"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.)
Black-TieAffair
megalodi
angelo eudaemonizer
Marcus
Milton born of wealth to riches
destined
certainly, inheritor of his
father’s
father’s trove and prestige
(does
not matter if there’s love though
love
is fixed upon him by the masses
and
his missus soon to bear new Milton
generations
swollen into privilege. She
--the
focus and the center and the hub
of
diverse social circles -- a static
point
full of college cheerful, leader
to
the leaderless, succor to the weak,
malnourished
babies from the ghetto.
Her
man is THE Marcus Milton who is so
magic
in a million means of doubling or
tripling
whatever he’s been given; This
Eustace
is his mistress born to boring
expectations:
Be a beauty, be so clever,
enjoy
the finer life may offer; marry
well
and marry money; and, if not money-
married,
be money’s special interest.
Peso,
krona, pound, and yen exchanger
Marcus
Milton, dollar man, and his jewel
laden
lover, “lady’ Eustace meet for an
evening
of swank and private black-tie
dining
in Center City’s oldest business
district
at his special corner table hidden
from
others of their ilk and ken where
he
seldom shares a luncheon hour or two
with
a minion or competitor, wife soon
to
be mother of his children (it’s
been
three
generations of never Milton sired
children
of their own line. No one dare
say
Marcus Milton is a wealthy bastard.)
Here
to serve them while they’re seated
Robin
Public straight and narrow stands
attentive
in wholesale finery provided
by
the owners of the establishment. His
own
only white shirt over brightly waxed
and
shining slippers. Meets that glance
of
self-approval – he helps create it,
part
of his very special Public service.
(Robin
Public Is a poor man, so say Dow
Jones
and Standard Poor list convicts of
a
busy business district. Ever palm up
quietly
bids for extra bits of splendor
for
his efforts seeming effortless. Yes.
Robin
Public, just a poor man—works for
good
old, fat-cat traders and friendly
French-cuffed,
well-laundered bankers
who
may tip him for service rendered
(while
he renders to the well-off who he
wishes
he could render into lard or…).)
“Bring
lion filet mignon; lobster tails
broiled
with expensive spices; bring us
oysters
with fresh pearls; bring it hot
or
cold as ordered, bring it quickly,
bring
the best of your muscarinic wine
for
aperitif; bring us a side of Tuscan
truffles
unearthed by well-bred swine
of
cleanest muzzles could not be fooled.
Later
we shall require thick and slowly
moving
java from the hills of deepest,
dark
Jamaica; Crème from cattle
pampered
on the pampas.
Here’s
a gift, my sweetest Eustace, just
a
little teardrop bauble to entertain us
while
we wait. Now, you, son, go and get
it!”
Milton is a man of wit. Lights his
Havana
as he surveys all around him;
makes
a note of who’s with whom there –
leaders
of the city, crime-lords, an old
owner
of old industries there, a little
scat
of newly wealthy pimps and pushers.
Tolerance:
the Milton motto (the credo
keeps
him welcome as the front man for
every
recently risen social movement.)
While
Marcus Milton dines with his Lady
Eustace,
Robin eats a fifty cent bologna
sandwich
on bleached white bread slices
touched
by no hand, bland potatoes in
plain
oil boiled. Robin breaks from
being
someone other, bathes
his
hands while thinking, thinks of his
Bobbie,
Robin’s own sweet live-in life-
mate
girlfriend Then he’s called
back
to
the table, serves again, a dessert
soldier
in the war for silver dollars.
Lady
Eustace tips their waiter; “’They
also
serve,’ says Mister Milton, “who
merely
stand and wait.’” (Her Milton is
a
wit.) As soon as said, she drops
a
tear-drop diamond
into
the palm of Robin Public (Robin
even
smiles as if he knows it’s no mere
sugar-glass
from off her bauble). Now
there
is no hurry; Marcus Milton slowly,
calmly
driven to an evening at theatre
(polite
muffled coughing, nervous bits
of
laughter, snips of private
chatter,
mistress
Eustace settled in for enter-
tainments
shared with her admiring
subjects
–Dollar man is with his sweet
darling.
NewsWatch televised on special
Center
City channel portrays Marcus
Milton
as lonely angel patron of the opera
house
he’d built for Center City masses.
(Chandeliers
and champagne for his minions.)
Purple
vellum paper curtain rises.
