{"id":1656,"date":"2013-11-12T20:42:39","date_gmt":"2013-11-12T20:42:39","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/?p=1656"},"modified":"2015-03-27T00:50:37","modified_gmt":"2015-03-27T00:50:37","slug":"settling-city-poem-john-horvath-jr","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/settling-city-poem-john-horvath-jr\/","title":{"rendered":"Settling City. Poem. John Horvath Jr"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/div>\n
(i.)<\/strong><\/div>\n
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A world made from the refuse of a higher world of culture,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
a domain of trash, immature myths, inadmissible passions…<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
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City is stench of alewife millions inextricably dead on pebbled<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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beaches after icebreaks on Lake Michigan. Fisheyes reflecting<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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beached debris and the latest arrivals arriving amid girder and<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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concrete Sullivans and Wrights. They as did them who built the<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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buildings join the city to become steel or slag, oiled machine,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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part of the stench<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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Empty belongings from cars: Packard backseat divans, fruitcrate<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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end tables, curtains of plastic, crazy quilts, heirlooms, family<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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icons. On once cobbled streets, children are tribal on the curb–<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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at the edge of the world–displaying their valorous conquests<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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of enemies left behind, ancient or old, forgotten–no, in the city<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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never forgotten.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
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Work is rock: hard underfoot raucous dance of souls like morning<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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mists that settle, rise, vanish in the same low empty spaces–like<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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dunes that wander from waste to waste over farmlands abandoned.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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The village known by its brokenness–That friend in the mist<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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boiled in oils from broken pipelines; The neighbor there in the mist<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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butchered by ingots thrown from rollers; There in the mist a father<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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crushed in the presses. Around the dancehall wallflower daughters<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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painted for paychecks recognize brothers and sons who in the mists<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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begin to belong to the city.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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City is forge: rhythm out of the afternoon cacophone language of traffic-trapped<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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cousins cursing the ongoing babble of sledges and hammers that encircle their<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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metallic-tint enclaves of gas dreams. Afraid to unignite engines and escape, leap<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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the icefloes of autos jammed forever up and down stream–Ford, Dodge, Chevrolet,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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Dodge, pimpwagon, Volkswagen, Dodge, druglord Mercedes, turn-about, run.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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Who walks here passes into stone unfinished.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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There faces are the sculptures of workdays beaten into their souls<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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over time that begins with the end of their villages, farms, families.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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City is history. From Hoosier Dunes to Chicago Loop, then circle<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 back again, down Dan Ryan to East-West 90 Interstate, round<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 from Kankakee and Little Calumet to the temple of the rich,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 archaeology dreamlit with comers refusing to melt into mist<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 later and earlier, 1846, late 80, 1926, 46, 56, today or after,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 maybe another time altogether and around every corner a new<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 homeland where it’s always the Springtime and waves roll<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0onto the lakeshore leaving new stenches of alewives with<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 dead eyes rushing toward Bedlam out of old whoring Babylons<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 across dead seas, across rolling vast flatlands.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Come like belligerent hordes to the mills<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 where summer heat sparks from dried loins,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 muscular shapes–like salted meats–boil<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 onto asphalt murdering of thought, never<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 take home the punishment, trouble, dirt,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 or the danger of workplace. Consumption<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 and power in sweet sweaty hands gripping<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 hot steering wheels along potted streets<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 narrowly leading toward quiet exhaustion<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 proud of private slow death for girders,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 rails, and–for the wealthier–appliances<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 (sons and daughters desiring such honors<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 follow footsteps of foolhardy martyr fathers.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 They dream they will conquer the dragons<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 that spat the flames that marked fathers<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 who worked in the mills for a living but<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 only inherited scars like the slavebrands<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 their daddies had carried as birthright).<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 father, I love you.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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A man hears himself saying what his father had said his son would<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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say when he looks into his rearview mirror mirroring traffic come<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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to a halt like Lot’s wife; He hears himself cursing his father’s<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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curse when he curses that self like himself stalling all forward<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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movement. In a language of the dead, sinner and saint correspond.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 father, I love you.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When passion has gone after the work must end<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 alone in the heat of coffin-like cars dead in<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the end of shift traffic, ghosts come to say,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 you, you are the father who brought you here.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 father I love you.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 you are the mistaken idea of rescue beyond the village walls<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 escape into purgatory of factory days from the hell of knowing<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 every valley dweller by name and the dates of their first loves.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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This is the city: when you look back on what it was to you when<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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you were mocked neutered and cowered, primmed for display in it,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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bled by it, when you have fled from it, left someone behind in it,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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when you are gone from it, when you are gone… the city is yours.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 father, I love you.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 This city is yours.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It is the village<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It is the valley<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The dried farm<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 you sought to escape.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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The city is history. Rebuild its monuments. Make way for boulevards;<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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Leave the fa\u00e7ades, the mirroring windows, the pointed roofs, the false<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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faces of what you’ve made and the chimneys<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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whose rich dark smoke recall death’s communards.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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This city is yours. It is where your child blew her first kiss away,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It is where your sons blooded their first enemies, where all<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 the passions denied you long ago from some false sense of dignity,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 honesty, integrity, the church that held like glue together family,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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this city is yours now that all that is past.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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It is your country to where the street signs end,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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to where garbage is taken and the dead are buried.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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<\/div>\n
***
\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
(ii.)<\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
<\/a><\/a><\/a><\/strong><\/div>\n
CALUMET<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
a kulfoldi magyarjaihoz<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
for Hungarian emigres<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
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\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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Cartwrights and sailors and farmers<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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leaving families, histories, icons,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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you came to this blast-furnace city<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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as if God’s own breath blew through<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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its chimneys a forgiveness of greed<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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but you were not the first to come:<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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Endlessly East moves West,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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West moves endlessly East,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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toward Calumet drab smoke,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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into cauldrons and furnace,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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into the moments of common<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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machine and common labors,<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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into this moment of common language.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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Strangers forged into a new race.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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Nothing–<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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not a slightest movement–<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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could have been differently.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\u00a0\"j<\/a><\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Southside Chicagoan and second-wave immigrant John Horv\u00e1th Jr. now lives in Mississippi; he has published his poetry nationally and internationally since the 1970s. \u201cDoc\u201d Horv\u00e1th has taught creative writing, literary criticism, and theory. Having been an online mentor to new and emerging poets, in November 1997 he published and now edits poetryrepairs.com [www.poetryrepairs.com<\/a>], a zine dedicated to promoting contemporary international poetry.<\/strong><\/div>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/div>\n

