for Leonard Irving, 1924-2016 (San Francisco Writers Workshop Moderator for a few years, starting in the late 1980s until 1993)
by Kitty Costello

Scottish poet and latter-day bard, his words brimming
with ancient Celtic magic, rebellion, song
barren borderland childhood infusing lifelong
bristle and grit for working stiffs, for despised bourgeoisie
preeminent 20^th-century spokesman on behalf
of drifters, tinkers, vagabonds, drunkards
wayfarers, outcasts and the like 

born in a wee cottage in Dundrennan Village
dreary southwest coast of Scotland, midst Depression times
“flitting” from place to place for his father to find work—
in Castle Douglas, in far off Banwell Village in Somerset
always the outsider in a new place

craving adventure and escape, joined the Home Guard at 16
the Royal Marines in ’41, a sharpshooter surviving
two ships being shot out from under him
four-fifths of the crew lost in the second
off the coast of France

took to drink early, thirsting
for freedom from cold and mournful moors
for grand exploits and warmer climes
joined the Merchant Marines, sailed hither and thither
to farflung shores, seafaring to South America and back
sojourning in the Falklands, lingering as Canary Island beachcomber

nomad, rambler, gallivanter, settled in New York in ‘52
discovering his passion for wordsmithing
enraptured with James Joyce, Dylan Thomas
befriended by lefty literati who lauded him
as the voice of the genuine proletariat
hitchhiked back and forth across North America
innumerable times, a drifter drifting his way to San Francisco
to its rough and tumble Tenderloin of the 1970s

nurtured his literary fervor and his love of drink
in equal measure, beloved regular at library workshop
at open mics around town—Sacred Grounds, Yakety Yak
Harrington’s Bar, Grady’s Bar, Keane’s 3300 Club
his uncontrolled binges landing him in hospital again and again
he’d return ghostly to the mic, find his footing

a friend, partisan and chronicler of roustabouts, vagrants,
barkeeps, reprobates and fellow wandering minstrels
a champion of the working man everywhere
though his finest knack was perhaps avoiding work
altogether, being once carefully schooled in how
to feign madness to quality for SSI, better known as the dole
living 20-some years in grand SRO style
at the rowdy Elk Hotel on Eddy Street

said yes to any summons to read, bringing down the house
at Edinburgh Castle on Geary St., at rollicking ceilidhs
his Scottish burr overflowing, entrancing, his rrrolling of rrr’s
rrresounding like ancient song, old world music come alive
both blessed and cursed by the magic others heard in his voice
once penning a poem entitled “Vitriolic Curses:
dedicated to all those who said I could read
the telephone directory and it would sound good”

cherished partaker at the Institute for Celtic Studies
reveling in old world spirits, myth, enchantment
in Irish rebels and balladeers, at home amongst
Blarney Stone raconteurs, harpers, myth weavers,
poets, scholars and Wiccan priestesses
such as the likes of Randy, his life partner to be
with her West Oakland “farm,” her yard full
of chickens, geese, dogs, ducks, cats
and turkeys who had grazing rights in the neighbor’s yard

moving in with her and joining AA
though not necessarily in that order
scavenged clothing from giveaway piles
lumber from construction sites under the freeway
dragging home whatever wasn’t nailed down
spending countless song- and poem-filled evenings
among friends, around her overflowing table, around the hearth, until
longing for seasons and rain, she packed to move back east
to ancestral Vermont homeland, her farm menagerie
and Wedgewood stove in tow, in cross-country caravan splendor

for 16 years he summered in Vermont, May to October
wintered in San Francisco, November to April
finally moving to Vermont full time in o-eight
spending his days puttering and lounging, though not
a shirker, slacker or slouch, painted the eaves, hung the sheets
wrote poems, mended fences, turned soil, spent long afternoons
nattering with neighborly callers, tended horses and hens
chopped wood, built the winter fires, provided
a ready lap and tender pets for many a fine feline
pilfered hard cider from hidden vats in the basement
whenever he could, reading whenever asked
never missing the yearly winter celebration of Rrrobbie Burrrns
dubbed “the Jack Kerouac of Vermont”
by local journalist for his on-the-road escapades
having crisscrossed the U.S. and Mexico umpteen times

by now, creating a world-class barn museum abounding
with ancient rusted wheels, shovels, hammerheads, saws
plough blades, barrows, hasps, struts, stirrups, pry bars
winches and the like, hundreds of them, gathered
on his treks around their land, and at age 91
still out in the back forty felling trees for firewood
though always refusing to operate large motorized machinery
preferring the limits of 19^th century hand-hewn work

no care for publication or posterity, though Randy and friends
had long ago gathered and published his poems and stories
typed over decades on manual typewriter, into multiple books
at Stone Circle Press, recorded his reading voice, saved for good

lucky stiff, literally, dying as he did at age 92
in the wee hours before election day morning, 2016
never having to know what the rest of us were in for

kept every last marble until that final night on earth
when the boarder from the far side of the farmhouse
came in to find him hosting a grand party
with invisible Scottish and Irish word wizards and revolutionaries
come to shepherd him to the other side—
William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, Robbie Burns, Michael Collins
Sean O’Casey, Joyce, Yeats, Lady Gregory, Dylan Thomas
the whole grand lot, toasts all around
Leonard proclaiming that all would be well because
the Irish genius for communication would save the world
“Are you a rrrevolutionary, Paula?” he asked the boarder
and she hesitated, not sure what to say
“You say, YES,” I later told her on our walk
out to the graveside, “You say YES!”

buried out in the tiny back-forty cemetery, its chest-high walls
stacked stone by stone by hand as in the old country
just east of the stone circle erected on their land
just west of the stone chamber sighting the solstice rays of sun
the neighbor having retrieved his body
from the hospital morgue, he lay resting there
in the back of the pickup as we pondered
how to get him out of the plastic zip body bag
and into the simple white sheet, the shroud
we used to lower him as gently as we could into the grave
with him still sporting his silly pajama bottom pants
covered with dancing penguin clowns with pointed hats
no doubt acquired from the same ever-abundant free box
where every stitch of his clothing ever came from

we stood in a broad circle reading poems
his “Dirge for an Old Warrior,” telling tales, singing songs
sharing shots of 12-year-old Macallan single malt Scotch
remembering this man so frugal he had money left over each month
from his pittance of a government check, who once
gave himself the challenge of going an entire month in San Francisco
without spending a single cent, ate every bite of food
at soup kitchens and traveled only on the shoe-leather express

another friend recounting how when he picked Len up
at the Burlington Airport, when he finally moved full-time
from San Francisco to Vermont, Len had stepped off the plane
with only a gym bag full of earthly goods, and when the friend said,
“Let’s go get the rest of your stuff at baggage claim,”
Leonard held up the tiny bag and said, “This is it”

on strips of parchment we penned our memories and prayers
dropping them one by one with our flowers into the casketless grave
each friend shoveling a spade of soil atop his earthly remains
while singing Randy’s favorite Irish tune, “Isn’t it Grand Boys”—
  “to be bloody well dead. Let’s not have a sniffle
  let’s have a bloody good cry, and always remember
  the longer you live, the sooner you bloody well die”
the Vermont wind carrying                our voices                    away

10/21