Poems by John Horvath, Jr
" On writing: I focus on the
biographical, not autobiographical, to make social narratives from
"inside the sinner" where the poet must exercise empathy and
sympathy, render the observed more open to discussion, more human, and
perhaps more dignified. I write to create purpose and drama in mundane and
meaningless acts. My technique is akin to 'sprung rhythm': I pen/pencil my
ideas; revise them into traditional metric/rhyme schemes (not necessarily
English); then, I revise a poem into a narrative, free verse/lyrical form.
I do this to explore my subject and to distance myself from the poem
because, as Plato noted, "Poetry endangers the established order of
the soul"; it is what poetry must do, so poets must use care."
An Hungarian-American born in Chicago, John Horvath Jr was educated (PhD)
in the American South; has been steel mill mechanic, soldier, Munich
street
poet, cab driver, professor of literature and criticism. Disabled in a
parachute accident, he now lives in Jackson Mississippi with wife, four
children, two dogs, and a cat. Horvath edits PoetryRepairShop - Contemporary
International Poetry (since 1997) and writes poetry, much of which appears
online. (Kiki the cat, who reminds me that not everyone will love me
nor love my poetry which she eats regularly, perfers manuscripts in pencil
or red ink.)
JanosHalma@aol.com
ANOTHER STORY, PAPA!
Tunna
cowaum?
So quiet in that cavity where faith resides
a lie boasts of itself til dawn. This coming son
will hear the lie and think it is my heart
ta-tha-thumping life and lives that went before.
Some little echo of a bludgeoned innocent,
some echo of a tribal woman saved from sin,
the sack of Rome, conquest of an alpine Slav,
a battleline drawn thin around sad Stalingrad.
I heard them at my mother's breast.
All here,
all here, all here now ha-har-harumphing in my chest.
It will be a thing for a child to sleep beside,
to curl in a primal loop and hide inside
from worlds it may little understand.
It is the ticking of a lie, a part-time truth
that grows and grows once it's entered a small ear.
All here, all here, I tell you, the lies we half forget
are half of truth and half desire for a truth.
I heard them on my father's boozy breath.
Small ticking comfort in a loathsome world.
You must learn new lies for life
among the lifeless ones. Such, your heritage--
to tell tales that have not been so long
they've neither moral, right, nor wrong;
to take the easy rhyme, the glibbest meter
for your memory and pass it on
until it is a morsel of another's faith that truth
exists. In time there'll come a second emptiness:
when I and you and all descent forget.
So I begin the tale as I thought another might--
vir fuit
indole bonus, ac justus:
et
popularium gloriae amantissimus
quibus
eternum reliquit monumentum
America.
copyright John Horvath Jr
SEARCHING HOUSE TO HOUSE ARREST
House to house on first occupation day
to comb for subversives – pseudo
intellectuals who had undermined
then surrendered their own, underground
leaders, men and women who murdered
their own, first line, first stalwarts,
makers of terrible truths revamped and
disguised.
K____ now in his own dungeon
writes on the walls the weeks in
captivity, fearing the light of the sun
and the burning city above him.
Is it Sunday now and should he pray
to beg forgiveness from an uncaring god
who did not save him who needed
salvation? None at the end.
K____ eats regularly the rats
that burrow beneath the burned
city and he wonders whether
some of the fat ones had feasted
on flesh. Was this in the chain
of being a brother or coworker
perhaps a slatternly bitch who
kept track of the horses and lay
on her back for more money to bet.
K____ names them now. After
a month in his sheltered solitude
where the water drips slowly from
the ceiling and the damp walls
seem to grow closer, tighter.
It is his humor – to name dinner
for loved ones and others he’s known.
Even more palatable than when he’d
given each morsel a group occupation:
bakers, burglars, onto zookeepers
had seemed an exercise in developing
a connoisseur taste. Things taste
better when you know them by name.
A year after occupation
the city returns to its normal
routine as if nothing but flag
had been altered. This banner,
that. What does it matter?
copyright John Horvath Jr
SLEEPING ABOARD A TRAIN TOWARD WESTERN PROVINCES AND THE MOON IS IN MY DREAM
and all of this
is only the moon's
sheer verbiage
though we need all philosophy
and the strength
to keep it out of our work
and we imitate physicists
who assemble experiments
and on these found system
which reduces them to a principle
or we insist
this is a record
of a best and happiest moment
of a best and happiest mind
but I say
it is a foreign language
of ideas poorly expressed
its meaning incommunicable
whether it contains an alien
quality which belongs to America
to nowhere else
or it is spirit
emboldened by
a very curious assembly
of incongruous parts
it is only the moon
sheer verbiage about it
things that must be said
before a dedicated sleep
copyright John Horvath Jr
TO THE UNSEEN CHILD SOON ADULT
I call you "Stephen Arpad", leader of aristocrats
plunging into commonfolk. I imagine you strong
in O'Keefe landscapes - Free among bleached skulls,
on heat spirals into scorched sky without horizons.
You dwell as a desert voice remembered:
a bloodied life crying before exiting
the cut of mom, you a hairheaded, point-
shouldered excitement like brothers and
sisters none of whom escaped my genetics.
Why pester sleepless nights?
Do you dream me and seek me?
I've nothing more than you -
all I have is yours: Life's
sterile beginning and end,
the edges of dangerous excitements
that spark happy and unbid to life.
You've life and the dream of a pure West.
Pass it on.