PoetryRepairShop
Contemporary International Poetry

issue 9904:11

John Horváth Jr

I fell next to him. His body rolled over.
It was tight as a string before it snaps.
      The men all piss
            nine miles from here
            the haystacks and houses burn
                  men, animals, wagons, and thoughts.
                  They are swelling
Frenchmen, Poles, loud Italians, heretic Serb, and dreamy
Jews live here in the mountains, among frightening rumors.
      For me, there are grasshoppers, oxen, church steeples,
      gentle farms.
            In the grass, it is growing dark.
                  And in time, silence drizzles again.
A world of nothing but water!
      The woman touches her bun
      of thinning hair. She laughs
            The traveler stands in the freezing cold
            surrounded by drowsy old men.
                  From early morning they stood at the gate,
                  shuffling their feet, coughing now and then
            Where's my father now? Where? Where's my pride of those days?
      I became a rainbow, and he maggoty clay.
            You do not fathom it, though you outlive me.
You raced against danger:  for as long
as you glided on ice you would not sink,
      Soaked to the skin, but she feels not a thing.
            They were shouting in a language foreign to me,
            yet as intelligibly and with words as clear-
            shining as the brilliant glitter of the sun
            on apples.

nyugat
we have gone west
west we have gone
nyugat

[NOTE:  "Torte" compiles lines from Hungarian poets Radnoti Miklos , Juhasz Ferenc , and Illyes Gyula]

(copyright 1999, all rights retained by author
PoetryRepairShop - Contemporary International Poetry ©1999,1998 (9904:11)