At
intermission a smallish, too young,
bathroom
matron, gingham meets the tone-
dressed
in the ladies’ who have most
everything
she ever wanted as a child
before
the boring routine of common
daily
tedium to make tips from warmed,
fresh-scented
towels and a broom for
sweeping
up the ladies’ leavings. (It’s
a
living. Barely, it’s a living). She
smiles
thinking “after hours” when Bath-
room
Bobbie will meet her boyfriend
Robin
down an unlit street, in a squalid
corner
old-brick tavern under neon buzz
of
reddish flicker where a few
unshaven
drinkers
visit with each other and other
down-and-outers.
Count the tips and
share
a brewski before sunrise raft of
bacon
and some bedtime bedroom cuddling
naked,
maybe sleep through the day glow
or
gloom until evening turns to another
night
of garish glitter.
Lock
the doors and windows, Butler,
turn
the lights down low; perhaps I’ll
listen
to some Chopin, perhaps Bach,
or
soft Debussy– another point of bald
indecision
before donning his mink mocs
and
oriental housecoat then to bed with
Missus
Marcus Milton, sip two fingers
of
good whiskey ere he dreams of risky
markets,
beggars, hoodlum dangers on
each
corner of his city. Sleeping softly
with
his Missus, each half awake, they
make
one sleeper cradled in night terror
waiting
for their morning wake-up
with
the hair of dogs that bit them.
Robin
Public’s girlfriend Bobbie’s grown
simple
in her needs and in her desires
simpler:
have a good man wake beside her,
serve
her steaming breakfast coffee, sit
beside
her TV watching, on their days
off
take her walking through a garden,
be
her left hand at the market and when
they
cook together All they truly share
‘s
a prayer for better living, not for
themselves
but for someone other.
Now
the wild white horses play
(Matthew
Arnold's sea is life, of course;
The
sea, an act of procreation, and
sexual
desire is the horse.
The
sands of time-- we note'-- lay beneath
the
Dover bone-white cliffs of death.
This
microcosm is the rhythm of all lives.)
I
am a half century of experience
More
than a quarter-century since
our
experience
For
nothing explained
to
these box-viewing brains
is
as real as the moment
of
"I" in the "ACT"
SO
I
recall for them a poem by Matthew Arnold
and
remember you while reading it
but
this is not for such children
not
for the mothers of children
but
for
a woman who has known lust
among
the sand-fleas and the crust
of
sand on her firm buttocks
after
the hot sun has dried
remembrance
onto her thighs
No
There
is no poem here
no
refuge from the god of fire
who
quenches the suffering horses
with
spray shattering shore stones
then
dries sea-salts onto their backs
and
the hip die too
not
like in the movies
until
the next contract
but
suddenly
unexpectantly
Oh
they
think that they will never die
but
Arnold and I will outlive them
Yes.
The hip die too
the
young women with sharp tits
and
riots of come-over-here-hunk
in
their eyes which I see though
they
lay naked on the white sand
they
die
skin
cancer rots
the
beauty that
comes
to beaches
in
midsummer
or
the fire god
leathers
their haunches
that
in old age
feel
of ancient books
covered
with the skins
of
sinners tanned
at
the stake
I
have tasted
I
myself
that
dried flesh
dark
skins of lust
at
Costa brava
sweating
under the sun
the
naked sweat smell
of
their juices sizzling
under
the heat of mid-
summer
frying slowly
I
myself have tasted
their
dreams of desire
I
am not here saying this
because
of the loneliness
nor
are you here
lips
on my masculine muscle
talking
with your mouth
around
the bulbous rose
of
my manhood
about
to blossom
into
your words
WE
ARE NOT TOGETHER
WHEN
WE ARE APART
this
is the simplicity of truth
an
objectivity of how earth
has
spatial distances &
specialized
measurements
between
the horses that play
at
the edge of the sea spray,
between
their bare backs
and
the lush cunts of nude
riders,
dripping wet between
those
lips I have kissed between
the
buds at the tip of my tongue
when
I was young
tasting
you
even
now
tasting
you
I
am hard to remember
my
member hard remembering
how
we were such wild white horses
whoring
summer at seaside
where
I was the whip
of
your whim
and
you saddled my wants
we
would with abandon
do
whatever it took
to
live in that moment
forever
that we might never
forget
this place that time
what
we had done together
So,
we thank you,
Matthew
Arnold,
for
the suggestion
that
life both begins
at
the sea and ends
And
in this
I
am young
not
lecturing
but
again there
inside
of her
I
am not an old man rambling
about
inconsequential things
that
these young
will
refuse to take
into
their limited
imagine-less
real worlds
there
is nothing to experience
