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Eight poems - poetry


Out of the eight poems provided here [all beforehand unpublished], four are Poetic Prose, a few Far-seeing [what I call Vsionary anyhow], a few Free Verse, and a few with more form and structure, more carefully to the Auden style of: stanza, with a beat rhythm, and rhyme. In aphorism that, I do accept as true all the poems are handing over a rich arrangement of meaning, some of them painfully close bond amid pleasure and destruction. They ought to ask to the senses and coin imagery in our minds, for poetry is just that kind of dialect that most complexly and actually qualifies.


Let me flee from
My vision, my world
My melancholia
My subjectivity;
My world which is
Now a prison-.

I shall change
My poetic harmony
From flesh to spirit
I shall be? a?
I shall be a poem
Yes, O yes a poem
?eternally!. . .


As the fire goes out
And the moon comes in!
The glittering skies darken,
Makes a ethereal moon-path?

With the moon upon my face
A skull-like grin takes place
I choke the active dark,
To save the gleaming moon-path.

Life on a Finger

If this is life on a finger
Why do I feel so dead?
Why does my soul whisper?
Life is more than this.

What has my life been plotting?
While the world cringes and reeks
Humanity clinging so tightly-
As it hides and mutely weeps.


I love fruit
and she loves candy
he loves beer
and she loves brandy

everyone makes such
a fuss?
everyone wants
to please-

and toothless
and hairless?
are most people,

I just want
To leave!. . .

Prose Poetry
[A view]

Poetic Prose: can be musical, lacking rhythm or rhyme, and still hardy an adequate amount of to alter to the impulses of the soul or conscience; or so I believe, and so saying, here are a few I think may lessen for such a test, four in particular:

First of all, I do not claim to be a critic or scholar of Prose Poetry, but I like inscription Prose Poetry when I like to wipe fantasy to the side, for some analyze it seems less chief for me at some point in this stage. I'm also allowed-or, so it seems-to be a bit more moralistic, in the brief; my mind can comb my travels more, ancestors more-spontaneity is fresher with Prose Poetry for me. I'm even a bit reckless or eminently, or brightly uninsightful in the sense of killing on to-or annoying to- make a point. Thus, my prose might be called a decisive essay, but it is not.

Even Shakespeare tried his description of Blank Verse with Prose. Conqueror Hugo, whom I visited his house while in Paris one afternoon, and whom is a great poet, as is Baudelaire-in my eyes, used cadenced innovations to build prose, where I use very little. But hope to get the same effect. But I have erudite in poetry, and maybe the hard way, it is what occurs to you, that makes it all worth while, and apparently to the reader, who marks its worth; not what occurs to the other person; we have too much of the imitator crap. So here are a few new, just this minute out of the oven poems in prose:

Co business Wisdom
[End of a life, cut ups-l997]

"?to glance at me?fine carpets on walls?Fish Fly about the room?the fart?water pills?funerals?age often keeps quiet?order a plate of bratwursts?pass out in the vomitorium?we got old?(and he shit in his pants)?water pills (ease heart stress)?boxer shorts?who is God? (he heard his voice once, it sounded like his)?Ah war bigness addiction?the poet aging on the stool?LSD?MTV?Jackson?Dylan?Elvis?Sushi?FBI? (the poet dies ((l997))?Beethoven?is about one man?Genocide?Skeleton?" In the beginning?:

The Brooklyn Bridge
[3/2000] Prose Poetry

The Brooklyn Bridge: she's on a bike, I'm walking. She screams:

"Get out of my way! Get on your own side! Read the damn Sign!" I say: "Fuck you!" (A pause)

It was a burp (kind of)-first words out of my mouth, out of anger?. Then I moved bit by bit to the apt side of the bridge, its boulevard like walk; and enjoyed the rest of the March skies-

3/21/05 [#573]

A Tired Kiss
Poetic Prose

A kiss of a tired woman: lips of soapsuds, no lip pressure-; tired so long her mind forgot how to tell her lips to form a kiss?. Now froth dance on her lips: form bubbles-depart like ships on voyages. Her kiss forms into a loose kiss? then more like a hand-shake. Her wife (firm and frank) no longer looks at them; to him they are like dark-clouds about to rain. At one time her companion said: "You were the best!"

#571 [3/19/05]

Benevolent Furniture
Prose Poetry

I own furniture that dream-you know, like it has a life of its own; they speak their own language-; like the lot else that circles the sun.

There is no soul complex though, only some, some awareness, with windows and doors; the cascading of rain and snow; assignment to a a few room, equipment like that.

I don't know what infuriates them, other than the impertinent man. So, idol they remain, each to its own, I suppose; before you for curiosity or admiration to bloom, anything!. . .

#578 [3/22/05]

Poems to come:

Girl and the Ox
The Cab
Curse of the Toucan Bird
The Lost Ant
The Baggage Room

Dennis Siluk lives in the Midwest with his wife Rosa, and in Lima, Peru where he spends a few months out of the year. He has been characters poetry for over 40-years, and has had his poetry in print in a digit of newspapers, magaziens,books and in about every bend of the world. In l981, his first book was published, "The Other Door: Poetic Exhortations" now worth quite a few times its creative value, as seen a moment ago on Ebay, and abe. books, launched a love afair with poetry. His website is: http;//dennisiluk. tripod. com

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