The bungle of lima and road to mantaro valley (two poems) - poetry
Footprints to Mantaro Valley
In what flee art hid?-
Where declining mountains groan In shadow and among
The fast-moving water of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?
Beyond the footsteps of the Andes--?
I can hear your voice in echoes
I can hear thy voice, beautifully low. I do but know thy by a glance
As the clouds above me know? . Ah! Gone like that, but love-love!
Hath found my naked soul!
4-20-05 (#627) Note: in black and white after bearing in mind the Mantaro Valley, afar the Andes.
The Exterminate of Lima (Dedicated to: Mario Poggi)
Prologue: I do not wish to judge anyone, lest I be judged, and God forbid be supposed to I be judged by any person but He. Thus, I write this next poem with a word of discretion to the person who reads likewise, that all is not as it seems, is it. Having said that, it has been said the Psychologist Mario Poggi-whom I met on three occasions and purchased a monument from, and acknowledged one from him as a gift-has erudite the hard way-that is, the curse of revenge has long wings; hence, revenge is for the Lord. Why? Since both the righter of wrongs and the victim are cursed thereafter (one does not have time to make amends if that is actually his wish; the other, loses his life leisurely as he lives on). Thus, "The Exterminate of Lima," is especially a conjure up of the carving Mr. Poggi calls, "The Face of Anguish"; or at least it is to me. For the duration of our three meetings, I did not find in his eyes guilt for his deadly deed, for he rid a city of a fanatic who was acerbic up bodies and burying them,-and perchance saved a few lives, did he not? But considerably a depression that he did not close his eyes at some point in the administer of his assassination of man called "The Butcher," and now the sculptures he has molded with his hands are the eyes of his soul.
The Poem "The Bungle of Lima"
The Psychologist, he killed
"The Botch of Lima," So it has been said?
With a belt about his neck He strangled him to death!
As he sucked in his breath-- Head engraved like a fish!?
He died a purple death
The "Butcher of Lima?. " And no one wept.
And the media cried the name: "Poggi! Poggi!?you're insane!"
It is as fate would have it
Motionless and beyond Are the cold blades of redemption.
Poet, Dramatist Dennis L. Siluk, is now peripatetic all over South and Chief America and when given the chance, is stopping at Internets to send back some of his poetry, as he creates his poems. His site: http://dennissiluk. tripod. com
Kafka lands resurrected in Crewe deposited by a silver alien craft, And even as he is wondering what to do He is asked to show his pass Or pay an immediate one off fine At a cash distributor of his choice And they are glance all the time On his irises face and voice.And of avenue they find that he is not, They come across he just cannot be there, Although he seems as if he is visible, And has hands and toes and hair, If he is not on the Great Data Bank, He plainly and austerely cannot be, He is not programmed and he is not ranked He is assuredly not like you and me.
Two Poems: San Jeronimo Brook & [in English and Spanish]
Fair Andes! Thy arms reach highOf iron-woven solid stone Thu art a condor to the skyOf glory buried in thy heartSo many paths, a maze of art?In thy old, Mantaro ValleyWhere adobes, breathe and tremble Beyond your country shadowsThere lays the prettiest of brooksIs my heart, in its stream!My image genuinely carved, rippledIn its neat shallow watersWaiting, just behind you for me?As it opens up, opens up my soulMy rippled soul-searching-eyes!..
A Atypical Place...
I wish we had met 20 years ago..
A Ship to Remember
Three Poems and Paradise Lost [One for Hell, One for Heaven one for an Inca King]
The Fast-moving water of HellHell's furnace- Likened to a chimney Vomits her torrents Of flames- Into the air Through earths crust And the earth's trembles-!Agitated, she projects A thick curtain of smoke To heat the feet of those Who provoke her every wish. Like molten iron She waits for the soul(the moment) Then molds, into her enclosure Human serpents? Out of savage flesh!No storm, no struggle No eruption, no typhoon, Just a terrible phenomenon, Hell is clever of producing; And upon death, Back into the Abyss They melt!.
