row, Till some lamb’s month the thaw ensues, And nicer thoughts the tired mind pursues – A charity by which our ilk is fed, The foodbank – now, a warmer walk ahead. Yet these are scenes where Fortune’s slight-of-hand, Only deals rubbish to the urban land, Hers is the fault if the City concedes, To poor public funding for those with needs;

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 23 Yet look at other scenes fairer in view, Where plenty smiles – alas, she smiles for few, And those who have not, who view those who have more, Are outsiders who don’t fit in the store, The wealth around them makes them twice as poor. Or will you deem the welfare cheque enough, Your tax dollar pays out when life gets tough? Go then. Spend time in any rooming house, Live with the lazy and be a good souse, See the unemployed, disabled, and cons, The addicts, the artists, the wayward sons; Behold them each day aloof in the street, In the cold winter, in the summer heat, See them thank the Lord for their daily bread, And more than just bread, see them pray they are fed; Just down the road their sluggish steps pursue, As their poor clothes imbibe the evening dew, Then no further – their time was yesterday – Without hope, way does not lead onto way.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 24 Amid this class often poetic zeal Takes less pay for the less common ideal; Here may you see a youth of solid frame, Contend with canonized poets of fame, And making some progress and loth to yield, He refuses a more lucrative field, As Time’s arrow speeds to the very last, Less future holds and more shall hold his past, His poetry that once was current dress Reveals his better days and shabbiness. Yet grant us dreams – ‘tis not for you to tell – Though the clothes are poor the heart is not well; Or will you say that dreams take second place, Hard work and goals, and steady wins the race? Yet trifle not with Man’s true heart desire, Nor criticize his visions by the fire, Pleasure not pain, hope, not despair, are such, As any human being has right to touch. And you, who would love a life without work, Who think your hardest task would be the cork;

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 25 Go, if unemployed your good comforts make, Go look within and see who’s on the take – If he works not – that drooping weary sire. Or they – if the children’s looks be not dire. Or she who only wants what’s best for all, And can’t bear to see her family fall. Nor yet can labor herself make for these, Life’s latest comforts, peace of mind, and ease, For you’d still see that hoary swain, whose age Can with no cares except his own engage, Who sits on the ledge and begs to receive, Alms from the young girl – but there’s no reprieve – For as a young man a girl fair as she, Might have given her hand, not her pity. He once played soccer on Varsity field, Having the spirit to strike and not yield, Full many friends he had and looks out, For acknowledgement from people about, He greets one or two with hope in his eyes, But gains swift rebuke – walks away – no, flies,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 26 Living almost alone with constant pain, He asks for alms earning mainly disdain, As a young man he was mentally ill, But there was no real cure, only a pill; Now expressing his regret is in vain, No one really wants to hear him complain. Often you see him down by the Great Lake, In midwinter, when most that place forsake, Often, he murmurs to the winds that blow, Who demand no reason for his sad, sullen woe, And roused by his passion to the depths speaks, To every wave that rises, crests, and breaks. “Oh, Great Lake, if you were the boundless sea,” “You would be unfathomable to me.” “You would be Ocean in all his measure,” “From China to Peru at your pleasure.” “Yet only a Lake and landlocked you are,” “For all your cares you have not travelled far.” “Much as I am, you are tied to the shore –” “So, I fathom – you must at times want more.”

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 27 “Haven’t you wished you were more than a Lake,” “Who would for Ocean this City forsake?” “These many waves, all this water I see,” “Are no one’s gain and a sad care for me,” “These rushing waves which all rise, crest, and break,” “Are like the City, rushing for your sake;” “For your sake, I rush to the City shore,” “A wave that has a moment then no more,” “Only Ocean has more powerful waves,” “Ocean decides who he destroys or saves,” “Would it were not a wave of the Great Lake,” “But Tsunami, who could this City quake.” Thus, the poetical man thinks aloud, When he is fed-up and tired of the crowd. Theirs is the house which hold the City poor, With a lamp lit beside the golden door, Herein dwell huddled, yearning to be free, The masses, the tired, in their Liberty. Wretched refuse, and tempest-tossed have come, From teeming, ancient lands to make a home,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 28 They are offered shelter and allowance, Medication, counselling, and a chance. Say you, there is no such house in our Land? ‘Tis worldwide welcomed by a beacon-hand. With eyes that are mild and with silent lips, The Mother of Exiles takes all hardships. Here may the sick approach their final doom, Here reside, amid scenes of grief and gloom, Where low groans from some sad apartment flow, Drowned in the loud noise of the streets below; Here men sorrow, who have no next of kin – No family – but a system looks in, Whose laws, indeed, for ruined age provide, Care, in the event life might subside, And this service is by tax dollars paid, By Charity, the balance owing made. Say you, the bank has bought your newest home, And credit paid the furniture to come? Who press the downy couch, while bills advance, In glaring print, to catch your sidelong glance?

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 29 Who live from cheque to cheque to make ends meet, For without that big box life’s incomplete? Who, in relief, that final notice, pay, With pennies saved for such a rainy day? How would you bear verily poor to be? A true debtor within society. How would you bear the price of Charity? Humiliated by humility. Beyond each golden door four walls divide The City’s refuse from the streets outside, Here every man must learn to cook his meal, And clean his clothes, and bathe, and fairly deal, And tidy up, and learn frugality, Become productive in society, Here on a dingy mattress, reclining, In self-regard, and in life, declining, To melancholy, then to more disease, For him no friend his final days shall ease, Nothing to get – he cannot live by stealth – So gets nothing – sans happiness, sans health.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 30 But soon as social workers look within, Intake ensues with perfunctory din, Anon, one enters, her stoic eyes replete, To turn life unfulfilled to life complete, With looks unaltered by this scene of woe, Stopping bad ways, she bids the system go, And bids the whole system around him fly, Projecting only qualm, then gives a sigh, A true Stoic in perfect self-control, Who claims despite passion a bell shall toll, Paid by government this message to perfect, Whose mandate, by this truth, shall not neglect. Assessment of the client she’s assigned, Proves whether to his fate he is resigned, Unless, by some social intervention, His life remaining might prove worth mention, Confidential questions are hurried o’er, Lest the obvious need prove something more, This drooping client long inured to pain, And long unheeded, makes a social gain –

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 31 He begins, now, the company to crave Of man, before he sinks into the grave. But ere his death some moral doubts arise, Some simple fears support workers excise, Fain, would they ask the hoary swain to prove, His life is more this world’s than that above, For this, he’s sent to live in long-term care, Where he may for prolonged life best prepare, And does not he, his doctor, standing near, Know by long life, there’s no more death to fear? Ah, yes – a liquor of a different stock, And unlike his, fermented by a block; A jovial youth, who thinks his tireless task, As much as God or Man has right to ask; No rest he takes and weighs no labor light, To rounds each morning and on call at night, None better skilled the hoary swain to guide, To urge his health, to cheer him or to chide, A scholar keen, a cut above the grade, Takes all complaints, knows how each pain is made,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 32 Then, while such honors bloom around his head, Shall he sit sadly by the sick man’s bed? To bear bad news he knows not, or with zeal, To combat fears, he does not really feel! Thus, fickle Fortune deems he wants no more, Her coil has snapped, his bitter hour is o’er, Naked he was born and leaves this world as poor. For each man’s hopes her answer stays the same – With this world, we depart as we once came, Born in tears, we yet die with as much pain, Dust to dust, or only ashes remain – No more. O Fortune! Your fools start to hear, By your cruel hand this City made us fear, No more shall peasants take a humble bow, ‘Tis heaven’s riches that you’ve squandered now. Here to the church behold no mourners come, Sedately prays the priest his prayer dumb, No City children shall their games suspend, To see the lonely hearse, its journey, wend, Yet, he was one in all his idle sport, A true knight honored in their little court,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 33 Who jousted like they for each maiden’s hand, And followed on their quests across the land. Him, none shall follow to his grave and mourn, The chapel is bare, the churchyard forlorn, No memorial, no farewell, no wreath, No widow, no son, nothing to bequeath, No bells toll here, and only birds sing, To welcome the worms his garden shall bring. The good priest has discharged his weighty care, And quits the reverence of his silent prayer, Save a man of the cloth, who shall atone? When one so blameless must else die alone!

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 34 1. HELIANTHUS AND HEDERA Shall pagan worship lead astray, The duteous sister in the garden? Shall Mother Science save the day, When flora falls for specious reason? “Grow Helianthus, pagan flower, Follow Phoebes photo light. Those matins of your follower, Look east to learn a god’s true might.” Each dawn Phoebus Apollo rose, As the sister said her prayers, “Grow flower, strive against your foes, The Lepidopteran naysayers.”

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 35 When westward Phoebus made descent: “Grow Helianthus, turn your head, And as your awn-like scales are meant, A pappus falls into your bed. “The polyphagous Larvae suck, The juice of Erigeron’s pappus, But you Helianthus only fuck Sterile rays which are caducous.” Such mysteries the flower displayed, The youthful sister did inquire, But Mother Science remain staid, “Hot plasma forms the sun, not fire.” Not far from here Hedera grows, Creeping upon the priory, And to the nun bestows, Warnings about idolatry.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 36 “And does –” she asked. “Helianthus, Who has no god except the sun, Now make you so obsequious, That your full devotion is won? “A heliotropic debutante, Who flatters but for greater growth, Does he attract your earnest chant, Of prayer and deprecating oath? “Does he, sister, in desert heats, Deserve a pappus of your own? Wet are Lepidopterans’ seats, Until caducous, his seed blown. “For me, your praise is rather due, In Phoebus I have little need, Encircling and embracing you, While Aves spreads my fruit and seed.”

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 37 “How now?” Helianthus replied. “You have forgot the Dusty Wave, And Shades, and Underwings denied; By night, Lepidopterans rave. “You have missed the Willow Beauties, With speckled wings of whitish grey, And I hate your Aves, As I’m devoured by the Jay. “Yet would you deny the day? Upon your wall in gloomy shade, Damn Phoebus Apollo, I say, I am more what Diana made. “What Diana does hunt at night, From such my eye does not avert, Oh my, Diana, out of sight, From morn to eve, you shall convert.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 38 “If she should share her night with me, My love, my heart, my life is due, And you, young nun – you thee – The prayers you make shall all come true.” Thus, spake the flower, and drooped his head, And brushed away a pollen tear, The sister in a wonder led, To evening mass – and then just here – Confessed unto the Abbess next. “Behold!” cried out Mother Science, “The plants have you enthralled and vexed, You should take heed with due diligence. “Our hearts once seized are full of fears, Once harmed, have much harm to remove, Our tears are shed as heartfelt tears, To make such inquiry, by Jove.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 39 “See here Helianthus expels, Carrion for mobile Larvae, As for the pappus therefore dwells, A common wood pigeon nearby. “Yet not for Larvae, nor the Thrush, Nor a pappus, nor Apollo, God made us for the blood, not bush, Do not forsake Him – science, follow. “Hot plasma forms our solar star, The moon has its crustal highland, Oh child, you have not travelled far, To make yourself a spoiled garland.” As one so duteous, one so fair, The nun knew her Mother’s preaching, So, she joined in silent prayer, On scientific teaching.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 40 “Sunflower, you face east at morn, And turn westward to find your bed, Dear Helianthus, we are sworn, As such as each of us are led. “Dear Hedera, in gloomy shade, Your ivy vine gives ripe berries, A poison fruit for Aves made, And insects – but, no worries.” Portentous was the evening now, In her cell, forebodings mild, And it was dark except the glow, Of Leto’s lovely second child.iv