there
is no poem here
there
is only a boy in his first great love
acting
as if he were a boy again
Chicago
Southside smoke stacks and furnaces
whose ashes move eastward along interstate
80 to New York dog tailing to Boston where does
it begin where the first asphalt that first
bug splat windshield hurrying from setting sun
into anxious eyes fixed on the middle line blinded
by sudden approaches of strangers going into what
has been escaped then the sun rising again as
if nothing had happened no past no furnaces
no towns built around forges no shackled workers
small
dark cloud of boy ramshackling over bent
Pontiac in the dead lot just off rail tracks that snake
toward flat plains and tall buildings seen from
the beach abutting whose gray concrete seawall
appears a jagged saw or shark's teeth chewing
earth there where money-makers enjoy hard labor
by
others such a place a mystery of beginnings
we
have all seen driving hurried toward
destinations
as mysterious their faces from
soiled windows like so many unbranched black
leaves
gutter captured as we speed by
some
things taught few things remembered
first line, first john, hanging out of a third floor
flowerbox, vomit toward the corner cop surveying
pay toilets East on interstate 80 uglier more
menacing
like a cancer or leprous wounds
unspeakably
scabbed over, the corner-stoned,
vines of ivy growing around old women legs
whose
roots saw revolution’s red cobbles lead
to
brown stones off the main line, on tracks
there
in the corner of your eye near small town
America
where no one cares about the past
where
homeless winos lay dismembered on
A
line rails that circles from far nowheres
In
a city of nuns cloaked in mystery vows ply
Saint
Pat’s aisles harangue indiscreet boys
asleep
in pews meant for worshipful members
of the order members of the congregation
go
out to damnable cold. Yes sister from all.
Yes
to you all who have shed fat and smoking
and
habits of sexual impropriety. Yes to you all
who
have not yet found the Lord you seek. I say
Yes
Yes to all of you. On 80 from second city straight
lined in jeans and my father's felt hat, naked from
waist up through the winter storms toward very NEW
New England whose cities like lanterns gaudy velvet
heavens from shoreline into the agate ocean turbulent
with crisp spikes of daylight unconquerable very New
New England whose brittle speech mimics the hard
ground of poems I have read praising disconnection
between men bridges to cross bridges of metaphor
between souls screaming their servitude into society
bellowing from deep grumbling
chests New England
understands
the lighthouse the foghorn the warning
of
imminent danger hard rocks harsh vocabulary
of
disenfranchisement, estranged from offensive
dog
droppings, alien to those in brick and bricklayer.
I
am driving east
and
in the silk band of that hat plastic peyote, what
would father have said, the heater of his '53 Chevy
like the exhaust of Bessemer furnaces I once worked
the
window opened to a violence of snowflakes
accosting landscapes burying dead dark cities
too distant for names unknown on no map
what
might have been seen, teetering wet
bitter
atop passing bridges surveying iced over
rivers
men and women huddled on steam vents
of
summery Fahrenheit driven toward forgetting
who
I had been where I had done what I had seen
of
the round world after having survived mass
murder
when I escaped from overseas pain
that
had brought us here. Yes. The sea
that had brought all of us here. No one is native.
From
the Bobbie cobbled streets of London along
Amsterdam open season windows, goose-stepping
beyond Paris into the verflugt Reich onto the munchen
monopteros im Englischer Garten to squall pain
of survival lies of life into a cacophony of olympian
visitors whose pfennigen I gathered up so to feed
my starving artist poet's persona, on whose crumb
fattened stray pigeons I feasted. This is my mountain.
This is my sitting place. This my hookah and strawman.
This is my yellowed brick. This is cash only always.
A
song unsung on my lips, a happy wanderer,
alone
alone alone escaping the lie of better lives
Yet
in high Alps stars touched my face as I lay
cold
upon the swaying grass in a night’s pretence
of
winter These words yellow snow lovely in nature
inedible.
Winter before Italy and its laundry flags
like vangogh holiday flags then an Adriatic
Coast whose blue-eyed waters forgave souls
their speechlessness. I am a polyglot dictionary
of half correct phrases, a travelogue of strange
looks, an encyclopedia of faces signaling
Toward where I would become someone else,
not a poet, but an owned man. Someone’s
husband.
