Commentary on poetry and two poems - poetry
Writing Poetry for Tomorrow
What does a man need to be a poet, or tomorrow's literary giant? Questions many a scholar has asked, from Harvard all the way to the area seminary in one's hometown. What is the answer? Well, I can give you mine, and I'm sure if you asked a hundred writers, or a hundred scholars, you'd get two hundred atypical answers.
I'm sure some would say: hard work, while others might say, the right college, or a break, or it is who you know. Money can play a part in it others would say, and timing, I mean, given the opportunity. And it may very well be all of these, but let me iron out what I think might lay below the cellar, for its been cleaned out cute well above it.
What is genius to you? Well, to me it is when a little comes natural, easy. And so it ought to be in the premise we are now discussion about. How about experiences in isolation, privacy (be it in a eager background or not: like engulfed in drugs or alcohol or prison, war, or some depressed hole, or illness. How about exquisiteness or beauties per se; let's try a good sense of humor when the chips are down especially-wit might fit better; and how about strong, if not alien understanding and passion. All the schools and brains in the world cannot put back these requirements. Ought to you have these, and the money, time and teaching all the better; be supposed to you not, your perhaps going to get tired of journalism anyhow, you have naught to say; moderately report, it would be better.
Little hollow-eyed girl
Sleeping parents unaware
"You do look kind of like a
The protect reaches out to gather
"Poor barely thing," she thinks
The child stands back-
"But aren't you cold?"
"Come, take my hand!"
The child stern-: now stares
With pathetic eagerness
"I don't know the way?and
3rd Day of Spring
Birds shit while in flight
Mr. Siluk is a poet, and short story journalist for the most part. Althogh he has done many following articles, and established a own correspondence from Head Bush for his aid in aid of may of his policies. He lives in Minnesota, and Peru, and a short time ago has complete a new book called: "Cold Kindness," which will be out soon. Website: http://dennissiluk. tripod. com
Arizona Blue--Gunfighter: The Wolves Nest [Chapter One of Seven: The North]
[Episode Five]Arizona Blue-GunfighterThe Wolves Nest-in the North[Episode Five]Northern Minnesota Area-Winter of 1877Chapter One of Seven: The NorthThe area was known as Pigs Eye [St. Paul, Minnesota]; Northfield was a a small amount more notorious since Jessie James robbed the 1st Countrywide Bank, in September of last year, and more to the West.
Truth is stranger than fiction according to many colonize who have seen what happens about me and to them, on many occasions. At times I have had others concern me in the same way.
Song of the Great Zimbabwe, and Silver and Inca Blood [Poems and notes]
"Song of the Great Zimbabwe"Across the African, winter's skyIn the Southern edge of Zimbabwe Looking down from the Hill ComplexFrom on top, of an Antediluvian Rock O'er the mountains steep-:A, vista I've longed to see, residesA site, I've longed to meet-; Thus, dwells, contained by this African Valley,Among the most of man's feats? The great, Great Zimbabwe (Enclosure).A million-stones, built these antediluvian wallsSome twelve-fathoms, fathoms high That seems to reach unto the sky;Some say: a fortress, and palace, it is; And perhaps-, the legendary 'Ophir!'#747 7/2/05Silver and Inca BloodIn the Great Silver mines of Potosi-(Inca Indians) Conscripted mine workersCarry Quotas of ore-up hundreds of feetOf rope laddered-steps For don Francisco de ToledoAnd King Philip II, of Spain-;A farcified dream to becomeRich-off Inca blood, In the year-1571?#744 7/1/05Notes: (The Inca Empire): the guess is often that the Inca Empire was a large venture of its self; a collective blooper at best; difficult for sure; but for the most part, the Inca Empire was comprised of ethnic groups who were subject into the Inca Empire, analogous to the Roman, which was a city citizens [Empire] you might say, who subject the whole world into its Roman Empire; likewise, so did the Incas of South America.
Black Blood, in Jeremiahs Vines - A Poem and an Article
Black Blood, in Jeremiah's Vines [A Dream Poem]And I heard the crackling of wood, and I noticed the Lord God had made men of wood, and fire came from his mouth.Then the wind poured its grief upon us-over our sins; and I heard the words for the seventh time, "Go to the mountains!"Foolish ancestors of this land pray and understand-for He cometh! Thereof, toss physically to thy knees, for the roar of disobedient men will bleed: black blood, because of the vines of Jeremiah.
Never Ever More
Once upon a midnight dreary, coffee cold and apparition bleary, all night sat there journalism COBOL, coding allotment athwart the bed sheets, changing grammar for the mainframe, having tartan my final line, I took the floppy from the drive.Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command, but there below my effectuation, appeared the cryptic communication, "Abort, Retry, Ignore" and nil more.