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 41 2. THE HOURGLASS HOSTESS I Among the bowls of lilacs of an April afternoon And so the scene arranged itself – and it shall seem brand new – With, “I have sacrificed an hour for you”; And four good posts within the red-lit room, Four minutes past the hour that struck and moved ahead, The meeting in the Paris Catacombs That was made for things unsaid which should be said. We have felt, let us say, that Charles Baudelaire Wrote his Nevermore and lost his fingertips. “So tale-told, his heart, that I think the dismal soul Should be holed-up and cemented in, His friend a casualty, should not therefore presume To draw in guests while in the drawing room.” And so, the conversation slips, Among talismans, preternaturalisms, To leave the paternoster (Howsoever it ends) And begins,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 42 “You do not know how much he means to me, this dog, And how, how rare, and strange it is to find In life proposed to be as such, as such of odds and ends, (For indeed he still does love it…he knows…he is not right. How good you are!) To find a dog who has a quality, Who has, and takes That quality upon which his master gives. How much it means to him that I say this to you – Without this doggy – life, what “Squabble!” Among the interlude of poetry And octaves and sestets Of more than sonnets Inside my brain an iamb next begins A trochaic inversion of its own, Spondee perhaps postpone, That is at least one definite footnote. Let us walk the dog, for this circumstance, Among the habiliments, Discuss how life cements, Check to the heel if he begins to bark. Then let him run off-leash around the park.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 43 II Now that lilacs do not bloom She has air freshener for her room And sprays mist with her fingers while she talks. “Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know What love is; you who let it slip from your hands”; (Spraying freshener while she talks) “You let it go from you, you let it go, And love is gone, and gives so much remorse And leaves situations which before you couldn’t see.” I excuse myself, And ask if she would pee. “Yet in this cold December, here I can recall My only love, and not so much a fling, I feel less hope and ill at ease, and find the world Though in the Advent, less splendid after all.” The scent returns from the white porcelain bathroom Of liquid hand soap dispensed in a perfume:

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 44 “I want to be sure that you understand My feelings, please be sure that you feel Sure, the hour only gives this much sand. You are indefatigable, you have mercurial wings, You will leave me, and when you have parted You can say: at this point my ship unfurled its sail, But what have I, but what have I, my friend, To advise, what advice can you receive from me? Only love is cruel, and have sympathy Of one who finds her voyage end at lands’ end. I shall sit here reading what you’ve penned…” I take my coat: how can I make much sacrifice For where she took me in? You will see me in the habiliments Trudging snow, praising less her sentiments. Particularly I find stark Her little dog has run away. A love thought lost has returned to her a stray,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 45 A German Shepherd – might have guessed. I keep my thought composed I return yet unconfessed Except in feelings overcome, I write derisive Platitudes in age-old perfect rhyme In meter of dithyrambic poetry Recalling things that men before me have required. Have I a right to feel inspired? III The Winter night comes down, returning as before, Except for a nice sensation of being more at ease, I mount the steps and turn the handle of the door And feel as if I’d have her on her hands and knees. “And so you are being published, and when will it come out? But there’s no certain answer. You hardly know what your reader will glean, You will have so much to leave.” My joy overcomes me in the red-lit room. “Perhaps you will see me less.” My conscience flares up for a second; This is not as I expect.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 46 “I have been wondering frequently of late (But final say is yours or mine decide!) Why you and I developed into friends.” I feel us share a smile, in parting disembark Slowly, and look upon the glass. My conscience flutters; an hour on the mark. “For everybody hates that, everyone, They are not sure two postures can relate So closely, I myself readily understand. We are victims of our fate. You will write at any rate. Perhaps it is not too late. I shall sit here, reading what you penned.” And I may borrow from her this style That finds expression…felt, felt In the first octave, Not humanity, but post-humanity. Let us take up our pens in a certain stance –

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 47 Well! and what if she should call some afternoon, Afternoon grey and snowy, evening icy and cold; Should call and find me sitting book in hand With the ice hanging down from off the rooftops; Doubtful, for it would Not be the best weather at lands’ end. Such a visit might be a preternaturalism… Could I yet have the advantage, after all? The spondee still postponed by the broken glass Now that we call that ‘glass broken’ – Among the sand which used to gather.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 48 2. STANZAS – FEBRUARY 2013 Away! The setting sun reveals the moon, Company has made the last good cheer of even. Away! The thickening clouds will make it darker soon, And the deep night will cover the multitude of heaven. Tarry not! The hour’s late! Each voice cries, “Away!” Overstay not your welcome of such a gracious mood. Your lover’s eyes, yet regretful, do not ask you to stay, And necessary evil sends you seeking solitude. Away, away! to your poor and humble home, Cry unheard tears on the unaffected hearth, Watch the days and weeks pointlessly go and come, And make a string of months occasion without mirth.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 49 The news of world dilemmas shall float around your head, And the fortunes of the stars promptly land before your feet, All of life’s most noteworthy in memorandum of the dead, And columns upon columns pressed well after your press meet. The stars beyond the bright glare themselves may not repose, And the moon whilst hidden by the clouds must still affect the [deep, In the densely peopled city, no certain rest one knows, Your company but present in the peopled dreams of sleep. Thou in death shalt rest – yet, until those spirits flee, That graciously made you comfort within that home erewhile, By remembrance and acceptance of that time you are not free, For your deep repose is haunted by the way she forced a smile.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 50 3. TO THE SMALL CELANDINE Small Celandine, with summer’s glen, In morning dew, all your leaves wet – You are dear as the briar-rose. Midst woodland brook and violet, Midst the water, melting of snows, By the eglantine in its season, You live for equity and reason. One so small and so very fair, Like other flowers against the rain, That shrink in close shelter, at rest, As the sun shines, come out again. Small Celandine you are blest – The very moment the sun casts light, Your youthful bloom is first in sight. And when the blast comes through the field, Or when the hail falls in a swarm, Yes, gentle flower, in your recess, You are muffled up, safe from harm. Though the green field was in distress, In hooded mantle you safely dwelt, Thus, the day’s tempest was never felt.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 51 Then Celandine, an age was past, And you were altered in your form, You could not in your mantle lie, But stood forth, offered to the storm. It made a Bard think very high, How to his age, ‘midst all its fervor, Change came, and with it change of color. ‘Twas neither by courage nor choice, By which you faced the hail and cold, You were altered by the decay, ‘Twas the effect of getting old. An age must change or pass away, You are an emblem of Mankind’s lot, Old forms must part – the new need not. The poet, Shelley, filled with pride, Valued not the Laureate’s flower, For that old Bard was past his prime, Fallen on a cold and evil hour, Immortal youth was more the time, For none could a sweeter aspect wear, Than Celandine, when so young and fair. Yet Shelley was in the bloom desert, When he received you, Celandine. Though yellow – thought of aery blue – Heard of you through the grapevine, And supposed you changed your hue. For Celandine, you came old and dead – Old and dead – just as Shelley said.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 52 4. TO PERCY Yes, there are many spirits fair, And genii in the city street, And daemons, guardians of care, Who take missives from Pluto’s seat. Such welcome councilors to see, Who have returned and brought comfort to me. Behind closed doors, below the stair, In silent places where they live, I come alone to seek out there, The quiet counsels they would give, As they have answered me. But how light vanishes, No more shall light allow. For when I see in other’s eyes, Beams that were never meant for mine, The luminous, too hard a prize To even attain. I must resign, As one who has no more to give, Than ways I cannot now but choose to live.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 53 Yes, the luminous leads astray, Goes and leaves one introverted, Alone in life, alone each day, Until day to nighttime, has converted. The changeless spirit brings me here, In solitude, to watch the changeless year. All the faithful smiles have fled, And you remind me of a falsehood. You say: the very moon is dead, Night’s ghosts and haunts bring no real good. By the dark of night hope has flown To misery. As for my soul – my own. Elements I have discovered, That may account for my own loss. Never mind what you’ve uncovered, Alchemy would bring us dross. I do not welcome change of state – Dark as it is – more light would aggravate.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 54 5. HATLIN, OR SATAN’S MORAL SCENE: A VILLAGE NEAR PALESTINE TIME, THE MORNING. “Dear Persian mum, attend Saladin’s lays, And hear how Shepherds passed their ancient days; Not all were blest, De Lusignan maintains, With smelling salts, nor what can cure chilblains; Well may your heart believe the truths I tell – ‘Tis God who makes us piss, and so we smell.” Thus, Satan sung, by sacred Truth inspired, Nor praise, but such as Couth bestowed, desired. Wise in himself, remembered songs conveyed, Inspiring terror in the leprous Maid, But taught the swains that surest bliss to find, What hills and vales bestow, sublimated mind. While sick and gushing, De Lusignan’s Bride, The radiant morn was Palestinian pride,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 55 Where naked babes along the foot-steppes play, Rolling on flowers, laughing fears away; In Tiberius’ hills of blooms, they hung, While Satan sang for one frail and young: Dear Persian mum,” he sang. “To you belong – As it will please – the morals of my song, No fairer braids, I trust than yours are found, Graced by Aurora, the likeliest around. The morn which dawns on you her light supplies, A slow opening of your tired eyes, For you, her vials my fragrant hands bestow, For are the bride the king delights to know; Yet think not furs, that wooly mammals are, The kind of blessings heaven grants the fair, Each tendered parcel he delights you find, Knows no transgression, nor depravity of mind. Blest were the days when Cupid held his reign, And parents let him dart about the plain,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 56 For Love, he wedded in a secret grove, De Lusignan and you, to his trove. Oh paste, young mum: those freckles come away, Montferrat’s twenty lead you on your way, The Christmas frost, and I shall say no more – For such you reason Terror – no more. Lost in the fields, yet so the Fates complain, A child shall yet be born again, Come now, whose thoughts on plenty ale I’m sure, Which makes the rounds, no indignity impure. He shall rule court amidst the coffee cream, And Shepherd girls shall own him in a dream; Send correspondence, lest you are afraid, But loathing this, for contradictory said: Saladin, he was not more than mountain. No. Much less perhaps than mountains deadly foe. Strange how the West might question what we do, The Middle East conceals us from a view,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 57 Faith’s old desire, Hopes are all known, Charity’s kind heart was turned to stone. No less volcano, with his bloodshot eyes, That friendly warmth full of tender sighs, But trust the last – and here you shall approve, This was the measure of Saladin’s love.” Thus, sung Satan, and ancient legends say, That Saladin’s men versified the lay, Dear to her pains, a child came along, King Baldwin died as Satan sung his song.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 58 6. O! LADY OF THE EVE Unless a remedy of urban song Can’t hope, Lady, to reach your waking ear, By your own blighted spring, Your bulbs bitten by the glens, O nymph invoked! While now the stirring sun Creeps in yon eastern tent, whose dirty skirts, While last night’s vapors wove, Overhang your bed; Save here is calm; unless the mean, old bat, With short, shrill, shriek fits, comes to break a wing, Or if the hairpin winds On a backing made of horn, As he has come unto your earthly path, Amidst his morning shave and treasure hum. Now teach me, maid provoked, To play some softer strain,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 59 Whose theme that seeks to earn a quiet vale, And not in silence, for not kindness mute, As musing light, I hail, Your bleary-eyed return. For when yon shrouded evening-star won’t show Her compass magnet for your guiding lamp, In darkest hours, when elves, Who gathered lettuce the day, And honored nymphs, who wear a lace of sedge, That dries out never new, and readier still, The Dark Seducer neat, Drives out his private car, Don’t lead poor votaress, where some frigid lake, Takes the lone pier, or an old rocky pile, Or downtown port of grey Lays out the steel’s cold gleam; Let neither part of Zephyrs nor North’s rain, Proscribe your sure steps upon the old grove, Which, by the other side, Prospects your newborn child,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 60 And the empty vaults, and churches spires, And cedes the mission bell, concedes to all, Your painted fingers draw, The midnight bridal veil. While Spring shall force an ice bath, as she may wont, And drown your tresses – O! Lady of the Eve – As summer’s ranting sport Turns nighttime to red dawn, While blustery autumn proves dependent leaves, And winter’s frozen over bulbs again, Suspend the weekend plane, Which barely mends your dress, Perhaps through the small keyhole of my door, Shall Industry, Land, and all Labor, Take some postponement, And quest your maiden name.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 61 7. HOW GOOD SHE WAS How good she was to take no rest, For Adam’s apple is God blest, And in creation’s circumstance, There still walk serpents in their pants, Who say they want the kind of fruit, That God would not deny the brute. Paradise lost, where knells are rung, And since that time are dirges sung, Yet Tories may, and Whigs also may, In her appointment chamber lay, And from the rib did she appear, To keep us up all night with cheer.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 62 8. JOHN THE BAPTIST You mild-mannered Christians do not fear, For I have stored your prayerful worship here, For by the same you shall be glad to know, How base the cause of all your grief and woe. We have a God who sits enthroned above, Who sent us John the Baptist to prove, And we, the free and innocent may still, Rejoice in Christian namesakes by God’s will. The which transgression of command, He says, We have cleansed at least in ten thousand ways, Avouched, for see how men their sins eschew, As if they do not fear what Christ shall do.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 63 Behold the penitent deserves no blame, He amends how he blasphemes the name, Of that good God who gave him life and breath, And who unbinds him from the chains of death. The happy little children which we meet, Amongst the sports and pastimes of the street, We never hear them curse or swear, For they have heard the call of our Lord’s prayer. There’s much to be rejoiced in, I aver, The same they learn from what they daily hear, Be careful then, and do instruct them so, The son of man shall be their overthrow. Both young and old against blasphemy forbear, The tongue of man is not made to forswear, But to praise and adore the blessed name, Wherefore Emmanuel (God with us) came.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 64 Love is one of seven virtues likewise, Let us behold why in wonderous disguise, Ole’ damsels do appear, both rich and poor, The like was not of any age before. Why this is the costume which they choose to wear, Their mask, odor, and how they do their hair, Likewise, in body art they are arrayed, As if they would invest what God has made. Yet they should know for all their age-old charm, There is a sleeve that’s fit for any arm, Oh, think of this, and raise your thoughts above, That Jezebel who was King Ahab’s love. Likewise, you willful sinners who transgress, The righteous laws of God by covetous, You do defend the strangers who were sent, To partake of nurture and nourishment.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 65 Many conduits do that sin forfend, And culpably amount to fatal end, Let not displeasure still grasping the bowl, Make a salt pillar of your active soul. Perhaps contrition is not so contrite, Penitents shall not amend their delight, In penitentiaries they plenty fall, But oh! the fright of newbies after all, Is a disgusting worm upon the mind. Then, if you would your peace of reason find, In all conscientiousness learn by deed, For it’s the only life Mankind can lead. Be careful that you are not dragged away, By customers, to break the Sabbath Day, Be baptized with the sanctity of prayer, That you may toll the Christian levies there.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 66 For tell me, wherefore should we stop and stare, At what we eat and drink, and what we wear, And meanwhile our worthy souls exclude, In a locality, the Holy Rood. Yet so it is they, as to free their mind, Many ole’ greedy gallants seldom find, The church of God, and scornfully deride, The sacred word by which they must be tried. A secret to an entrance, they implore, And will not allow thrice knocks upon the door, And incense the spirit of the cold tomb, And then who knows how dismal is their doom. Though, for a while perhaps they get by there, And seem to hear the very thoughts they fear, Yet when they’re summoned to renounce their death, They count out thrice-fold to sweeten their breath.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 67 Consider this ole’ gallants whilst you stay, Swift-winged Love and virtues come what may, And let it be your mild-mannered care, To bless the child, and for the lamb prepare. There is another crying sin, likewise, Behold, young children open sleepy eyes, Take exercises, they are like to meet, In every nook and cranny of the street, In which they are like captives led, To their destruction, when it’s time for bed, Till at length they find themselves out-played, And for their work, the worst examples, made. Then, then, perhaps they’ll have no more sins to cry, With wringing hands, against your company, Which did betray them to that dismal weight, Be mindful of this before it gets too late.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 68 Likewise, deprived orphans, far and near, Honor your christening, and prayers dear, Let not your strict obedience grieve you so, Nor cause you to forget that tears may flow. What a back-breaking sorrow it must be, To the aged parents when they see, Their adult-children carrying them on, Against the wholesome laws of God and Man. Oh! Let the homily all nations make, In the breviary all our sins forsake, For true it is the Lord shall justly bless, The children who we woefully transgress. Now, to conclude, both young and old, I say, Reform your sinful lives this very day, Then God in mercy may His love extend, To seven virtues – so, our troubles end.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 69 11. ODE TO ISIS I Thou sensate bride and groom of humankind, Thou teenage boy and girl to dance belong, Flora and Fauna, who cannot find, Good salutations, so all goes wrong; The Earth at rest is a deserving place, For deities or mortals, or for both, For Temples or the Liege of Head of State, What prayers or powers are these? What peoples wroth? What sanctity? What humankind of race? What keys and timpani? What good elate? II The passionate are great, but those unspoiled Are freer; therefore, moderate, stay with, Listen to the sensualist, but when unclear, Make authoritative prayer; and since, Fair cast, draw near the pond, you have your dish, And spoon, for now your locks can still hold sway, Friends forever, ever would you embrace, Those youthful are the clouds, for, make that wish, That they won’t fade, and they would see their goy, And learn to gravitate in their own way.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 70 III Ah, trodden, trodden place, that still would shine As bright, for never would that night last long, And, hearing of sensualists, unmarried, To meet another is the same old song. Make happy love! True happy, happy, love! Forever late, who was his mother’s best, Oh, your mother cared not about the throng, Would part those clouds; yet, when the night surrounds, A scalding thirst finds pleasure in the zest, And leads few in temptation to do wrong. IV How’s a seamstress, who sews more like a song? To have immediate, would one mediate? Once more a broth boiling in close sight, If those children spank, would not penetrate; For delta dawn nor desert rose besieged, Nor mountain stone, would raise ten more to come, Yet empty were your walks, a scarcity, That Synagogue, those times were over-sieged, Even desolate; here, somehow a home, A new birth might prove satiety.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 71 V Now ISIS war! You are childless. From breed Of madmen and their maiden armory. Within this earth, would sew a germ of seed, For tillage – I reason statuary Makes for sobriety. A pastoral Of young refugees looks on your footway, Where you walk down, as John Keats said – And he would groan at ham – I think he’d say: “How should roast lamb be won over, For eight days, and leaven no bread?”

