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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
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.
copyright John Horvath Jr;
Recent Poetry:
StarkRavingSanity http:/www.StarkRavingSanity.com/
The Animist http://theanimist2000.netgazer.au/pg000031.html
Red Coral http:/www.jps.net/redcoral
ArtPage Images http://www.artvilla.com/sub.htm
DuctTapePress http:/www.io.com/~crberry/DuctTape/
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