Ed Gallagher Dec. 11, 1907 - Sept.
Azra, Azra, Wake up Azra. Wake up Azra, It is time to go.
Poetry and Common Culture
Is poetry too complex for the be in the region of reader? Is it too cryptic, scholarly? If you ask a large group of be an average of citizens what they like or don't like about poetry, you'll get a few another answers, but there is an devastatingly communal grouping of responses.One of the main reasons that associates say they aren't addicted to contemporary poetry is that they feel it is too cryptic.
Four Poems: Garner of Enraged Livestock [Katrinas Pathway]
Four Poems: Katrina's PathwayHarvest of Annoyed Horses ((Dedicated to: Katrina)) crisis)It has happened before: Nearby and afar, Where the four-horses of Apocalypse With their blazing nostrils Breathed in the fury of the winds Only to vomit out, disaster; - Then galloped away, Against pale faces!..
Two Poems: Black Poncho, and Spirits of de Copan [in English and Spanish]
English Version12) Black Poncho(of Saint Cosme Hill, by Lima, Peru)Lost in the grottos of Peru- By the hills of Huancayo Black Cloak was given A treasure of gold?; By none other than, Demonic goblins!?in the form of boiling fruit; Hence, Black Wrap fooled The goblins of oldBy using his cloak to pull The boiling blond fruit Through the Andes to Lima, Peru!?Henceforward, he was swindled By a jeweler of dire repute. Thus, his life altered (as so often they do); And now he lives with: Thirty-five dogs, on San Cosme Hill.
Lima, City with the Stretched out Wings [In English and Spanish]
Lima, City with the Stretched out WingsIt's an ink-black night: no stars: a moon in sightJust dots of: red, green and white-white lightsAs the plane descends, descends, slides down On the long-drawn-out-spun-out long drawn out city of illumination Uneven as a crumbled cake, lit up like a Christmas tree-The wakeful city, with its stretched out wingsStretching from the mountains to the sea- Winding all through the valley's, forests, and streams Stretches, stretches its naked wings-endlesslyAs,I'm descending, down, over and about the city (descending, descending, and sliding to the ground)The city with stretched out wings-and endless lights Down, behind, around, the ground, it's immune to me I'm just part of its evening, a beginning in its inky seaInvisible people: cats, dogs, birds, and rats-infiniteUncountable: dots; streams of lit dots, dot-lights; People: walking, talking, sleeping, consumption by the dots People: waiting, killing, robbing, praying, by the dotsFor tomorrow, tomorrow and a further tomorrowThey say-:you are ruthless, and I know this to be trueAnd they tell me you have thieves and murders-And this, I dare say-but shall-is also true, very true But show me a city to the awkward of eight-million-? I shake my fist and say: '?show me! But no one does'So alive, so brave, with beefy and hungry hearts;I say, show me one that sings in poverty and smiles Prove me one that celebrates year-round of its heroes Show me painters that are as good-that sell on streets-As good as: Picasso, Dali, Rembrandt, and Yang YangAnd that welcomes the world with stretched out arms-Show me all this, or some of this, and I will say no moreWith this,I descend to its streets, its crowed winding streetsAs well as, to its neighborhoods with dust and dirty air, And hear the laughs of the children; the dogs on roofs Sights of the shoe-shiners: men and boys, in the parksAnd the frequent food carts; -- musicians, paper sellersAnd with its naked featherless wings, jacket all-My Lima, Peru with its famous Cathedral:Golden fair-haired with high crowns, andWithin its plaza-square, a water fountain-celebrated.Under its sins, with its creased aged men, lovely women,They all stand tall and bow to its Inca history, its glory- Its world that once ruled all, like the Roman Empire,Like the American Dream, they were the noble, the kingsAnd now, from hard work and toil, sweat and strive, all, all Grinding, grinding away, each and everyday, lover of the, King of Kings: Jesus Christ-this is the Lima I know today; a mighty ship that has by now sailed the seven seas, now resting!?Spanish VersionLima, La ciudad con las alas extendidas Translated by Rosa PeñalozaEsta es una noche oscura: no estrellas, ni luna a la vistaSolo puntos: rojo, verde y blanco-luces blancasMientras que el avión desciende, desciende, bajando A la larga-extendida-plana persistente ciudad de luces Plana como un panqueque, encendida como un árbol de navidad-La despierta ciudad, con sus alas extendidasExtendidas desde las montañas hacia el océano Zigzagueante a través de los valles, bosques y riachuelos Estirando, estirando sus alas desnudas-interminablesMientras,Voy descendiendo, abajo, por encima y alrededor de la ciudad (Descendiendo, descendiendo, y deslizándose a