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 72 12. ODE TO FRESH PARSLEY O Goddess! Take your fresh green parsley, hung, In these emissions, for red roses dear, And pardon for that skeleton had sung, Even so, your own scarce partridge mere – Surely, I slept last night; or did I free The conch ocean with my half-shut eyes? I wandered the streets more purposefully, Then, on a sudden, fainting at sunrise, Saw two naked children, side by side, Taking the hose, beneath the slanted roof, Of eaves and brass nail fittings, where they splashed, In puddles, and were denied: Those leaves in kind are pupal-eyed, Speckled willow beauties, and yellow moth, That lay uncared for on the tarp, With hands wrung out, and their fingers, too, Should you emboss, would be brand new: As if knowing not this winter’s slumber, Would therefore plant kisses out of number, As ink-dyed morn is either rosy sky, Or child that says, “Adieu!” And how could he? Oh struggle, struggle, fly? Fresh parsley, true.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 73 O yet second after cabbage you wert, Even in Elysian, heaven’s woodland, Fairer in Phoebe’s blue sky’s market cart, Or Vesper of dark factory brand, Fairer than these, your epithet begun, And alter heaped with flowers, (A cloven foot who makes terrific groan Upon the morning hours) Take Voice, take lute, take pipe, take incense sweet, From chain-swung censer gleaning, For shrine, for grove, for oracle, for heat, Shall not mistake your meaning. O Parsley! In good time for modern vows, Many, many, play on this jarring lyre, And never near those orgiastic rows, Holy was air, and water, and the fire, Yet even in those days long since retired, Without satiety, nor full-hand spans, A child would find his fair Olympians, (I ate, and slept, for my own horse attired But, for once quit that choir, for I just groan Upon those morning hours)

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 74 No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet, Of chain-swung censer gleaning, No Shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat, And you can stake my meaning. Yet who shall be our priest, to build that fane, Herein untrodden regions of the mind? Where memory, now grown to some refrain, Has led these leaves to scatter in the wind. Far, far, around in these dark closet streets, Fledge wide-eyed dreamers, each step by step, And there in unions, clubs, or markets meet, Could you, soaking naiad, be lulled from sleep? And in the midst of late-eve acquiesce, If scarlet-clad woman should embarrass, For wreathed in round roast, in the flourished reign, Of prayers, of bells, of a light taken flame, And then for matters Reason canst explain, Since having no pheasant, for would have that crane. Was pit a thousand thunders in the night, Then victory was wan, Candelabras in casements brought forth night, And fin-de-siècle began.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 75 13. ODE TO MAY QUEEN I My consummated spouse of happiness, My sacrament of law for all time, Pandora child, who would thus express, A chalice kept, in confidence of rhyme; What maid of town or vale could name your make? Of Mistletoe or Mayday tide forsooth? What Mosque or church of that indigenous land? What friends or foes are we? What plight to troth? What ribbon bows? What tying round the nape? What births and birthstones? What passing bland? II Those melodies endure, and those unheard Are plenty; therefore, ye Klezmer, play on, Billowing those folds and valves sprightly tone; Fair Queen, around that pole, would not bereave Bygones – forever shall you take that pole anew, Your husband, ever, ever would you miss, In dancing round and round – yet do not grieve, He shall not fade, if only couldn’t kiss, But always him shall love, for he was true.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 76 III Ah soaking, soaking boughs! Elysian wed No leaves, since bid the tree adieu; And, future minstrelsy, once flourished, Still hearing those old songs, however few. Good tidings, love! Good tides of tidings, love! However, love, they are to be deployed, Whatever would you be instead of young? That lessoned courtliness, you did so approve, That lifts a heart so dutiful alloyed, To works of brawn without forked tongue. IV What are these who would demand a sacrifice? To what hard earth, O hardworking priest, Stir up this calf for waking at sunrise, With all its ribbons, and for Sunday, dressed? That tiny church in land, or near seashore, That Leonine makes well for Geraldine, Or mountain-top, for nurse-maid Christabel, Was gathered of parishioners this morn, While, in the town, there was feasting sore, And that dressing! Yet not a soul could tell, Why you were desolate, could not return.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 77 V O sky cast. Troubled seashore. Instead, Of happy men, are maidens overwrought, For sticks and stones, you since might toss in bed, Unsettled form, does time me out of thought – Was this eternity? Maydays come, Yet in ways does this generation waste, That should explain, that once upon ago, Or then, “upon a time”, if more would say: “Day becomes night, becomes day,” – and, then even, “What’s hard on earth” – since, more amounts to woe.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 78 14. DAMUZI DREAM O Goddess stay longer that I may dwell In your plenteous netherworld, not to strive, Where caravans transport the hops to hell, For I require, once more to grow and thrive. O Goddess stay! Long ago was Heysel Street, Yet, there are plenty of long nights down there, I have outlasted byways in the heat, The deputies won’t stop me, do not fear. Yet I might even grow as rich as they, Since grapes are underneath my arched feet – That backbreaking plenty, that abundance, Yet all the wolves could not be kept at bay. Therefore, I have left – one takes no chance With a pack of wolves – a man would not stay.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 79 15. TOUT LE MONDE Over the hill and over the dale, And over the moon with the dish, Where Devonshire brides read their daily mail, And clotted-cream spoonsful are smallish – For the price of a ham, she ran up the hill, And rang up the cut of a diamond; Says I – I’ll be Jack if you will be Jill, So, we sat on the grass, tout le monde. Here’s somebody coming! Here’s somebody coming! Says I – ‘tis the world all around; So, with all the masses all hymning and humming, We lay on the grass, tout le monde. Here’s somebody here! And here’s somebody found! Says I – ring my bell – you, young fairy; So, she stuck out her tongue, and lay plump and round, As sweet as the Queen of the Dairy. O who would not hie over the moon, O who would not ring-up their plastic, O who would not run away with the spoon, To marry the fiddle, fantastic –

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 80 16. SIRENS Where Sirens thus encroach on womanhood, Close by a sleepy noon in maiden nook, Who counts epistles on her polished wood, Turned off those pages of her homely book, As if the harborage did grow itself, That he should dare canvass for a plume, Whether in natural oils would try herself, Or cast for shadows in the dusky room. But that horse therefore galloped in the briar, Did not furlough long – for was steed. If the ole’ China, cozy round the fire, Should swallow all the tealeaves, let down lace; Yet, how does womanhood, all freckled face, Let dowry down to mythical miscreed?

