Larry Sawyer
“There are poets who write poetry as a side gig, for whom poetry is one among many other things that define their life. And then there are poets whose life is poetry, whose entire way of understanding the world and themselves is through poetry. Larry Sawyer was in this latter category. His life, for those of us who had the privilege of knowing him and of experiencing his presence and kindness, was structured around poetry and the worlds of poetry that he built for others to live in. For those of us who lived in Chicago in the early 2000s, we benefited firsthand from the institutions of poetry that Larry built for us, and which sustained so many of us over such a long period of time… Larry’s poems are light without being naïve; and at the same time, they are often existential and extremely consequential while being soft, musical, and supernatural … reading his poetry…has been a moving experience, a solemn experience, and, ultimately, a celebratory one. I am in awe of how much he wrote, of the different ways in which he wrote, and again, of the subtle ways that he lived in art, music, and language…” —Daniel Borzutzky, 2016 National Book Award winner for The Performance of Becoming Human
*
The Huh
Craters of your past,
voices from the usual walls,
winter emits shrill lies across
the room, 3:00 AM margins of night.
I still love the sound of my own razorblade
voice, I shake the morning of its dust,
come up for air, the same miracle rerun.
Rear View Mirror
The splendid dead
suited, the splendid dead
relax in coffins they lounge
after long life crisp shirts
unbearably white carnation
inserted like a nail into lapel
reclining at the speed of sound
upward toward leisure
cool to the point of severity
these splendid dead
not a hair out of place
so suave as to appear
so suave as to appear
not a hair out of place
these splendid dead
cool to the point of severity
upward toward leisure
reclining at the speed of sound
inserted like a nail into lapel
unbearably white carnation
after long life crisp shirts
relax in coffins they lounge
suited, the splendid dead
the splendid dead
It Follows You
Floating along the tops of trees
the cries of the birds have no
weight, they hover in a green stillness
apart from the man walking lonely
down the narrow street he is covered
with ashes and mumbles something
forgotten, now seems lost along with the
thought of another whose name you can’t
remember, each breeze is a womb bringing
the scent of rain, and a woman opening
her blouse detonating an undiscovered storm.
What Need We Have
What need we
have as if someone,
a ghost
behind
us on the road
our memory folded
and tucked
away in some
slim
suitcase of the
soul
Every Bruise Is A Flower
Toward that flannel shore, among Andalusian
carpets, the rake reclines upon possibility. Regard
these bombs blooming upon the vine, study
the nomenclature of crying roses above you
in situ, in sky, those which will awake all,
the great celestial pen writing us into existence.
*
On February 28, 2025, Larry Sawyer, a bold, bright star in our lives, crossed over. A truly unique soul, he was fully human—an authentic individual, steadfast in his love of poetry, and embodied art, music, culture, politics, religion. He was driven by life’s unknown. He was sensitive to injustices in the world. He was intellectually curious, and a deeply kind and caring creature. He was a philosopher, one who fiercely believed in truth. He was witty and wild, his own person, a gentle spirit with so much inside him to share. Everything he did, he did with his whole heart.
The above 5 poems are from an upcoming posthumous collection of his poems, My Eyes Were Both Birds.