Someone’s father. A would-be
escapee
from dangerous Midwest life
its
industrial beer drinkers oiling armatures
Anglo intolerance rejected for intolerance
of
their own making. It began on Interstate
80
this desire for elsewhere new experience
for
my towering self apart from millions
of
crab bent workers making stripped
clean products in ubiquitous
junkyards.
I
have come through that and the Khyber Pass
with dysentery drying on my trousers a deep
brown turned green. I am come from mountains
Alexander crossed, having failed myself to cross
them. And out of California to Old South my lips
welded shut as the old men who had lost passion
where
I had secretly fornicated with abandon and
masturbated
in the shower afterward always more
pleased
with myself than I could have right. Each
of
us in that shower now. All of us. Hot warmth
of
ourselves inhaled. Blacked-booted. Brown-shirted.
Gestapo
of love object to my revenge, my offspring
in
the loins of good girls innocents daddy's girls
pink
rich kids moronically stupefied dull-faced
harlequins
overly experienced who would become
wives
of politicians the lays of warmongers one night
for
visiting officials governors an aide to an
assistant
to a secretary men bloated on small
self-made
estates, empires of cash. It is not
about me. It is about all of us in all of us transferred
from one post to another who have no banner
to plant no stone reminders of ancient occupation
and transferring what we have been. Eating it up
in our pork sausage breakfasts our Wheaties and
porridge and coffee stained mornings. I say YES.
How might it have been otherwise? Purpose unserved
in looking back, nostalgia a gnome seeking shelter
in
a giant’s underpants. Yes to giants. Yes to Gargantua.
Yes
to skinny kids' dreams of riches and power
yes
to the garbage and land fill canon fodder
of tomorrow's who cares if they die.
.
This
has all been said because dark night
in a drab soul yearns. to say
yes to life despite
crippled
hands dancing like sprayed roaches
across
keyboard simulating communion
YES against the bogey-man and YES against
a peaceful and solemn death obscure in a small
unfriendly part of America. Yes. It is a word
whispered once into my ear by a woman so beautiful
my eyes watered at hearing it. Yes. That I could
receive such a word so long incomprehensible,
so long thought without meaning. Yes. It is
a word whispered once into my ear by a woman
so beautiful my eyes water at thinking it. Yes.
She
is the memory of that dark cloud of small boy
ramshackling over the bent Pontiac toward a back
seat and first nakedness first exhibition of himself
as if nothing were to hide all of that hidden now
except her rat-tail brush I've carried for forty years.
Yes
to interstate 80. The process of return is yet
another
preparation for leaving. Yes to my journey
into
the East, yes to the Catherine-wheel of destiny.
Yes
to it all. Yes to that woman whose voice
bellows
on my eardrums. Yes. It's been a long hard
good
drive into trust, into acceptance, into true love.
My
journey is over. I drive 5 10 15 20 miles
Over
the speedlimit wondering when that cop
Will
come sirens blaring sliding on black ice
Until
I find an off-ramp into metropolis into its
Suburbia
Yes. I have steered dad’s rattle-trap
clunker
into a driveway
The
officer coming ticket in hand
My
window open to enjoy the fury of snow
The
motor is off. The engine is cooling. For this
I
traveled from Chicago on Interstate 80 East.
For
this I have kept mementoes of lovers
remembering
good lost kisses I have spent
my
life working against success, no goal other
than
this moment when a six foot trooper in
his
Dudley Do-right felt hat bends his face into
the
heat streaming from my heater into the last
night
of winter and the firing pin falls It takes
only
a second to run the slide show of his being
here
among such people all the foul drunks and
all
the blasted women offering crotch against
his
written accusations Now the back seat
I
am convinced ever my destiny regardless
what
purposes I may have built Me,
I am
to
be driven, driven to places and faces and
words
uncontrollably. The windows have fogged.
The
hero has fallen. Celebrity criminals.
The
heat of my flesh departing to travel again.
I
am waiting for Mister and Missus Stranger
To
come for the morning paper and see my vehicle
beneath
a white snowdrift. Mister and Missus
maybe
their children trying to see though
icedover
windows who might be there what
would
he be doing I wait for my beloved
to
find me. Yes. I am merely waiting.
ANOTHER STORY, PAPA!
Recent Poetry:
CONUS: the First Tour Chapbook, new and collected poetry of war, by John
Horvath Jr. http://www.ebookstand.com/m/johnhorvathjr
Audax http://www.alonet.de.vu
Seeker www.seekermagazine.com