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 81 17. THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-1770) Is Charity and Love among high elves? Ask hope for her ethereal balm, Ask Palmers to read their myriad palm, Ask Ruby-breasted warbler – tell yourselves. Is there a sun that rises calm and bright? Does Robin twee as the magpie chatters? Is air thus filled with pleasant noise of waters? Was welcomed last the roaring wind last night? Recall a boy who counts among the stars – Dear child of sorrow, was it not your fate? At seventeen you died for singing Lars, Proud of your voice, majestic and elate. On earth the outward self-destruction mars, Abuse, neglect, despondency, self-hate.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 82 18. AN EVENING A View of the City – Author’s Recollection of his Youth Passed in that Place –Short Description of a Thunderstorm at Noon –Cascade Scene –Noontide Retreat –Rocks in the Beaches –Declining Sun and Revelers – Couple at the Restaurant Patio –Punk Rocker –Bloor Viaduct –Sunset. Far from my mother, ‘tis all mine to rove, Through the laneways of your castaway’s cove, The crisscross grid Greater Toronto makes, Through starts, and sudden stops, the downtown takes, Staying the multitude to hear the roar, Of the privileged rich and the busking poor, Where crowded streets, no further aspects cheer, Than more traffic which makes no prospects clear, Where noise to invaded Ward’s Island bleeds, To every doorway where the green grass leads, Leads to that Ville, airport, past cottage grounds, Where Flora aches to hear the city sounds, Where dark and deep, Lake Ontario sweeps, ‘Round the captive Isle your champion keeps, Where skyscrapers oppress Toronto’s shore, Yet memory of departed pleasures more.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 83 Great view! With older eyes than once, I gaze, (My overwhelming tears your face displays) Than when, erewhile, I was a happy child, The pleasure of this shore, my bounty wild, Then did no wave of loneliness demand, The outpouring of melancholy’s hand, In youth’s wide eye the horizon was bright, The bustle of morning and the peace of night, Unlike, for each new day with climbing fills, By night, our pleasure to be passed those hills. Return Pleasure! Each day a mount begun, As life leads upwards with the morning sun, When courage wiped away the heartfelt tear, “For soon shall come an end to this long year.” In mind of those hills, I coursed the city plain, And growth was all I really knew of pain, For then, save then, a broken heart would beat, At times when every joy forsook its seat, For then Assurance, looking onward showed, Dark was the valley, though the steppes even glowed. Alas! the paradise of youth is found, When sadness would apply your moral round, Impatient age seeks out social rays,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 84 While solitude took heart in early days, Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, Separates us both this present hour. While Memory, at my side, I wander here, Starts at this sight, the unwanted tear, A man discovered at the well-known seat, His voyage guesses at the Great Lake’s feet, The sun, the balm of summer, travelling nigh, With sails that glide, like pleasures now gone by. But why, in misery except this pain? To ask if there are joys that yet remain. Say, will you mum, with sympathetic ear, The history of your poet’s evening hear? When, at the docks, the wan noon beckoned still, Brewed a rising storm up to Summerhill, And gathered rows of war clad clouds were seen, Threatening all communiqué between, Gazing the quick turnstile, to all denied,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 85 Then stood the picnickers against the side, Where, from the concrete port’s unsheltered end, Long wakes into the opaque lake extend, While schoolkids gathered strength upon the green, And around Harbourfront, a shimmering scene! In the grey park, in droves, like troubled deer, Avoided the herd, finished for the year, When people in the sheltered places stood, Uneasy, eyeing everywhere, the flood, Crowded in the main, in their distress, With forward sight, some welcome break to press, Then long, in wistful gaze, their walk surveyed, Till took the pathway in the dripping shade. Then quiet led me peddling up the hill, Brightening with sunny breaks, the peaceful gill, To where, while dense the rushes rose, From the basin, wherein dry stalks repose, Whining insects, within the water green, Cling to the stems, with dark marsh reeds between, Save that, throughout, the scorching sunbeams shine,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 86 On leafy boughs, that near the moss recline, Poor light shines here, a manmade lone cascade, Illumes a small reservoir in the shade, Beyond, along the vista, much trail I brook, When crying gulls in Kew Beach overtook, My eyes turn back to see the narrow bridge, And men, shirtless, fishing from the ridge. Sweet day, farewell! Tomorrow’s noon again, Shall bring me wooing long your sandy strain, But now the hour has passed this empty road, And eve’s slow breeze invites my steps abroad. When, near the beaches’ rocks, the flying kite, In many a daunting circle wheels its flight, Long sunny rays, from clearing clouds apace, Dart out and dance along the stony base, Waving their light among the broken stone, And fallen debris, and white foam, outgrown, Where lichen is the hoary water’s beard, And whitecap breakers, all day long, are heard.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 87 How pleasant as the golden sun declines, And in the clouds its lotion pours and shines, To mark the revelers in the evening light, Who never fade, but welcome in the night. Youth’s paradise is not for old and hoar, Following with my eyes crowds making shore, And gathering sandy towels, they fold Away daytime fun, last of summer’s gold, For, now their sumptuous menus are laid, A candlelight beneath umbrella shade, The entrées arrive promptly for the folk, Yet as for me, espresso, and a smoke. Or chicken wings, the diner’s fingers goad, Dipping in rich sauce, morsels by the load, The couple next to the patios edge, Over dinner, are working out their pledge, The early evening rays, the pair illume, And, amid sips of beer, is youth in bloom, A remark he makes, no less propounds, Joyful are her tears, and her heart resounds,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 88 Beneath the evening sky their fingers lock, Tussled by her hand, his dark matted shock, In lower tones he makes a plaintive song, With her approbation, they move along, Past a small chapel at the city’s feet, Where wedding bells, their rustic chimes entreat, Vows in a restaurant a couple wrote, And life two spend as one, not so remote. Even here, away from the dense laid woods, The deep lakes, and river’s annual floods, Not undelightful are the urban charms, Found miles distant from far outlying farms. A punk rocker along the mean street walks, Gazed by his fellow men, the rocker stalks, Rough clad his hoofing boots, with heavy tread, A crest of purple tops his warrior head, Rude upbraiding, his sneering mouth, off hurls, An old bandanna, shaken out, unfurls, With abstract print, not long ago, allow,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 89 Hangs, while wiping down his regal brow, Stepping out for ale to quench his parched thirst, A quiet night, in likelihood, one remote. Brightening between the hills, where sombrous pine, And buildings by Don Valley resign, I love to ride in rushing subway trains, Up high above the Parkway’s curving lanes, How bustles the enormous hive within, While fleeting Vision soothes the noisy din, Some hardly knew the train tracks’ lumbering sound, Would take the Bloor Viaduct Westbound, Some more aware, the Don River espied, And overlooked the city, side to side, Out of dark tunnels electric tracks bring, Passengers by an overhead passing. Hung over the cars, above the hill that rears, Engulfed in flame, the setting sun appears, A crimson haze, its ancient orb divides,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 90 Spreading the bounty of its golden sides, And now it touches on the tree-lined steep, That casts its shadow on the traffic deep, On the Parkway lanes, drivers aspire, With gasoline, to “Putting out the Fire,” The viaduct and Don River in array, From behind their sun visors, eyes foray, To riverbeds arrayed in velvet green, Each wisp of reeds, and broken stone, between, Gentle currents, the orange beams illume, Far in the recessed valley’s central gloom, Wiping my brow, your cyclist in the vale, Presses his bike for more trails to bale, Here, casting shadows amid the slimy rocks, Off road, where I go to test out the shocks, Here, the bridge overhangs the vale, the needle shoots, On concrete slopes, fast times, and fading roots, The dealers with their lighted fane unfold, And all sit shooting-up the liquid gold, A sinking stone, the day star lessens still, As I light up, we sink beneath the rill.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 91 19. THE IDLE CORNER BOYS OR DUNDAS SQUARE AN URBAN IDYLL 1 The city has thrown off its coat, Among the hemlines ladies play, That ever, ever, rising song, Which flourishes in May. The year-end has its deadline met, The working parents’ youngling brood, Have two more months within the nest, Till they go flying east and west, In search of rustic food, Or, through the crackling campfires dart, In very homesickness of heart.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 92 2 Before a shop, upon a step, Two boys are sitting in the street, And no nice girls sent out to play, Those corner boys should meet. For Old Port taste they do their best, And chew upon the plastic nibs, And for Jack Daniels on the make, They say done deal for that man’s sake, And drunk still in their bibs, And thus, if age was always prime, Corner boys never waste no time.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 93 3 Along the busy City Street, The sounds of engines make a din, And high above the rushing sound, Are sirens moving in. A thousand women take a dive, Lost innocence. But for a guy, Go the distance, and more by far, Those boys with their own pipe cigar, They always hear the cry, That plaintive cry, by thoroughfare, Comes all the way from Dundas Square. 4 Said Walter, leaping from the ground, “Down to Atrium on the Bay I’ll run with you a race.” – No more – The two boys flew away. They leapt, they ran, and when they came, Right opposite to Dundas Square, Seeing that he should lose the race, “Stop!” said Walter, by saving face, And soon James stopped right there. Said Walter, then, “I have a plan, Twill show each other who’s the man.”

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 94 5 “Till you have pinched some lady’s ass, Say that you’ll never come to nought.” James proudly took him at his word, But did not like the thought. They are the type, which you may see, If ever you to luncheons go – For such charm, the very devil Would sin less and forgo evil – And corner boys should know, That always at her beckon call, An honest man would give his all. 6 With focused sight across the Square, The Challenger soon fixed his eyes, And now his nerves as fleet as steel, He walks toward his prize. When hold! He sees her turn away, As if she feared his quick approach, His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, The lady he would soon accost, Has lost her diamond brooch. A brooch once worn against her chest, Undid the covering of her vest.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 95 7 The brooch had fallen to the ground, And rolled off to the gutter, The lady with the open blouse, Sent James in a flutter. The dam then quickly came about, And held her damaged silk in place, And for her loss let out a cry, In plea of all the passersby, As tears streamed down her face; The brooch, a sentimental gift, From one who cherished her, adrift. 8 When he had learned what thing it was, That caused the lady fear, I trow, The boy recovered heart, and told All his keen friend would know. Both gladly now deferred their task, Nor was there wanting other care: A Poet, one who loves downtown, More than sage’s volumes known, Had wandered to the Square, And there the diamond brooch he found, Where busy streets encompassed round.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 96 9 He drew it gently from the street, And brought it forth into the light, The corner boys confronted him, An unexpected sight. Pried from his hand the brooch was gained, Said they, “It’s neither scratched nor marred.” Then in the busy Square they wend, So that the dam her blouse could mend, And firmly did the Bard, Those idle corner boys reproach, And bade them let her tie the brooch.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 97 20. UPON A WALL FILLED WITH GRAFFITI THAT STANDS BENEATH THE BLOOR VIADUCT ON AN INFAMOUS TRACT OF LAND IN LACK AND DISREGARD Nay, Street Urchin! Rest. The dirty wall that stands Not distant from crack alley; what if here The graffiti marks the dirty spot? What if these poor hovels collapse about? Yet, if no footfalls come, this sheltered place Would serve you a night’s respite, and the lamp Beyond this valley, might be your night light, Whose gentle glow could thy slumbers diffuse. ` -Who he was That first tagged here, and with the canister First covered over, and taught the lonely wall, Now safe, to be a haven anchorage, I well remember. He was one who owned No common soul. In youth, he was told off, And told he wants too much; he with the hand Was faced; was lawless because ‘twas law Of foul magistracy. Against arrogance, And pomp, against all corruption prepared, But not the scythe; and so, his spirit fell At once, in bitterness he turned away, And in his inner life, darkened his soul

