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Poetry || Submissions"Three Poems for Elisha Porat." by John Horvath Jr. SHAPE OF FIREThe shape of fire is a dance; the woman is heat lightning whose summer dancing shapes the fire into the dancer's hand, a shaking wrist, and limbs that wave like forest mosses in the wind. Along the river by the fire breezes rippling reflect flames rising. The shape of fire is the forest leaf and frond reshaping shade where the shape of fire races; flight of owl and birds of prey rise before her fire dancing-- the tropic limbs of fire rising. Even the wings are fireshapes where the woman fire-dances. The shape of fire endless last summer where the waters met, together dancers flow, together forests burn. Heat lightning in the heat of night captures movement for a moment; morning-after embers still recall fire-dancer dancing shape. The shape of fire is remembrance written as patterns where wood and garden once had stood; the body of the woman is also shaped like fire. WINTER LANDSCAPE: JERUSALEM Foolishly, I had expected snow but the city does not change with seasons as some do. The golden sunset walls remain in winter as bright at dawn as in summer. Jerusalem cannot change -- for some, the city is as it was first built or when the riots of Babylon descended on its citizens. But, divided once, the city is divided still. Evening's are the evenings; no more. The dawn is as the dawn has been since first recorded time. The day is rumor's napping place. The nights are quiet drinks we share with friends. Adib had introduced me to his sister; I was surprized, so Western was the gesture that I felt annoyed at such effrontery. She was beautiful: continents mingled in that face where Sheba and Mongol met and her walk was the grace of ancient rivers half a world was in her walk (a dance of vails might less entrance-- had the King seen THIS, John's head he'd spare). I do not jest, exaggeration does her ill, for when she spoke birds grew silent with jealous listening, wishing that her song were theirs. Adib had sinned against mankind to bring this Angel out; no mob should look upon such things that steal dreams from men. Now I am old, cold in my winter's bed, unclothed except in memory of Kalima' unreachable and untouchable. Truly old. Unremarkably old and sad, only a man with memories of a Nativity in the Holy Land where Moses' tribe continues war with Canaanites whose luscious women are beyond this mere mortal's grasp. I would prefer to die at winter's end; In Jerusalem in spring I prefer to die with Adib's Words to describe my death. SPANNING DISTANCES It is an anomaly of an odd ether to make friends from strangers whose only connection is words they've written. John Horvath, Jr. says he has been influenced by Elisha Porat, an Ariga regular. Horvath says he "writes from 'inside the sinner' where events become experience, history becomes historicity, and memory shields. His poems-- focused on the strange and stranger among us-- are widely published on the internet and in print magazines -- a bibliography is available at http://members.aol.com/janoshalma/ He also edits PoetryRepairShop You can write to him at JanosHalma@aol.com Today's Situation
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