For Immediate Release

Poet, Wise Student of History, Creates Hope From Out Of History’s Pandora’s Box Jack Henry Markowitz, with wit, analytic depth, and filmic poetry has written an unforgettable version of the truth. 

PHILADELPHIA – With the publication of Pandora’s Box – New Collected Poems author Jack Henry Markowitz presents a collection of his more recently written poems. This new volume can be viewed as a book end to his prior collection Please Ask, Do Tell – The Collected Poems which represents a collection of some of his favorite poems that were written over a span of 40 years. Greatly influenced by the movies, the author often turns a satiric camera eye on the details of everyday life, in effect translating the film process into image or narrative within the confines of rhyme and meter. In this collection of poems treating harsh, heroic or epic events in American history and American life, Jack Markowitz puts this honed talent to good use – the details of history and commonplace realities come alive as in the harsh winter in Valley Forge or a school sock hop dance attended by prepubescent fifth graders, where everything is treated with a wiser and therefore more comic eye. (Men in combat or on the field often have recourse to gallows or raw humor to survive the harshest conditions; the school sock hop dance evokes memories of rashes on necks unaccustomed to buttoned up collars.) In addition, Markowitz treats his readers with unique visions of truth – using voices of characters real or fictitious, or even his own, to flesh out these visions into a sublime though cynical view of history as something that ordinary people must live through patiently (not only to survive it, but to understand it in the end, in the perspective of regret tempered by acceptance). This is Markowitz’s most deep and telling message throughout this collection. Heroes and famous men do not survive history, they become trapped in it. It is Eliot’s unimportant lord who influences events in a little way behind the scenes who is the most likely survivor of both tumultuous strife and the judgment of history. Jack Henry Markowitz survives both in flying colors before taps, in advance of the angels who will trumpet the Second Coming and let’s out everything from the Pandora’s Box of history’s rusted weaponry, dread vengeance, long-hidden poisons, dry dynamite – all negated by hope for the future for the dysfunctional but surviving American nation. For more information on this book, interested parties may log on to www.Xlibris.com. About the Author Jack Henry Markowitz, born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, grew up in a magical time when Coney Island was still thought of as the entertainment capital of the world – a time when the Brooklyn Dodgers still played at Ebbets Field and millions of people came to visit the fabled beaches and boardwalk, Steeplechase Park, Parachute Jump, Cyclone Roller Coaster and Nathan’s Famous. The author resides in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where he continues to work and write. Pandora's Box* by Jack Henry Markowitz New Collected Poems To request a complimentary paperback review copy, contact the publisher at (888) 795-4274 x. 7879. To purchase copies of the book for resale, please fax Xlibris at (610) 915-0294 or call (888) 795-4274 x. 7879. For more information, contact Xlibris at (888) 795-4274 or on the web at www.Xlibris.com.

Beach Ocean Horizon Sky

beach
ocean
horizon
sky

crashing waves
bubbles in the sand
piper birds
dodging in and out
along the shore line
looking for
and finding
buried
horseshoe crab eggs

seagulls
laughing
twilight
setting sun

one day’s over
another's just begun

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2012

These Days

These days
I am drowning
in unwritten
movie dialogue

These days
my life has become
a silent film
like a still life
daguerreotype
etched on a
fading copper plate

My arms are aching
for grand children
left unhugged

Today is
Sam’s third birthday
and I am not there

I send presents
but that is no
substitute
for scooping him
up in my arms
and hugging him tight
smelling the scent
of his hair
holding him close
to my chest
grandfather and
grandson

All I get are
pictures

Pictures of missed birthdays
Pictures of missed family outings
Pictures sans moi

Pictures are nice
but they are not enough
not by a long shot

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2012

Like A Bad Dream

Last night
I dared to dream
about your father

I conjured him up
from the depths of
my little boy soul
from memories
of childhood
run amok
a recall
long suppressed

I saw him
as he once was
in all his glory
muscles rippling
golden haired
blue eyed
angry
more than angry
enraged!

His blood
was boiling over
the steam pouring
out of his nostrils
like some ancient
greek god of yore
and he was taking out
his anger
his rage
on all of us
on you and me and
your mother
but mostly
and most brutally
on you!

We who saw
We who knew
We who were witnesses
could only
stand by the wayside
helpless and afraid
afraid and helpless
as he began to
decimate his car
having taken umbrage
at some casual remark or
poorly timed jest
or just because
he was pissed off
at the whole world for
a hundred different
reasons of his own

We stood by
and watched
mute witnesses
as he literally
ripped apart
the car
piece by piece
with his bare hands
bloodied though they were
and we who saw
were afraid
(as he wanted us to be)
afraid of what he might yet do
afraid of what might yet happen

He had no right
to do what he did
to you
He had no right
to wreck havoc on
his own baby girl
his own child
his own flesh and blood
He had no right
While the rest of us
could only stand by
like deaf dumb mutes
lest he turn his anger
against us
(as he so often did)
though it was
our sorry fate
to have to love him
for all his failings
(and they were many)

But he had no right
to do what he did to you
in the fullness of your innocence
in the flowering of
your early womanhood
in the hope and splendor
of your youth

And though in my dream
it was the car that
received the brunt of his rage
I somehow knew
that the car
in the dream
was really you
(and all of us)
and all we could do
was to watch and wait
and to bear witness
until the storm
eventually ran its course
and we could once
again be ourselves
knowing full well that
his terrible secrets
had now become
our terrible secrets
adding new bones to
the rattling skeletons
in our already full
collective family closet

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2012

Flies Suck

Flies may have
great agility
but they are
utterly lacking in
nobility\
I grant that they
may possess
an advantage
in mobility
but that
does not offset
their total lack of
civility

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2012

Of Revolutions And Trees

Revolutions are made
by fools like me
but only
God
can make
a tree

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2012

The Home Keys

I learned to touch type
as a student at
Mark Twain Junior High
in Coney Island
New Yawk

We learned to touch type
through rote memory
of the typewriter keys
and through
constant repetition
of rote typing lessons and
mindless exercises

As a gutter snipe
from the low income
housing projects
I resisted my teacher’s
best efforts to teach me
this invaluable skill

At the time
I thought that
learning to type
was a sissy thing to do
a girly thing to do
not a manly thing to do

What earthly good
would learning
to touch type
do for me?
I was never
going to be an
office secretary
not that I had much
of an idea as to what
I could actually
aspire to
given my background  
given my lack of
opportunities
No need to worry about
getting into college
(couldn’t pay for it
even if I was accepted)
or to some community college
or other
by some fluke
accident

Against my better judgment
and despite being
passive aggressive with my teacher
and being chastised almost daily
for my malfeasance
I actually did manage to learn
the invaluable sissy skill
of touch typing

Today
I pretty much owe
everything I am and
everything I ever hope to be
to my ability to
touch type

I have been touch typing now
for more than fifty years
first on the big clanky
and cumbersome
Underwoods
(check the Smithsonian museum
to see what these ancient
contraptions once looked like)
Then my first electric marvel and
all the way to
the IBM electric
(the Rolls Royce of its day)
and then eventually
even to computers!

I have even used
touch typing to
write this poem
Thank you Mrs. Lewis!
Will wonders never cease?

jhmarkowitz
Philadelphia, Pa. 2012