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 98 In solitude. Urchin! these bright colours Had charms for him, and here he loved to paint, His only enemies the drug pushers, The quick fix, and all the friendly strangers, And on this barren wall, with a spray can, And chalk, and a cloth, he vandalized o’er, Fixing his inner eye, he rightly one day Acquired a fuller prospect, humoring The enmity of the cosmic temper, And throwing down his brush, he then could gaze On the more distant scene – how lonely ‘tis You see it – and he then gazed till it became Less heart breaking, and his heart could then endure The cruelty of the cruel. Nor, in his time, Would he forget those beings, from whose chase, Fraught with the fear of being caught and killed, The world and this city appeared a scene Of sheer oblivion. Then he would cry Remorsefully, to think that others felt What he never wanted. And so, poor man! On hallucinogenic drugs would feed, Till his eye was visionary. And here He died. This wall was all that he bequeathed.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 99 If you are one whose heart by the decay Of lawlessness is not defiled or scathed – Urchin! henceforth be warned and know that birth And honors displayed to do injustice Are unrighteous; that he, who then defends With his peers shall find content; for justice Shall be remorseless and deny offence In all his faculties. The man who craves Is deemed insatiable of appetite, But let not pleasures encourage the wise To scorn the sensations of this man, For wisdom seeks acceptance. Oh, will you? Instructed that the righteous persevere, True faith and law abides in those alone, Who, in the whole proportion of this wall, Can still revere, and still instruct themselves, Recusing Honor.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 100 21. THERE IS A WIND THAT FROM HEAVEN HATH FLOWN There is a Wind that from Heaven hath flown, And is descending on our industry, Such factories of Earth those above us espy. ‘Tis King Arthur – there he stands with a glass blown crown, First admonition that the sky fell down, A few are near him still, and now this guy, He has it to himself, it’s all his own. O forgive me Ishtar! A digest wrought Within me, when I asked her for a light, A moment I was startled at the sight, And while I gazed there came to me a thought, That beyond the sea there is a desert seed, As you seem to remind, that one day freed Some Mélusine, for whom our clothes removed. My soul, an aspiration to that deed, Treads here, in steps, would Sultan yet improve.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 101 22. THE SEWER AND THE MAPLE LEAF “Begone, you rude mischievous Imp,” Exclaimed a stuffy Voice. “Nor dare you at my foot to limp, As if you have no choice.” A Sewer-Grate without relief, Thus spoke to a poor Maple Leaf, Who had survived the winter thaw, And first to fall, and last to go, Was swimming in the melting snow, Despite all former law. “Do you presume my drain to clog? Off, off! Or little Scamp! I’ll hurl thee headlong to the bog, Your fibers cold and damp.” The Sewer was beset with rage, The Maple Leaf clung to his cage, Nor did he lose in all that waste, His iron grip upon the Grate, But fearing it might be too late, He rebutted posthaste.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 102 “Ah!” said the Leaf. “Punish me not, Why should we argue thus? We who have met as if by lot, By chance, the two of us. I come aloft from yonder tree, What pleasure there to live so free, High above the dirty clutter, My fibers welcoming each dew, Nor ever thought I’d live to rue, In this city gutter. “When Spring came on in the first shoot, Among those limbs did I Stretch out my stem where I took root, And there no passersby. In the Summer thundershower, Paid no heed within my bower, And cared not what went down the drain, The litter, or the gathered dust, That went to you in each quick gust, Nor did I mind the rain.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 103 “Then came a wind, and with it cold, Not even I withstood, Try as I might I could not hold, But entered in the flood. Then missed the rake, then came the snow, Then trodden down in ice below, Frozen solid, could not revive, The former strength I knew so well, And you, Sewer – I need not tell – Despite you I survive.” What more he said I cannot tell, The waste carried along its way, And gathered at the Grate. I stood fixed, nor aught else could think, Than of this leaf at the very brink, And how that sealed his fate.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 104 23. THE BUS SHELTER A whirl-blast came in from the Lake, Rushed through Queen’s Quay with deadly force, Then all at once the winds forsake, And steady snowflakes take their course. Where skyscrapers seem to welter, I sit within this bus shelter, Of plexiglass and yellow steel, And quite at home it makes me feel, From year to year the concrete floor, With heavy boots is trampled o’er, You could not with five men abreast, Close shut the lid upon this chest, But see! Howsoever snowflakes fly, This shelter proves to keep me dry, There’s still a breeze – a breath of air – Yet here, and there, I’ve huddled where, Against one wall, upon a seat, And face my eyes into the street, Amid the Lakeshore and the snow, Then turn my collar to the cold, Then stick my arms within the fold, However much the storm does grow, Is pleasure found in lying low. O Heaven! Grant when out of doors, That pleasure does not truly part, And even as the whirl-blast soars, I find contentment in my heart.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 105 24. THE SHEPHERD’S BLUES Fast is the city night, and loth to fuse, Day’s hectic pace with the Shepherd’s blues. Look for the stars, you’d say that there are none, Look up a second time for even one, One, or maybe two, casting their dim light, Above the city haze, eluding sight. But starlets peddling the latest rage Are out, and salesclerks for minimum wage Close shop, eager for society’s page. Nor does Old City Hall clock’s dull tone The time and age’s influence disown: Nine strikes which sound the closing of the store, An evening and the day beginning o’er, That in later hours then invites the cheer, Of young revelers sounding out the year. A Shepherd bent on rising with the sun, Once closed his door before the day was done, And now with thankful heart to bed does creep, To join his latest mistress in her sleep, And dark the lonely journey down the hill, And long the night without a sleeping pill, Once young, but never to have met, Nor much content with what they each could get, But years of happy life as of yet. Carts and the tread of hooves are heard no more, One time they were, but that has faded o’er, With the modern need for the modern ore, He’s yawning to relieve his idle brain, And gives a moment’s thought to dull ache’s pain,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 106 Yet must rise early for the morning train.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 107 25. OLD MAN AMBLING OR HUMAN TRANQUILITY AND DECAY: A SKETCH The people in the street That haste along their way, regard him not, He ambles on, and in his look, his tread, His gait is one suggestion. Every step, His old slow-moving figure, all bespeak A man who does not hurry forth but moves With leisure. He has finally resigned To settled quiet. He is one by whom All ambition seems revoked, one to whom Long toiling has such retirement given, That toiling now does seem a thing of which He has no care. He is by hard life led To the fifth element, that some behold With envy, what the old man rarely feels. I asked him where he was going and The purpose of his journey. He replied, “Sir, I am out on this fine day to cash My CPP, nigh six hundred dollars, At Money Mart by New Broadview Hotel, Then I’ll buy a six pack to take back home.”

