Verhovayak Lapja, 1944 (27. évfolyam, 1-52. szám)

1944 / Verhovay Journal

iVOL. XXVII.

JULY 27, 1944

NO. 30.

A Page of Verliovay Poetry

Quite a lot of poetry came to your editor’s desk during the last week. Some of it is good poetry, some of it perhaps just a promise of future achievement. But there is beauty in all of them and, therefore, I feel that it should be published together as the true expression of what fills the hearts of those who write, in these days ...

However, following the rules of courtesy, I would like to introduce to the readers a grand old man, the Oldest of American Hungarian poets, whose book of poems has just been published by “Magyars in America.” We consider the poems published in this volume Verhovay poetry, too, for one reason: the last Convention voted to purchase 100 volumes of this book, which marks the fiftieth anniversary of the poet, GEORGE KEMÉNY, as a writer. His “Book of Life” contains not only Hungarian poems, but some excellent translations from Hungarian into the American language, by Prof. Watson Kirkconnel. These translations enable us to make the second generation membership of our Association acquainted with the writings of the oldest American Hungarian poet, George Kemény. The Verhovay Fraternal Insurance Association, by the purchase of 100 volumes of this book, claimed George Kemény as its own poet, and it is for this reason that we feel that some of his poems should be quoted in our Journal, too, thereby giving recognition to the oldest representative of true Hungarian poetry in America.

THE HEART

To every mortal born on earth,

A little coffin comes at birth.

A little casket called the Heart,

Where many griefs are stored apart.

And as Life’s spindles whirl the more, these casket-hearts increase their store: they fill, and fill, and overflow, till, when a dead man turns to go to seek the tomb, his sorrows through, his heart is grown a graveyard too, marked with so many a mound of pain it would not wish to rise again.

THE POET

'A poet is a lunatic at large, a pauper who sows wealth for other’s sakes, a mourner ivlio makes beauty his true charge, and comforts others though his own heart breaks.

; • - * * *

(7

Just two little gems from a book of great riches, enough to make you see that in George Kemény we have a real poet, who has clad into beauty the thoughts and pains of Magyars in America.

* * *

And now let’s have a little fun. Here is a girl, JOSEPHINE HORVATH, age 14, member of Branch 429 of Detroit, Mich., who has succeeded in expressing some serious thoughts in a way that will call for some smiles on part of the good reader.

THE TRUTH

By Josephine Horvath

The Schicklegruber ven he talks,

Iss nod surbrized der public balks At words from such a nitwit source,

It fits him to a “T” of course.

When Hirohito of Yokahoma Opens his mouth to spread balona,

Even his little yellow men Doubt if they have a chance to win.

And from the boot of Italy We hear the bunk from Mussoli . . .

You and I and the rest of us know Where he and his axis partners will go.

Now when F. D. R. decides to speak,

It leaves the Axis very weak.

It doesn’t take a well known sleuth To plainly see he speaks the truth. ,

For it won’t be long, his words will prove That we are finally in the Groove,

And when this comes true, the Japs will say: “What occurs this gloomy day?”

And so history will again repeat,

That the U. S. A. none can defeat.

And the freedoms for which our fathers fought,

Will be forever ours without a doubt.

* * *

Then here is Emma Jean Evans, of Branch 7, Pricedale, Pa., who also is 14 years of age. She contributed the following poem:

GOD BLESS OUR BOYS

God, bless our boys across the sea,

And guide them with your loving hand,

Give them courage and hope to win,

And then bring them back to our land.

God give them strength with which to fight, And give them each the will to win,

Protect them from the enemy’s fire,

And protect them, too, from all sin.

Dear God, always watch over them,

Wherever their footsteps may roam,

Keep them ever close to you,

And, some day, bring them safely home.

Emma Jene Evans

* * *

And here is a newcomer, if I am correct. Miss Grace Bartholdi of Drifton, Pa., member of Branch 1, age 18, sent a poem, written in free style, together with a letter, which she would like to see published. The letter, written in simple language, is a poem nevertheless, because it tells us of the heroic effort, our people are making to help our nation to win the war. Here is the letter:

“DEAR FRIENDS:

This letter is for all who read the Verhovay Journal. My brother for whom I wrote the poem, is the only one in the armed forces from our home. I have another brother who will soon go, too. When he does, there will be the three of us at home. My mother, my dad and myself. Dad is a miner. He gets a bond every pay-day. Ma buys bonds with the money she doesn’t need for things at home, here. I work in a silk-mill doing work that will help to end the war sooner. I have ten % taken out of my pay for bonds. And now, that the Fifth War Loan Drive is on, I am going to add to the 10%. So help end the war real soon by buying bonds and working harder than you ever did. So, that my brother and your sons and brothers can come home, when the war is over. Always your friend, GRACE BARTHOLDI.”

And here is her poem, dedicated to her brother:

MY BROTHER

He was just 18 in June,

We knew, he had to leave us soon.

He didn’t say a thing, he just went on his way, To join and help the good old U. S. A. . . .

We were proud of him that day.

On September 17th,

He went for his first test.

He wanted to help the U. S. A. so much!

We prayed to God that he would pass his test, And with God’s help he did.

On September 24th he had to leave us then, We knew that, maybe, he would never come back again.

But we thanked God that day . . .

Because we knew he wanted to help the U.S.A.

Now we pray to God that he will be safe,

Wherever he may roam.

We pray to God that when the war is won,

My brother may come home.

* * *

All this poetry inspired me too... and somehow I could not resist the urge to write my first poem in the American language. Perhaps it is not fitting that I introduce my own writing in this way... but no one else would do it. •. and since this may be not only the first, but also the last poem I write... the readers will perhaps kindly forgive me for publishing it... as a memorial to my only son ... who went before me... though it should have been the other way around ...

I should also confess that the title is not my own. A very good friend of mine, pastor Althof, gave it to me, when we travelled home to Pittsburgh from Erie, after that fateful night, when my little Superman’s restless heart so suddenly stopped beating. It was my friend who told me that he is now “Superman for sure!” Ever since, these three words have been ringing in my heart until they rang out the melody of this, my first—and possibly last—American poem:

SUPERMAN FOR SURE . . .

Always striving for what is right,

And never being satisfied With all that human life offered you, Dreaming of strength and joy, pure and true, Driven by a strange, consuming fire:

To be like SUPERMAN was your desire.

Life did always mean bondage to you,

Bedtimes, school-work and home-duties, too, They cramped your style and made you slave, Suppressing the dreams of the free and brave. Just like SUPERMAN you wanted to fly,

With winged feet thru the starlit sky.

Then sickness sapped your strength one day, You cried and wanted to run away,

With tearful reproach you looked at me, Asking why sickness and weakness must be: Your spirit rebelled against pain and fright, That ended suddenly on the third night.

And when I looked into your crystal-clear eyes, With broken heart though, I did realize,

That you just left me for heavenly pastures, Finding unlimited glorious adventures, Winging your way to the Kingdom’s lure ... That now, at last, you are — SUPERMAN FOR SURE!

FWR