Goldenarticles articles

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.

Hollow-eyed girl

Little hollow-eyed girl
staring-up at the big world
wearing a pink beguile nightgown-
barefoot and all?.

Sleeping parents unaware
she slipped out of bed (to somewhere)
whispers a voice, unexpectantly
(a thin mouth quivering):

"You do look kind of like a
picture that might have been?. "

The protect reaches out to gather
the child into her embrace

"Poor barely thing," she thinks
(still in her dream).

The child stands back-
Deserted once by her mother
Tossed back to oblivion.
Yet the echoes of

Is heard-over and over
(like the droning of a train on tracks).

"But aren't you cold?"
Asks the dreaming woman,

"Come, take my hand!"

The child stern-: now stares
With pale lips-
Puckered with disappointment
She whimpers a tear.

With pathetic eagerness
She asks again (the child bemused)

"I don't know the way?and
You don't have time?"
And as she wakes up, the child
Disappears!. . .

#585 [3/24/05]

3rd Day of Spring

Birds shit while in flight
Male bees screw, and then die
And People, they just lie!

#586 [3/24/05]

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

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