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 108 Alexander Montgomerie was the descendant of a noble family, and was born at Hazelhead Castle, in the county of Ayr, Scotland. Although he was never granted a knighthood, he was commonly referred to as a Captain. It may therefore be ventured that he was a professional soldier. For much of his life he was a court poet in the service of James VI who succeeded Elizabeth I in 1603, the last Tudor monarch of England and Ireland. Charles Stuart, King of England, succeeded James I in 1625. His rule was famous for the English Civil War that he lost to Cromwell1. In 1649 he acceded “from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown” and England became a commonwealth. A martyr of the people, he was canonized as a saint by the Church of England two years after the death of Cromwell, in 1660. The restoration of the monarchy was legally ceiled in 1649. Alexander Montgomerie, a half- century late, was born one 1 The life of Oliver Cromwell is known to have been 25 April 1599- 3 September1658.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 109 hundred years before on Easter Day in the morning.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 110 26. CORTOIURIS KYNDNES As Hudsone prowit, alsa I wou’d fynd trew: Cortiouris kyndnes lasteth bout aquhile! Quhen guid deids were sped quhy than adew, To promissit frendschip that passit in exile; Montgomerie, yow haid met wid a beguile (Wie howp’d for yow, as ony of the braif) Haid yow a hilt ye than haid pleyntie of stile, Yit meid yowrself soune knoune to bie a knaif. O Captain! Hau thay pleisure didst conceif, Of all guidwill than found quhat wie forgat: A pittie humour encurridged Lyndesay’s leif, And sewit tha friendship ower-ryp is rat. Althocht, yow haue bene in subiect of sick, Nochtwithstanding ye wair leid of the rick.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 111 27. TAIK PAIS IN TYME Taik pais in tyme an tyme schalt undirtaik; Thairfor, taik guid cair hawe yowr tyme schuld spend – Yow haue not howld, to howld hir pite saik, A payre beffor, asonder botht mocht rend, Leit thow yow go awaie or sa sho wend, Yow haue yowr leif and haue yowr loue to maik, If thow delaie, remembir hau I spaik – Taik pais in tyme an tyme schalt undirtaik. Yet I haue reid in poyemes of owld, That tyme doith waist and wair all thengs a claie, Than trew bandir that poietis haue tyme-towld, Sume mete of tyme ‘t wis th’ onlie waie, Sens I haue heird the poietis poyemes saie, I lost a loue I souner thoucht to maik; Els snairie yowr feact followyng delaie – Taik pais in tyme an tyme schalt undirtaik.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 112 28. THY ROSIE WISAGE Howsaevir bonnie yowrself adourn – I thank yow mocht ta pleiss thay glass. If thay spruit grau weil than gentil grau thay thourn, Quhairfor Ayrie blomes widder the chass. I lyk thay semblaunces mie lass! Quhethir sa ‘alas!’ Or quhethir sa ‘allaik!’ Luik lang yowr ee yondir flowrie pass, Sens thay rosie wisage shalt nacht craik.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 113 29. O CAPTAIN! Dar nocht Jove stryk yow wi’ his thundir-clap, Tho’ hie kild yow nocht in midwyfrie hand – Nar dar Mercure wi’ his scrippit uand Depryff yow of yowr sences, wight, and schap – For hevin hendring nocht cou’d proue th’ hap. Dar nocht hir raith stoppit yowr breth, Nar yowr muthirs bowellis yowr laist bed – Nar hir burdin proue ‘t wis delyverie of deth, Nar chockit yow weil, sa soun ee teris were shed – Dar nocht quhen Musis to yowr cradill led Quheir-sa moyt as vestal virginis yow to wrap – For hevin hendring nocht cou’d proue th’ hap. Dar nocht thay muthir bout blyth quhen yow wair bairn, Nar thay Nords gawe yow weilfar to awance – Say withal yowr birth was Ester-day a morn. Dar nocht Apollo quho than appeirand to dans, Gawe nar to yow guid morow nar a glans, Nar raiss yow in hes gowld chair and lap – For hevin hendring nocht cou’d proue th’ hap. Hie makis to yow a Helicon t’ haue – Than yow wair nowis to the nobilisse-nyn, Alsswyth goddis a god-bornne gift-gifin, Ambrosius, braide, and hevinlie nectar vyn, For summarnesse a graue-bed alsswyth fyn – And hevin hendring nocht cou’d proue th’ hap.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 114 30. BON POIETIS AIRT If lose of guidis, if graitest grudge or greif, If pauperte, impresounment, or peyne, If guidwill for ingratitude ageyne, If langwishing in langwre sume relief, If det, if dolowr, then I saie of chief Of wanes sa – loues lawbirs loist in weyne – To poietis propirlie doith apperteyne. To saire yowr skil, if I haue ony leif, Yit bene to unknawin patrounis puir regaird, Quho lyk the best of owr aige to relait Thais wraithis fownd in natur – aye, bene haird. To cometh and goith, as feu mocht celebrait – O Captain! As nocht to maich yow in thay pairt Quhethir sa perfetlie – I maich bon poietis airt.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 115 31. THE PLAIN-DEALING WOMAN AND MAN A dog-walker comes to my mind, That concerned training heel to hold, Plain dealing’s a stray one most rare, As ownerless alone in the cold, And wherefore no faithlessness here, To care more, therefore it is penned, These verses shall make the good purpose, No honest truth’s cause to offend, For this I will make it appear, And prove by experience I can, They are characters lost in the world: The plain-dealing woman and man. For most are so impudent grown, They dominate, disparage, for wagers, The plain-dealing woman and man, Are since, born to die as beggars, No Saint as once honestly given, Does at such evil actions protest, As everyone as faithful-minded, Will say that plain dealing has crest, For this I will make it appear, And prove by experience I can, They are characters lost in the world: The plain-dealing woman and man.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 116 For I am a plain-dealing man, And to lie and to cheat am unwilling, Yet to live upright in the world, Takes product that costs me my shilling, Moreover, my clothes are threadbare, And my calling is simple and poor, And I am unable myself, To keep off the wolves from the door, For this I will make it appear, And prove by experience I can, They are characters lost in the world: The plain-dealing woman and man. Now, as nature must run its course, As such running against the hard wind, Those qualities which all of you know, And those of base nature consigned, Here come the dissembling knaves, And robbers whomever they be, And the slattern, harlots, and such like, Who take my last dollar from me, For this I have made it appear, And proved by experience began, They are characters lost in the world: The plain-dealing woman and man.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 117 32. THE BARON FOR SHAMEFASTNESS HIDETH HIS DESIRE WITHIN HIS FAITHFUL HEART The hung heart that is my sonneteer, And yet more wrung doth keep its residence, Into the pit encourages sentence Of banneret community severe. You wonder how I love and suffer – I settle no trust, by jurisprudence. For fame of nerve, guile, and more so grievance, Also, stalwartness is poor measure. Wherewith my heart, my disposal, deny, Leaves less worthwhileness, less faith to comply, Still, I am resident and have not appeared – What may I do, for no desire is cleared? As our proposal where I live and die, (Consummate) I want truthfully.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 118 33. THE BARON WAXETH WISER, AND WILL NOT DIE FOR AFFECTION Yet was I never of your love relieved, Nor ever shall – meanwhile my life doth last – But of baiting this bear that date has past, And fears continual sore have me worried, I shall not in these bones be buried, Nor on my tomb a name to fix fast. (For in truth, might make the spirit soon haste From the unhappy man, and then ghost-stirred). Then if your heart of unyielding faith and will Content your mind, without ten doing mischief, Pleases it me so to this my relief; If otherwise you seek to fulfil A hate, you err, and shall not as you ween, And you, yourself, the cause thereof not been.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 119 34. THE ABUSED BARON SEETH HIS FOLLY, AND INTENDETH TO TRUST NO MORE Whereas this file is not completely filed, To file this file was always my intent, And I am like a filing instrument, To file this plain, though I have not smiled At purpose, hath at folly reviled – So, pardon me, since life somehow misspent From former ties, I would so soon repent, And so, file well, my task is not derided. I brought the case at unmade expense, Since, receipt is never devoid of bull, To try to live and learn, somehow bearable, The wherewithal to ask for subsequence, To file plainly, yet howsoever, A folding back is plain forever.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 120 35. THE BARON DESCRIBETH HIS BEING STRICKEN WITH SIGHT OF HIS LOVE. And I’m the brig! An incubator’s mind, Beneath those wide-eye bulbs, some florescence, Has swallowed a morsel – effervescence. Was never man so? I could but go blind, That put those sparks in time, in pursuance, But behold us ourselves – that’s some presence. A life or more? As I must seek and find, Weather, if somewhere, was low thundering. How much did gather? I see it did there. So, I call for help. I know not, how, where. The pain of eggs cracking is some hearing, And straight after report, a little frightening, To accumulate warmth – storms, and lightning – Beneath my covers, I poke out peering.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 121 36. THE WAVERING BARON WILLETH, AND DREADETH TO MOVE HIS DESIRE. But good thoughts his exploits now bring to me, No wanton hopes, by a coarse man, propose, Delays us our company. To hear a groan In answering him, whom our troth bids us spree, He grabbed me fast for noble novelty, And after us, my loins did fain compose, The villagers – their way shall now bait anon – Twixt work and rest, taking a liberty. Yet they won’t say, under the smart I know, Little of ruth, that for some quiet nook, That comforted the mind, that forbearing shook – And not against purpose – I seek a way how To keep up my mead and am slow on the foot And such as it is, I sully the boot.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 122 37. THE BARON HAVING DREAMED ENJOYING OF HER LADY, COMPLAINETH THAT THE DREAM IS NEITHER LONGER NOR TRUER. Braiding up this dream, and leaving no trace, By steadfast love, or else dreams are not true, Untasted sleep woke me up to rue, The sudden toss of that false, feigned place, Without breakfast, for such a hopeless grace, Shall bring not you into these most barren leas, But makes a life no miss, a care might decrease, Those winds in no condition to embrace. A dead body, that the bear did so require, Tameless was that hour, no other has his sight – Why then, alas, shall nightmares see my plight! And thus, I return to the day’s fire, And where it was with you, want all not vain, To have that fortnight was my labor pain.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 123 38. THE BARON UNHAPPY, BIDDETH HAPPY LOVERS REJOICE IN MAY, WHILE HE WAILETH THAT MONTH TO HIM MOST UNLUCKY. Yet that Love red flowers in abundance, That live in lust and joyful jollity, Arise the same, peel off your buggery, Arise, I say – do May no subservience, Let me lie in bed, and so dream perchance, Let me know all the mishaps uncomely, That me betide past months not untimely, As one whom love gave little but mischance. Sharon said true, that your rotundity Was barreled bare in gaiety of May, I guessed (I prove) of that, the verity, That May was hell – that, then your tits, I say, Had stood rotund in much perplexity – Rose, let me dream of that satiety.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 124 39. THE BARON CONFESSETH HIM IN LOVE WITH NO ONE. If murder can, if purchased weak dolor, If many nights in little reach, such pain, No day, in woe, if they no one disdain, For hopeless gain, in such revere, therefore, To kill and kill my race, to have once more, This sign of late – then, must we not complain? If thou ask whom, since, sure no one refrain, Any that set this straight for such a bear. The self-same cheer of no one hath the face, That others hath – we have, and never shall, For borne a whelp, none calleth by his Grace, Who hath in hand the will, to kill and all – This death alone, the worth none ask him pay, Without one more, no one shall die lest say.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 125 40. OF OTHER’S FEIGNED SORROW, AND THE BARON’S FEIGNED MIRTH If Paul the persecutor, or Egypt, Were blind, as that writ did present, Covering his heart’s sadness, Love has sent Complaint with purple arrow, as would thus hit. Eke the Baptist when fortune did out shut Him in that reign, who died in like intent. Could not dine, when the price was thus repent. But bit to spite, and swallowed, and quit. So, chanced me, that purple passion, And heart, reveals no color contrary, I feigned visage – now sad, now merry – Whereby if that I laugh for any reason, It is because I have none other way To shed my tears, for in the worst of way.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 126 41. OF CHANGE OF MIND Each man I beg to change of his surmise, For on my faith, methinks it good reason To change your mind, as in this new season. For in each case, those who would be taken wise Is meet for them to learn and devise – And I am well of such manner, condition – To be treated after no antic fashion, And thereupon to see more love might rise. But they, in wide breadth that brazen most – Change they no purpose? For after that rate That might rise well, yet in our very state, Awhile the kids, doth dwell the wearied most – My word, nor I, shall be less bankable, That would save more, yet makes firm capable.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 127 42. HOW THE BARON PERISHETH IN HIS DELIGHT AS THE FLY IN HIS FIRE. Some fowls there be that make a perfect night, Without the sun, their eyes therefore defend, And them, because the glow doth them offend, Always appear and take much shade of light. Others rejoice to see the fire so bright, And when to play with it, as they intend, Alas! Of that sort none may be by right. But shield my eyes, the sunny sky, forfend. Yet to withstand your look I am not able, For I cannot reside in so dark a place – Remembrance has just allowed me that space, That with teary eyes, all swollen, therefore sable, My destiny to behold you do not lead – And thus, I slake – and am not made of mead.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 128 43. AGAINST HIS ART THAT FAILED TO UTTER HIS SUITS Because I have now cleaved misnomer blame, And in that result, none was more honored – Now find tongue! That maimed hast thou so rendered, In such dessert, to serve a lord some fame, Thou need thy Baron most, for so I am, Some great reward, which stands in full blockade – Away old war! And if one word be said, As in a dream, that murder does inflame. And if fault years against my will tonight, That this dead bear, so then bereft and done, To have that gone, as might suppose alone, And as he was a size, for in that light, To be most sacked, as that was some upstart. Yet – CANT. So, must refrain? Accuse my art.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 129 44. THE POET’S RENUNCIATION I renounce my shame and confess that thou I love, For shame's a worthless coin of tendered mint. With antique tongue my words shall melt thy heart, Else all life is forgery that no paper can redress. Though money I have none, I have a press For a currency of peace. In this flood I seek a dove, My ark beneath a covenant of poetry. I print The words that don't lack truth and don't lack art, Though you implore as I begin to please not start, For you say pretty words once spilled can only mess, And point to sad histories, and breaches, that you say prove That love does in its circulation take a tainted tint. I still say shame's a worthless thing, but shame on you – Expressions are not wealth, though mine rich, tender, and true.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 130 45. THE POET’S BRAVERY What of more money when we have happiness? Do you desire men who sell their souls to slavery? What strength they have, to punch the iron clock, And work twelve hours, and never see the light. Though I dream away my days we have the night. I punch no clock, but for these hours do caress Your unspoiled face. My work is bravery. While I play at words, those men but rush to you to talk In the commercials; and, when they pitch, they balk. For they forget you are their home, all caught up in the right To run the field. Yet he and he shall give but strikes of loneliness. Forfeit their sold-out world! They're out! Slide home to me! Balls! I give you iron verse and endless time if I am fair, Though you cheer for them, and call me foul, and ask me how I [dare.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 131 46. THE POET’S CONDITION ‘Tis true a poet is a starving man and sometimes raving mad. Medics treat the wounds that fest in this condition. The reason is neglect of care: he wastes his health on verse, He wastes it on a woman, and mad dreams, and does not work. His sayings are all aimless, the cure of life doth shirk. Immortality's unproven, and a quest for it is sad. Medics prescribe with moral certitude with a quiet disposition. Medics like their sentence structured, and for no one wish a [curse. Yet, they curse my dreams! They curse my guts! They curse my [empty purse! Although a poet is a hungry man, and this could cause a quirk, And though the men of science have seen the dying of this fad, There is much in idealism which eludes the statistician. There is in this absence of light, in the deep cutting night, With great patience, after all the darkness, a keen sight.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 132 47. THE POET’S MONUMENT Monument thou art great though pigeons shit on you. How steadfast in your reverence you have been. Thou weathered monument, worn out by my eyes, You stand for me this day, and my hopeless rhymes. The carefree birds do not love at you or coo, As though, but for the shit, by ages shielded by a spleen, Your blotched and underprivileged countenance befits my sighs. You stand for me this day, and my hopeless rhymes. I shall not look away for fear philosophy is true, That says unstudied lessons fail to teach the green, Like trees that fall without anxiety or cries, Depart this life forever, and their unheard of times. I do not want to curse you with my fears, But better this than a stone that sheds no tears.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 133 48. THE POET’S COURT D’AMOR When I have you, I try to live in courtly love, Though I am neither prince, nor duke, nor knight. I am a plant in your presence which tries your light; Earths my fresh sapling, for my almanac to prove. I am as low to you as the serpent is to God, And, to my buried seed you are a queen. I am but a withered stalk to your pears of youthful green, And long to spoil you with flowers and never spare my rod. I cannot in your garden resist forbidden fruit. I break a useful bough in expectation of a taste. I take your pears in hand, and though suffering not to haste, By one bite I am corrupted, and I long to storm and loot. But then the truth: I am the tempter, and you are chaste; I am plucked out of your garden by the root.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 134 49. THE POET’S RELIGION Do not turn from my religion as those who have more hope, Who promise in their humanity to recant my rhyme; Though my word’s an uncut stone that would be jewels, My base mettle has never had but tinsel at Christmas. The word I give to you is Latin for the mass. My verse is myrrh and frankincense, and our Savior bound by [rope, His wounds pour forth and bless me as I crucify His time – Still not forsaken – as the stone that gathers moss of green. Heroic mules Manure the fields, and Fathers would be Saints, alas. Yet though I sin in my observance, are you not shepherdess? Am I not of the flock that turns dead animals to soap? Placed in our hands, dissolved in water, that rids us of the grime, Am I not a criminal, as I die for all my sin, Who nameless in recitation - by my stone - new religion shall [begin.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 135 50. THE POET’S HEN With rites in mourning clothes, I deliver these lines: My words expire from my pen and die for naught. She does not love me, and has found a handsomer man, Who crosses my circles to walk with gentlemen. And I am blot out by shady characters and a pecking hen. My hen, as well, dislikes my grain, marking well the signs, That in my messy and unkempt prose I soon in death shall rot. She does not love me but cannot find a handsomer man. I tell this hen, as I eat her eggs, I'm doing all I can. I tell her, with my scrambled thought, that when I dressed to be her groom, and spoke the marriage lines, 'Twas not a castle, I did not know, but a dusty farm I'd bought. Now I speak these words with grave remorse, yet soon I break my [fast, And throwing earth upon my plate, ab ovo has come at last.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 136 51. THE POET’S SENTENCE What a sentence is this line called poetry: That through all do I scorn to change my state with kings. For I am well composed in the strength it brings, And love to trace no castle mote yet would fell the cloistered tree. My porous leaf of noble branches sings, In mouths of birds that coo, in tenderness so free. I see the royal garden's river through the lea, And by green sprays my quiet thought an apple brings. I strain to rhyme at you the knowing words that be, Not awkward in their sentiment, or rotten things. Quoth I: “I am in the garden where my animals are free.” Though revered, the birds recoil their outstretched wings. I do not move, and by their stillness, read this curious hype, That falls to the earth for an immortal hope.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 137 52. THE POET’S AMANDA She walks upon a path so lightly with skipping steps sublime, That knows if not whither leads her but never strays or winds. In the ruins of the brown fall leaves that my love is wading, I shall in expectation of her gait make from my manner to bold [meeting. And I shall in the haste of my monumental task forget the time. I shall by my construction and design weld a shelter in the storming winds. In seasons rough, the fateful harbinger exhales our secret meeting, Shaded in our pool so intimate, upon a path ne'er blind nor [winding. We shall in cool solitude spend moments ignoring time. For time he is a crooked path who darkens as he winds. The harbinger shall impart his tidings upon our path unbending. My love and I, shall in our eyes, see in their depth a never ending. Past the end of days, and past all dusks, until no more of light, And even then, always straightening, into the Providence of night.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 138 53. THE POET’S VESSEL To ride the vessel on a steady sentiment, I desire, That presumes no awe, but grips tightly in its image. And fleeting though my countenance upon the water's mirror, Would it wert still, and calm, and effacing, without plunder, yet so [deep. But mine is a profitless voyage and life is murky and cheap. I fear the waves of feeling shall inflate and I expire. I hear the captain reprimand the desperate rocking of my bondage. My reflection cracks from side to side and all hands go down in [terror. How I wish I were in Babylon and all I glean in error! 'Twould not be maiden thoughts or sense, but dancing girls I'd [keep. And yet I yearn as I jump ship that here was something higher, Than the waves with bellies to and fro drowning me in adage. I long to write the words I once composed with ease, Though strain at ropes to tie my vision to a berth of seas.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 139 54. THE POET’S SPIRIT Though I am dispossessed of spirit I shall not scare my berth, Nor haunt you with the ethereal breadth of feeling in my chest, And I shall not a parting of thoughts nor evacuate a sadness,’ For it is not heaven I repose in, but these words in stone I've [wrought. I am yet not dead in epitaph though dwell in shades untaught, Where I betray a real transparency like ghosts who fly in dearth. I stand eternity for stature and for the dawn of a golden crest; I shall not run like those ephemeral from what they cannot sess. Though I am dispossessed of spirit and my life be in a mess, There is dear value in what I've spent, and now a promise bought. And it's the value I transcend as you recall my timeless worth. For I am precious in remembrance and have answered your behest. Though I am interred in the quiet glen, in the dampness of my [shroud, By my grave voice and finished gesture, I leave, Here Lies, in lines [so proud.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 140 55. THE POET’S GENERATION My generation is but a seed that begets a dynasty, That nourished soon sprouts roots within the earth, That rises like a weed, that never withers in the sun, Though it is trampled underfoot of other men. And this is the natural course of the spongy fen, That would have us give a flower when we give a tree, That can bear great limbs of other seeds within its fruit, That in its roots recalls the ascension of the Son, Who evergreen with piercing needles reminds us of his ken, And says with angry chops, “When you quarrel then I am not a [tree.” Though I am but a seed reminiscing on the birth, Whether praying on, or in incarnation, I imbibe the One. What I nourish in the earth remains the passionflower though, Compost in the harvest of generations long ago.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 141 56. THE POET’S ABOLITION To all great hearts who guessed at meaning and never did get [back: With might upon the swollen field, challenging your blood, Beating in procession, with eyes upon what leads, In perspicuity, in each corner, a suffering you shall none. Though the battle be lost one day, yet the war is won. And what has ere been said in gesture creates the block of black. So that neighbor unto neighbor, upon the kettle shall place their [hood. For tea deserves a cozy, and let the jasmine be weeds, In debasing ever steeping, and with a cup these mellow deeds. The mighty Roman Empire shall taste the golden Hun, And the republic in its easiness will feel a turning back, To phrases felt, but ne'er recited, in straw or stain of wood. Upon your chairs and chesterfields, within your parlor room, No more the playing of charades in syllables of doom.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 142 57. THE POET’S LOVE So cries my love as she doles a sigh that life it is not true, In gloomy breath and countenance, she serves her heart to fears, And in her seasonings, she makes a ship of tears, And savors her peals on the sea as some are wont to do. It hurts my heart to see her thus with no horizon in her prime, That at her meal when she plays at food for care I shall not speak, In case her fragile shell in heavy words should break. What starves her so in sadness seems not to fortify with time, And I am lost for what I've done or what I yet can do, To make her braver in the day beneath the clouded sky, That gawks at her in shapeless sorrow as silken trains pass by. Dressed in beauty's form to please, they criticize her due. The altering wind makes her sheer when she should willow, And lands that night all necks and decks pouring on her pillow.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 143 58. THE POET’S ALCHEMY Life's elixir is not so poor to my taste, Prolonging my days and nights. Is it not for gold, Which makes me miss my muse? Though it is old, And the leaf so hard pressed by years is dust of worthless waste. As I take down this fortune of alchemical paste, And read here what is writ between the fold, I have gilt to be master of the yellow that age doled. And long I have sped, and long I have read, that what binds here is [no more paste. Then bring me my poetry to cast from: Made as the dried petals of the chamomile. Then the hour in which I repose shall yet have power; Refining a future from leaves in their sum. It’s forged to impress if it would make you smile – Here is quintessence – as I pour out the flower.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 144 59. THE POET’S HORSE As the way of the Westron wind we ride against the hours: You’re firm and never rush the reigns. You speak in prophecy, in prayer I shall not stray, Though I am north, and south, and east, on this our westward way. I remember the saddle and the stirrups, When in the night I bundle in the blanket that is cast. I nay what makes us hay in the coldest hours! I nay what makes us hay in the coldest hours! My pleasant hooves that ride westward take a shoeing by your hand. My pleasant hooves that ride westward take a shoeing. And our land! Have I still hooves enough and pleasure in this rapture, To never break of wilderness or the Westron wind’s departure? My golden mane is mangled, which was set and smoothed in [capture, And I ride for the gentle brush of Westron peradventure.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 145 AFTERWORD Once upon a time everyone in the known world knew beyond a reasonable doubt that they could rest assured that they were living in good old Egypt. They knew that every story about Abraham being the father of all peoples was to be taken with a sense of humor. Furthermore, they knew that the Mosaic tradition, the result of Egyptian civilization, of the creation story of Genesis, for example, contained the evidence of a preexisting Leviathan which indicated that before the beginning of the Earth, there were mariners; and indeed, Egypt already had a fishing industry. Then one day some hoax about a Roman Empire took flight and Octavius had suddenly murdered the result of all that was good about life, the Egyptian Royal family. It took a while but that so called Roman empire endorsed a father and son worship called Christianity, which was to remind people that such a family relationship as the primogeniture of any father and son was not to