\u201cVeteran of two wars, retired Professor of English in Mississippi, the poet with a unique and brilliant and cutting perspective of southern culture and religion teams up with talented musicians to produce something quite unique. The language of the Veteran and the south and poetic style with good music.\u201d\u2026..David Michael Jackson, www.artvilla.com<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

See also:\u00a0 Excerpt from Blues Man Joe from the Album Reverend Terrebone Walker John Horvath Jr. Label The buy link at\u2026 http:\/\/<\/span>fb.me\/2T11LMNlh<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

editor@artvilla.com<\/a>
\nrobin@artvilla.com<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/strong>www.facebook.com\/PoetryLifeTimes<\/a>
\nwww.facebook.com\/Artvilla.com<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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<\/i><\/a><\/span>\n<\/i><\/a><\/span><\/div><\/div><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

(i.) A world made from the refuse of a higher world of culture, a domain of trash, immature myths, inadmissible passions… City is stench of alewife millions inextricably dead on pebbled beaches after icebreaks on Lake Michigan. Fisheyes reflecting beached debris and the latest arrivals arriving amid girder and concrete Sullivans and Wrights. They as … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[445,43],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1656"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1656"}],"version-history":[{"count":14,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1656\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3718,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1656\/revisions\/3718"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1656"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1656"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1656"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}