la tierra)La ciudad con las alas extendidas-y luces interminables Abajo, Abajo, detrás, alrededor, la tierra, es inmune a mí Sólo soy parte de esta noche, un bautizado en su oscuro océanoInvisible: gente, gatos, perros, pájaros, y ratas, infinidadIncontables: puntos, riachuelos de luz, puntos de luz; Gente: caminando, conversando, durmiendo, comiendo bajo los puntos de luz Gente: esperando, matando, robando, rezando bajo los puntos de luzPor mañana, mañana y otro mañanaEllos dicen--:Tu eres implacable, y yo se que esto es verdadY ellos me dicen tú tienes ladrones, y muertes-Y esto, me atrevo a decir, que esto también es cierto, muy ciertoPero muéstrame una ciudad de ocho millones contraria --? Sacudo mis puños y digo: "?muéstrame," pero nadie lo haceTan viva, tan valerosa, con corazones fuertes y hambrientos:Digo, muéstrame una que canta en pobreza, y sonríe Pruébame una como esa, que celebra alrededor del año a sus héroes Muéstrame pintores tan buenos-que venden en las calles-Tan buenos como: Picasso, Dali, Rembrant y Yang YangY que recibe al mundo con extendidos brazosMuéstrame todo esto, o algo de esto, y no diré masCon esto,Desciendo a sus calles, atiborrada, zigzagueantes callesAsí como su raro vecindario con polvo en el aire Y oigo la risa de los niños, los perros en los techos Vista de los lustrabotas, hombres y muchachos, en los parquesY los numerosos carros de comida, músicos y vendedores de periódicosY con su desnuda y desplumadas alas, cubriendo todo-Mi Lima, Perú, con su renombrada catedral:Amarilla dorada con su coronadas torres, yDentro de su plaza cuadrada, una celebrada piletaBajo su piel, con sus arrugados ancianos, tiernas mujeres,Todos ellos parados altos, y reverenciando a su historia inca, sugloria- Su mundo que una vez gobernó todo, como el Imperio RomanoComo el sueño de América, ellos fueron los nobles, los reyesY ahora de pesadez, y esfuerzo, sudor, lucha, todos, todos extenuados, fatigados, este y cada día, amantes del Rey de los Reyes: Jesucristo-esta es la Lima que conozco, hoy; un poderoso barco que ya navegó los siete mares, ahora descansando?Author/Poet Dennis Siluk, web site: http://dennissiluk.
Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English]
1.Night in Jamaica [Peruvianism: 1810]It was a rainy night they say When don Simon Bolivar Slept in the arms of beautiful -Luisa Crober (of Jamaica); thus an Assassin missed his mark When he stabbed Major Amestoy Sleeping in the dark In Bolivar's hammock!.
The Lull of Sundown [Over Mantaro Valley] In English and Spanish
Twilight, was now beginning. As forthe sun, it was down-down over the Mantaro Valley of Peru.
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (a poem in Spanish and English)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (English version)In what flee art hid?-Where declining mountains groan In shadow and amongThe white water of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the road of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, beautifully low. I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
Two Poems and a Short Story
1)dying in the bar [sluggishly]yet, I would crawl too upto the bar, it was everything, the dampness the impressed wood the zoned-out-ness in my head dreaming; it was beat than death? then I took an added drink?so many I never moved much, like dead fish. my head split like an ass it was numb and, naught else numbness was my homeacross the street, dancing on the patio the moon was out.
Farewell to Lester Graybill
I never met a man, who could shake my hand, and make my heart feel like a grate afire.I never met a man, who could smile so easy, real honest.
How wonderfully sweet to be a dweller dwelling on the road of goodbye. Bittersweet tears fall as I think of all the sitting room I'll never see, all the faces I'll never know, all the joys I'll never share, as I head for the unknown.
Wars, Air of Ambiguity [for: Lt. Laura Walker] in SPANISH and English
Wars, air of AmbiguityDedicated to 1st. Lt.
Satirical Poetry About Tony Blair
All Hail.Is your hospice full of aliens, even with new cleaning firms, Antenna waving buggies, And eerie crawly germs, Then dont waste a new second, now were into determination spin, Just complain, over and again, and up pops smiley smiley grin.
Three Poems: The Monkey Man of Lima, Plus Two More
What Hides at the back the Minute?What hides after the minute? It seems, no one certainly knows; How many times will we wakeup, To count the notes gone?The rose was dead when I arrived; The sword, was rusty and dull; The casement curtain was open, And there was music in the hall.Oh lovely minute, where art thou? One, is not like the other-: Whirling in an at all orbit, As the illimitable world discovers.
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