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 146 be so expendable from then on, and neither should be the female of the world, with respect to the inviolable Cleopatra, the suicide of every fertile woman as a humankind heresy to God which indicates that there remains the improbable condition of only a young girl or virgin who can give birth to a child that is subsequently sacrificed. For there is in actual fact no mother in the pyramid of the trinity; she is rather a ghost, a spirit, and presently a wind, worshipped about the much-impoverished ‘Pharaonic afterlife’v nowadays.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 147 ABOUT MYSELF My mother, whose name was Mary, lived on a ship at sea with her parents. Her father was an officer of the British Navy, and officers were permitted to have their family live on board with them during times of peace. I often wonder how my mother felt with very few friends at sea, not having any appropriate love interest, but being of the age to want to marry. One evening, sitting on a comfortable bench on the deck alone, as she often did, a man whom she had never seen before approached her. She might have been afraid and called for the midshipmen to sound the alarm, but his disarming manner and the import of his words held her steadfast. He introduced himself and explained why he had to meet her. He told her, "I have just stepped onto this planet and have taken a human form." Upon asking who he was, where he came from, and the nature of his true form, he told her that in the

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 148 night sky, where they were then, beneath the canopy we all see, there are a quintillion stars, and if it is somehow a general belief among the people of Earth that there is at least one planet and satellite orbiting those stars, then he must have been from them all. Furthermore, he came to Earth to meet my mother and her parents specifically, to leave a child to her. That son, he told her, would know his full purpose when he was an adult and would feel his calling in a catastrophic time that humanity faced. It was then that her mother joined them, and her father too, and what that family heard next left them with much to think about. For this Starman told them that this planet was ruled by God, as it was written among the sacred and holy writings of the authentic world religions. In a case when an otherworldly birth is required, then the most proximate canonical or Holy Book must be followed verbatim in proximity to where that

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 149 conception occurred, so as not to offend the Lord, who is invisible to people but nevertheless exists for the well-being of the whole planet. Then he explained that because the ship they were on was a naval vessel from Britain, the Holy Bible made it necessary that the birth she would have could only be a virgin birth. Moreover, he would transmute into semen and exist only as the offspring of the form of who he was when he met my mother, and as her son I would relate in descent only to my mother because I would not have generations on my father’s side, since he had none. Finally, he told them it must be done, and that I should be born in Helvetia, or modern-day Switzerland. There was no amount of time to consider anything else but to accept his purpose, which he stressed was a necessary fact that would have to occur. My mother, her mother and father, hardly fully thinking the matter over, found themselves alone. It

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 150 was within a month after that night's encounter with the Starman and his transmutation, that the ship's doctor informed my mother that she was pregnant. She recalled the date of conception as being none other than the night they still spoke about among themselves as a family. On careful thought, they made plans that Mary, although British in nationality, would give birth in Switzerland, which was in ancient times Helvetia. Her father, by writing to the Swiss Confederation and filling out the necessary applications, was granted landed immigrant status for my mother, his wife, and himself. They then purchased a home in the lower region of the French-speaking Alps. My full name on the official Swiss Birth certificate was given as Ignatius Quintillion Apple by Apple. Ignatius Apple was my grandfather's legal name. Quintillion is my middle name in memory of the Starman who appeared that night before her,

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 151 and the name of my father was entered on the birth certificate as being Quintillion Star. Then my mother, unwed, changed her name Mary Apple to Mary Apple by Apple and I took that surname also, which remains as surnames go, as far as I know, exclusive to my mother and me. As our family’s story is told it was only some semen and Mary Apple that we understood was in nature an example of a veritable virgin birth. When I used to ask my mother about my father's whereabouts, she would simply say that he was at sea. It was an inside joke of hers, as I later came to know the unconventional circumstances of my conception. I exist solely because of the mysterious visitor my mother encountered that night, and I transmuted into the semen which fertilized her ovum, which developed, for nine months, as a healthy fetus in my mother’s womb, until the day I was born in 1969. My life could have been normal among the people of

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 152 Switzerland, but for the unexpected fact that I was born a dwarf. This fact was overlooked by my mother's obstetrician and my pediatrician. However, while sitting beneath a tree and nursing me one day, several feisty short people, whom my mother immediately understood were dwarves, attempted to persuade her to give me up to them, claiming that I was not a human and belonged with them. My mother vehemently protested, as did my grandmother who was also present. Nevertheless, the undeniable truth remains that I grew up among the dwarves, known to many as Iggy, and hence my penname, Iggy the Dwarf. It is indeed remarkable that I am a dwarf among the dwarves of Helvetia, and this has captivated the curiosity of all those involved, considering my mother is human and so was the visitor in any form we understood him to be who appeared that fateful night on the ship. The dwarves were adamant that they played no tricks in relation to my birth, and we

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 153 accepted their honesty. Such was the mystery surrounding my existence that rumors spread among the people of Helvetia, suggesting that my mother was a virgin mother of God, drawing parallels to the biblical Mary. However, these speculations were later dismissed based on the trust placed in my mother's word of honor, that we might be killed with so high a thought of our family. I soon grew up as just another dwarf and lived with my human mother in the lower Alps, and lived as was deemed best as a dwarf among the dwarves of Helvetia. Any calling I might have, which was foreseen by the visitor to the planet, came in the late 1980s when I was eighteen years old. On a late summer’s day, I heard what sounded like thunder and disbelieving that there could be a storm on such a clear day, looked up to the sky. There seemed like a shadow of long arms, much like the tentacles of a gigantic octopus, and there were

