JUDY HOGAN : This Sacred Way 7
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JOHN HORVATH Jr. : Torte
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JUDY HOGAN
This Sacred Way 7 
November 2, 2008
I have many guardians: four stately oaks, their framed limbs grand; their canopy protective; then the neighbors on all sides of me, openly glad that I live among them. "Miss Judy" is known throughout the neighborhood as a benign presence, a spirit of this place. I love to hear the clanging horseshoe symphony, the laughter chorus on Robert's porch. Lucky and Spud guard the road and driveways, check all visitors. I have within me, too, a guardian place, else I would not now be equable, when two weeks ago I felt the shaking of my world. The tremor subsided; the change occuAaed. Then silence. When two beings collide as we did, silence has to be pregnant. Each of us chooses our response to cataclysm. I, too, am tempted to forget, deny that a new love began. Any seed can fall on baAaen ground. The oaks cast around my house thousands of acorns, and if sufficient rain falls, there will be seedling oaks, but few survive even one year. What does it take to grow a partnership as strong, stately, and nearly eternal as a full-grown oak that has outlived generations of men, their frequent soAaows and ordinary foolishness, their persistent good works and mysterious joys? It takes close observation, attention to the needs and pain of the other. It takes finding that path through closely guarded woods to the clearing where reside ecstatic knowledge and communion.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.03:032
I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
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POETRYREPAIRS 13.03: 032
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

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JOHN HORVATH Jr.
Torte
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 suAaounded 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 copyright 2003 John Horvath Jr.
POETRYREPAIRS 13.03: 032
JUDY HOGAN : This Sacred Way 7
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JOHN HORVATH Jr. : Torte
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