The time has come and animated - poetry
Most of my poems are in black and white late at night, often, as this one was, after I have crooked out the light to go to sleep. It seems that is the time when I am most creative. I hope you enjoy these two poems that talk a diminutive bit about where my ideas come from.
My mind is buzzing
March 5, 2004
The Time Has Come
The time has come the poem said
Copyright Feb 13, 2005
Sleep, Dreams, and a Poem
The Incubus' Flash-lightHe looked classified my head And found a dreamHe didn't like-;As I looked back at him, I found an incubus Shinning a light(and stole this poem from him-last night).Thoughts: Dreams and Poetry: in dreams we let go of our inhibitions; in poetry we write them back out.
Three Poems: Dona Leonors Revenge; The Old Moon; Communal Sides [All in Spanish/all in English]
1) Doña Leonor's Revenge [1627 AD]Rafael Ortiz's fate Was on the plate Of Doña Leonor'sWhen she arrived In Lima, Peru; To taste revengeFor the beheading Of her husband. And so the plot?was now played out (in an alleyway) As she grief-stricken her trout!In SpanishTranslated by Nancy PenalozaLa leyenda de: La venganza de doña Leonor (1627 después de cristo)El destino de Rafael Ortiz Estaba sobre el plato De doña Leonor.
Shaking out the Rugs [Following the Poet]
Let's abide by the poet to his Hell and heaven! Count his Ghosts and dilemma's?Reach out to touch his Stretched-out skies; let's follow The poet to see where he lays.Let's be a consequence the poet to his end; To see if he can?whatever He wants to do, do over again?.
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 imprinted wood the zoned-out-ness in my head dreaming; it was beat than death? then I took a different 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.
Two Poems On paper At some point in Recovery
Since my wife and I are moving, or preparing to move, we've been going all through our effects as most citizens must, to arrange for the new location, and in doing so, I found two poems, ones I wrote in 1990, now 15-years old, never published, and so I'd like to bring out them today. I was a heavy drinker up to 1984 (some twenty years drinking), when I quite, and so these poems must have amazing to do with it, a feeble contemplation perhaps.
Tale of the Brick Maker, of San Jeronimo, Peru [In English and Spanish]
Tale of the Brick Maker, Of San Jerónimo, Peru [A Cup of Sorrow]-1In the Andean mountains, inside theMantaro Valley area of Peru, Isolated, secluded, tranquil, is the littlevillage of San Jerónimo. Near the village, here lay the fecund valleywith bent-grass, and huge Mountains stretching northbound,And bearing towards the ocean's coast.
Listen as I Share: WE
You speak simple, completley understandable justifications I accept them, admiration you, honor what you tell me and even although I know where you're appearance from, I just required to share with you, let you hear: my heart..
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 light Uneven as a crumbled cake, lit up like a Christmas tree-The without sleeping city, with its stretched out wingsStretching from the mountains to the sea- Winding all the way 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 debut 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 new 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 converse of eight-million-? I shake my fist and say: '?show me! But no one does'So alive, so brave, with bright 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 mucky 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, casing all-My Lima, Peru with its famous Cathedral:Golden blonde with gigantic crowns, andWithin its plaza-square, a water fountain-celebrated.Under its sins, with its crumpled 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 grind 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 previously 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.
Out of the eight poems provided here [all beforehand unpublished], four are Poetic Prose, a few Creative thinker [what I call Vsionary anyhow], a few Free Verse, and a few with more form and structure, more attentively to the Auden style of: stanza, musical rhythm, and rhyme. In axiom that, I do have faith in all the poems are passing on a rich complex of meaning, some of them painfully close bond connecting pleasure and destruction.
Give Me a Lily Pad & The Continuum [two Poems]
What can I do to keep this world in its orbital spin? I gave up difficult to win the hearts of the many-. Throw the meat-balls anti the wall, stop, stop!! Trying to make them spin, like God did in the heavens!Sexual longings-a corridor to anger and rage- Turn the page to the cheap hotels, turn the page Give it a lane to run, tell your friends, they've won.
Ode to: The Ice Maiden of Ampatos Brow [now in: English and Spanish]
Dedícate to Antonio Castillo. L.
Poetry and Admired Culture
Is poetry too difficult for the be around reader? Is it too cryptic, scholarly? If you ask a large group of be an average of associates what they like or don't like about poetry, you'll get a few altered answers, but there is an crushingly communal grouping of responses.One of the main reasons that citizens say they aren't addicted to contemporary poetry is that they feel it is too cryptic.
Portrait Of The Artiste As A Young Dog
Emlyn Williams Theatre, Mold, North Wales: 20th February 2003Clwyd Theatr Cymru commemorated the 50th anniversary of the death of the Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) with a superb run of performances by a small but accomplished cast of actors.Described in the programme as "A artificial journey because of the prose copy of Dylan Thomas", the construction was bent by Tim Baker, an Ally of the Royal Inhabitant Theatre, who won the Manchester Sundown News Best Visiting Fabrication award in 1992 for the amply highly praised To Kill a Mockingbird.
I am not the one I was ahead of yesterday.I cannot go back.
Africa - Wheres The Profit?
A poetic expansion that just welled up confidential my head - why cant we just do a touch - beforehand many more are dead?How pious those politicians are, When up there on T.V.
Growing hurts sometimes; saying goodbye to friends, to effects you've known and done to clothes you sought after to do. Growing heals sometimes the devastated dreams and hopes of a life you once knew leading you to a new acquaintance of yourself.
Poetry "Reborn" Emerges In Adventure movie Mystery Novel
Since Mohamed Ali-then Cassius Clay-announced that he had in black and white "The world's nonstop poem," I have known that I would be a poet. "ME? WHEE!" His conquering decree evoking shivers contained by my awkward teenaged identity, for I reasoned in rhyme.
Famous Poets Quotations - Top 30 Poetry Quotations by Celebrated Poets
"For this basis poetry is a touch more philosophical and more creditable of acute awareness than history."-- Aristotle"Every American poet feels that the whole dependability for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary upper classes of one.
The Spirits de Copan
Part oneI see them in the skies I hear them in their hells They hint and they moanAnd never are alone- The Spirits and the Ghouls? The Spirits de Copan!They are dimness in my world Echoes in my dreams A mystery and a force To a cosmic happening! The Spirits and the Ghouls? The Spirits de Copan!..
Man Unbowed [A poem]
Man UnbowedUnbowed by sin, the world of man, stands Upon his feet he gapes into the sky, The lack of interest of centuries inside his eyes, And in his heart the curse of the old world. Who made him dead to love and God? A thing that breathes only for wants and needs, With a lack of emotion, a brother to the fox? Who tightened and short of up his rough brow? (To make him look so grand, so proud-so tall.
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