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 154 dwarves descending to the ground from the sky. They landed and appeared identical in form and appearance to the folks they were near, fully clothed. Not only that, but to our surprise, after a month of strange times and quarrels, my mother and I still felt like ourselves, but we were left wondering how many authentic dwarves were left alive in Helvetia, or indeed the world, and how many more were these alien shapeshifters. By word of mouth, passed down through the authority of friends, the fullest weight by consensus related that the aliens as it then stood far outnumbered us and even enjoyed eating us, euphemistically calling us "turkey." Only my mother and I could be sure that I was a real dwarf of Helvetia and not a shapeshifter, and I felt sure of my mother’s true nature as the human parent I always knew her to be as an unquestionable fact. It was popularly believed that authentic dwarves were fewer in number by a great magnitude than before

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 155 the shapeshifters came, and fewer in proportion in number relative to the entire number of aliens was a probable conclusion. My mother and I then wondered what had befallen human beings. That very concern for humanity burned inside me and became an obsession. It was my calling; I decided to be a secret agent and live among humans to assess what, if anything, had happened among them. Had the same invasion befallen them? My life among humans has been difficult. From the time I was eighteen, I have been considered odd-looking, often called a midget, sometimes more politely, a little person. Not only that, but the burning question I had to discover was whether the shapeshifters were among humans or not. This has led me to frequently experience bouts of mania and insomnia. I was early on diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, a condition like manic depression, with the exception that the manic state lasts notably longer in the sufferer than it does in true bipolar cases.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 156 Now in my middle age and finding no recognition among my social workers, doctors, or friends who have come or gone, of any memory that in the 1980s there was any alien presence or invasion of shapeshifters, the best advice given to me, by a social worker with lived experience of mental illness, was to not let it consume me, lose great amounts of sleep and health over my questionings, but to express them artistically. I was reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and the passages of the monster’s words of lament to Dr. Frankenstein about hiding himself from humans because he would only frighten them. The monster mentioned overhearing the happy life of a family and their children, whose land he had taken upon himself to settle in and who kept out of their way, to ensure they never saw him because he knew they would fear him. He expressed the immense profundity he felt while reading Milton and other authors, who spoke in such an elevating way about the preciousness of human

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 157 existence. He inspired me to compose the poems you read in this book, in the form of adaptation, with much intertext based on many authors of whom Mary Shelley and her contemporaries would have read when they were modern authors. The purpose of this experiment I indicate in the preface above; they are written to discover if any such traditional poetry is welcome in a society among shapeshifters, from the perspective of the underclass. For that is the class I have found myself living amongst most, having the diagnosis I was given, and living like many people as dependents of the social welfare system on disability. I gravitated toward poetry naturally, as do many writers, before writing in prose. I am left with the question, yet unanswered, that still rules my life. It is the question of whether Homo Sapiens experienced the 1980s invasion of shape-shifting aliens, and if met with a blank stare or disbelief, I have the second

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 158 problem to solve, as to whether the invasion either in its entirety did not affect humans, or worse, that so few exist, such few numbers of humans remain, to advise me of what really happened. I have only by remaining in sporadic contact with Dwarves in Helvetia some justified true belief of a trust that a multitude of Homo Sapiens live somewhere in light years from Earth and that if they are not eaten by Homo Exterior they might return to our world, in the outcome of a thirty-five year or more durée, which I will try to witness at least, before returning to the place of my birth origin. One thing that I was able to do during my life among the underclass, with its underworld connections, was to invest in a shipping business. By filling a ship with transport goods, by a set form of rudimentary questions about the contents that required safe passage by sea, questions such as “Is it alive or dead?” and “Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?” I qualified the cargo by narrowing

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 159 the field or disqualified it from transport. I soon was able with three partners with me to purchase a small fleet and to leave it in a trust that they would run the company from Switzerland, and safekeep my stake in the business, while I sought the fate of humanity abroad in North America. Before I left, I spoke with my mother of her father’s belief of distant relatives who owned land in Britain, which was known in general to be rich with oil and natural gas deposits, but which was never exploited because there had been a shipwreck off the coast and no survivors, and for drilling to occur, it was thought by the families of the departed, that the ocean floor and the land should not be developed. However, I knew by my mother’s recollection of that family’s land, that the bodies had been recovered and buried elsewhere, and there was no outstanding reason to prevent the progress of the energy industry in England. Before returning to North America at the age of twenty-

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 160 eight, I approached this family, and the true owner of the land I met was a Lord of the upper house of parliament in Britain. He and his wife had a young daughter who, I recall, was only six years old at the time. By an understanding which I developed with the family, I gave instructions to my partners that when my shipping company had made me sufficient wealth to buy, restore, and hold tenure of a certain Barony, they were to purchase it on my behalf. The Lord and Lady, to whom I presented myself, accepted that when I returned to them in my middle age, I would have permission to court their daughter, so long as she was not against the idea. I told the child a fairy story when I was with her of terrible shapeshifters and a dwarf who was bound to be far away on another continent on a mission to ascertain what calamity had befallen the people of Earth. She listened closely to my tale and fell asleep in her mother’s arms upon the last few words I spoke

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 161 that I would return, and the young lady would become a Baroness, if only she could bear such a one as so disregarded as a dwarf deemed as maladjusted in the mental health system of North America. My fame as a poet received some critical attention when CBC Radio featured my work in 2015. This was mainly due to the popularity of a website I created, where I posted my poetry. One poem, titled "The City," caught the attention of the afternoon host of a radio program. They interviewed a doctor to discuss whether I accurately depicted professionals who work with consumer survivors, such as psychiatrists and doctors in long-term care facilities. The doctor confirmed that the poem provided an accurate portrayal, not only of himself, but also of doctors in general, and social workers. Furthermore, he believed it was a realistic depiction of the typical life of a consumer survivor. The fame of the website grew beyond Canada and reached overseas in Britain, and

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 162 thereafter CBC Radio reported that a direct descendant of Lady Ottoline Morrell, the aristocrat who hosted a literary circle of friends, and who was the Lady portrayed, in T.S. Eliot’s Portrait of a Lady, took offense to my pastiche titled “The Hourglass Hostess”, for drawing an intertextual relationship or inference, that the late Lady Morrell was somehow being compared to a prostitute. My intention was not to suggest that whatsoever, but because of this grave criticism, my poetry website gained even more notoriety. The truth is, I have only once visited a prostitute and I am now celibate. Any suggestion that there was a real prostitute, as described in the poem, while I was living in a different part of Toronto than now is false. However, there was a prostitute who seemed to live in her own house in my old neighborhood. She used to walk her dog during the day and sometimes spoke with men in the area. I could not help but notice her as a familiar face around and about. I knew the house where she lived and

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 163 would see her male visitors come and go. It left little doubt in my mind that she was a Lady of the Evening. I now live between Jarvis St. off Dundas St., where there are plenty of prostitutes to be seen by night, close to New Regent Park off Parliament St., in a community client-tenant subsidized building. I rent out on subsidy, what might be called a cute bachelor in a rental listing written for the average person in the market for a small and bright apartment. Although the neighborhood can be a little dangerous, or at least colorful, the reality is that there are many prostitutes living in my community who work for their lodging and cocaine. The most unfortunate members of their profession become addicted to crack when they find out that pimps are no more use for them as providers. The saddest part is that they are more time than not reported as missing persons by their parents, and I wonder if they even realize that fact. They are likely brainwashed to believe their

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 164 parents are dead, even as they become recovering addicts and reach rock bottom, often in a much-dilapidated state. I was surveyed by telephone one day and told that they were asking specifically the ten most important poets alive today their opinion of what was the most important book to be published that year. At first, I thought it was simply a crank call and could not believe that I, as an unpublished author with little recognition, except for some publicity on local radio, would be surveyed as one of the ten most important poets of our time. Nonetheless, I answered that the discovery and publication of a palimpsest of one of Archimedes' books on mathematics was immensely significant. This book was believed to be lost to modern civilization, but it was found superimposed on a scroll of papyrus in its full length with a religious text. The publication of this work brought it to the attention of classical scholars for the first time in modern history.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 165 Indeed, I thought at first that what I was writing was perhaps some kind of metaphorical palimpsest but stood corrected when I realized that the art form is postmodern, and formalist by no means, and that such near-contemporary authors as Cecil Day Lewis, the late father of the famous actor Daniel Day Lewis, wrote many such poems as did other poets in the course of their careers of the mid to late twentieth century. Some of this poetry was previously published by the publisher named Literary Pastiche, under a pseudonym, in collections in breve, and out of print titled, The City, The Flower's Celandine, and An Evening Pastiche. Moreover, a collection titled Wordsworth'an Palimpsests appeared in a Canadian literary journal known as The Eclectic Muse in the year 2015. Despite some positive reviews and much marketing, as well as a press release for the premiere edition of the first publication of my poetry in book form, I live rather

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 166 anonymously and am no closer to completing my mission to discover whether Homo Sapiens have become endangered or extinct as a species of hominids on this planet, resulting in an alien invasion of shapeshifters. At this time, however, as I wait to find out of some news of Homo Sapiens’ return to Earth (by what means I know not) I must be very close to joining my mother, now in her seventies, almost anywhere but here in Regent Park, to be introduced to the little girl, whom I lulled to sleep, now in her early thirties, to consider in seriousness my true identity as a rightful Baron. I trust that my family is safe and secure as the result of this passage of time spent discovering little in the outcome of what has been profoundly felt by the posthuman world of an ancient Abrahamic ancestor which I tentatively conclude to be preternatural, yet as one which still lacks full disclosure.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 167 SOURCES (Incomplete) 1. Crabbe. The Village Book One. 2. Langhorne. The Sunflower and the Ivy. 3. Eliot. Portrait of a Lady. 4. Shelley. Stanzas – April 1814. 5. Shelley. Verses Written on Receiving a Celandine in a Letter. 6. Shelley. O! there are spirits of the air. 7. Collins. Ecologue 1: Selim;or the Shepherd’s Moral. 8. Collins. Ode to Evening. 9. Collins. Ode. How Sleep the Brave. 10. Dixon. England’s Alarm. 11.- 59.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 168 FURTHER READING Collins, William. The Poetical Works of William Collins with a Memoir. Nabu Press: Charleston, 2012. Crabbe, George. The Village: A Poem. In Two Books. Gale Ecco Print Editions: Charleston, 2010. Eliot, T.S. Complete Poems and Plays. Faber and Faber: London, 2004. Keats, John. The Major Works. Oxford University Press: New York, 2009. Langhorne, John. The Fables of Flora. Gale Ecco Print Editions: Charleston, 2010. Montgomerie, Alexander. The Cherry and the Slae with Other Poems. Gale Ecco Print Editions: Charleston, 2018. Shelley, Percy Bysshe. The Major Works. Oxford University Press: New York, 2009. Wordsworth, William. The Major Works. Oxford University Press: New York, 2000. Wyatt, Thomas. The Complete

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 169 Poems. Penguin Classics: New York, 1989.

IGGY THE DWARF/SINCE I LEFT HELVETIA/ 170 i Leigh Hunt. The Modern Parnassus or the New Art of Poetry, A Poem. 1814. ii At a time when Wordsworth was extolling the virtues of old Michael and his struggle to maintain their “patrimonial fields”, the very much more influential Commercial and Agricultural Magazine regarded the “yeoman” in a different light: “A wicked, cross-grained, petty farmer is like a sow in his yard, almost an insulated individual, who has no communications with, and therefore, no reverence for the opinions of the world. As for the rights of the cottager in enclosure, “it may seem needless to notice his claims” E.P. Thomson. The Making of the English Working Class. 1963. iii See, for example, Cecil Day Lewis, “Come Live with Me and Be My Love”. It is a iv By Zeus: Artemis, virgin goddess of the moon v An oxymoron – Ignatius. See Elsewhere in Half The Most Important Book Of Our Time [Annotated: Academia.edu, 2024]