Savage Nature: The Life of Ted Hughes
One of the most chief poets of the post-war period, Edward James Hughes (1930-1998), was drawn towards the primitive. He was enthralled by the beauty of the actual world, often portraying its cruel and savage character in his work as a evidence of his own delicate agony and mystic beliefs - confident that avant-garde man had lost touch with the elemental side of his nature.
House of the Hobgoblin [Part Two of Three/with notes]
House of the Goblin [Part Two of Three]Here is where, where the air is stillAnd the mountains darkness disappear! Here is where, unidentified spirits dwellWhere harp and recall expire?Where the rainbow-leaps, from itsStoreroom-keep, and cries; And the sands along the heap coastEcho then die?as in sleep?;And where delight turns into ghouls!..
Three Poems (While in Transition/English and Spanish)
Here are three more poems by the author, Dennis Siluk, while itinerant througout Focal and South America.Three Poems While in Transition (In Spanish and English)Poem OneEnglish VersionOrange Timid MoonOŽer the Copan skyan arch of gloom weave their webswith low-lights, as the moon rises.
Two Poems with Triggers [and a commentary]
So Many Einstein'sThe dawn mist, insists there is a God. The earth carcass faithful to its orbit.
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 associates of this land pray and understand-for He cometh! Thereof, toss by hand to thy knees, for the roar of insubordinate men will bleed: black blood, all through the vines of Jeremiah.
The Dead God of Copan (in English and Spanish)
English VersionAnd the Death God said: "Let it rise to its glory in the Rio Valley-for a season; then let it be gone, we shall call it Copan?"Prologue: Empires come and go, liken to cosmic events, or the storms about the world: Atlantis, Mu, Greece, Persia, Rome, the Inca Nation, and even the great Maya heroic times of Copan, in Focal America. All came and all left, one way or another; now just dust and artifacts in the spiral of time.
Live For Today...
Isn't that what they say?But what does that mean?There's no classification that mayanswer that question..
You can do and you can be whatever you want. You have the power, and the right, to make the changes.
Key Largo - Frater Albertus
Key Largo:The fans turn languidly in front of the doorThey open wide screening mangroves galoreAn egret in the everglades stalks its preyHaltingly it walks along its wayOn a new clear and sunny dayA woman's floppy hat shades her beauty not so brittleThe silky scarf that holds the hat flutters just a littleShe pauses in the threshold of the doorSurveying what she's looking forShe is looking above-board at meHer beauty flaunted all to see.'Where are you from?' while noticing I had a frownOn the other couch she pleasingly sits downIn the small hotel lobby bar'A city north and very far.
The Art of Being paid Poetic Critique
You can show your poem to your mom, your spouse, your co-workers, or your friends, but you might not get the responses that you can suck up into your barely copy fingers to use in an endeavor to refine your craft. What does it actually mean when a big name who cares about you, but not for poetry says, "Wow, this is great.
Breathing-in, Minnesota [a poem: now in Spanish and English]
In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets-: drops Likened to music from its many streams-land Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel Everywhere?Grandpa sits on the porch-daydreaming of, of Something, maybe frost about the corner-; As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes? Leaves will soon vanish, gloom will come earlyMaybe he's assessment about summer: miles and miles And miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood now Long gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at the Metal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on the Embankment, foremost up the steps to the porch; It's worn-out like him.The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from all The foliage, there's a lot of it.
Poetry in Turbulence
To many non-specialists of literature, poetry is genuinely unsatisfying. There are more than a few reasons for this, but two in distinct come to mind.
Wars, Air of Ambiguity [for: Lt. Laura Walker] in SPANISH and English
Wars, air of AmbiguityDedicated to 1st. Lt.
I Hate The Wait (Weight)
I get up in the morningAnd want to stay in bedOh, so nice and warmLike fresh from the oven bread.My day is oh so busyI wish that I could stayIn the quiet of my houseIf only I could play.
Man Unbowed [A poem]
Man UnbowedUnbowed by sin, the world of man, stands Upon his feet he gapes into the sky, The coldness of centuries surrounded by 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 pressed up his rough brow? (To make him look so grand, so proud-so tall.
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