Road to mantaro valley (a poem in spanish and english) - poetry
Footprints to Mantaro Valley
In what back away art hid?-
Where diminishing mountains groan In shadow and among
The torrents of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?
Beyond the road of the Andes--?
I can hear your voice in echoes
I can hear thy voice, exquisitely 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 since the Mantaro Valley, clear of the Andes.
Huellas al Valle del Mantaro Por Dennis Siluk Traducido por Rosa Peñaloza
En que retiro el arte se esconde?
Donde Montañas decrecientes gimen En la sombra y entre
Los rápidos del río? No es tu nombre Valle del Mantaro
Más allá de las huellas de los Andes-?
Puedo oír tu voz en ecos
Puedo oír tu voz, divinamente bajo. Pero te conozco por una mirada
Como las nubes arriba conocen. . . . Ah! ido así, pero amor-amor!
Encontraron mi desnuda alma!
The Assassinate of Lima (Dedicated to: Mario Poggi)
Prologue: I do not wish to judge anyone, lest I be judged, and God forbid must I be judged by a person but He. Thus, I write this next poem with a word of discretion to the booklover 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 figure from, and conventional one from him as a gift-has educated the hard way-that is, the curse of revenge has long wings; hence, revenge is for the Lord. Why? For the reason that both the nemesis 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 gradually as he lives on). Thus, "The Exterminate of Lima," is exceedingly a conceive of of the monument Mr. Poggi calls, "The Face of Anguish"; or at least it is to me. At some stage in 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 bitter up bodies and burying them,-and maybe saved a few lives, did he not? But fairly a despondency that he did not close his eyes at some point in the course 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 Psychologist, he killed
"The Assassinate 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 imprinted 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 elapsed Are the cold blades of redemption. #628 (4-21-05)
"El Descuartizador de Lima"
Por Dennis L.
El psicólogo, él mato al
"Descuartizador de Lima," O eso es lo que dicen . . .
Con una correa alrededor de su cuello
Lo estranguló hasta matarlo! Mientras él se asfixiaba-
Cabeza cortada como un pescado!. . .
Obra de justicia
El murió asfixiado
El "Descuartizador de Lima. . . " Y nadie lloró
Y la media gritaba el nombre:
"Poggi! Poggi! . . . eres un enfermo!"
Es este como el destino lo tendría Insensitivo y olvidado
Son las espadas frías de redención.
Two Poems by the Dramatist and Poet, Dennis Siluk, while nomadic in Peru and Chief America, April, 2005. Said the Author,"The Mantaro Valley was captivating. . . . " as it led him out of the Andes, and because of the valley itself, into Huancayo, Peru. For more in a row on this poem, or on the back poem, "The Bungle of Lima," you may want to assess the commentary by Marissa Cardenas,Columnist-Correo Newspaper "Cultural" page, dated 23 April, 2005. Rosa P.
Whats A Prisoner to Do?
What's a prisoner to do when fairness fails and the childlike is escorted off to jail?What's a prisoner to do once stigmatized, caged and abandoned and ostracized?What's a prisoner to do there's no one to trust; the coordination fails and the outcome unjust?What's a prisoner to do when ancestors decide the punishment is necessary and justified?What's a prisoner to do while confined in a cell; the perpetrator's free and faring quite well?What's a prisoner to do once his reputation is dead and his life has been ruined for the reason that of what a celebrity said?What's a prisoner to do when he's not believed, though he's decisive the truth, he's attention to deceive?What's a prisoner to do as he sits all alone, no one seems to care; past links all gone?What's a prisoner to do session lost and idle and most of one's belief be converted into suicidal?What's a prisoner to do when freedom's taken away and the will to live diminishes each day?What's a prisoner to do when hedged in by strife; with no break away from possible; no attempt for a new life?What's a prisoner to do when he can no longer see the beauty of the sky or the waves of the sea?What's a prisoner to do when the sun he can't feel, nor the breeze of bounce since his fate is sealed?What's a prisoner to do when doomed to despair but still praying to avoidance the exciting chair?Tell me, what's a prisoner to do?Rev. Saundra L.
Man Unbowed [A poem]
Man UnbowedUnbowed by sin, the world of man, stands Upon his feet he gapes into the sky, The apathy 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 serrated brow? (To make him look so grand, so proud-so tall.
Azra, Azra, Wake up Azra. Wake up Azra, It is time to go.
A Hundred and Fifty Dead [Korean War--l952]
There I sat, ninety-five amount weatherOutside; the bookstore café, was cool.An Old Timer stood by me, explaining:"There were two-hundred of us on the Island,Near North Korea, back in '52-We guarded 16,000-prisners?"All of a sudden, all hell broke looseThree-hundred North Koreans cameOver the bob-wired fence, in pursuit"It all happened in a be relevant of secondsThe machineguns killed 150-of themThat's all I saw in the war of '52.
Anne Bradstreet, To My Dear and Loving Husband, A Discussion
"To My Dear and Loving Husband" was printed by America's first female poet, the Puritan, Anne Bradstreet. In fact, Anne Bradstreet is one of only a handful of female American poets at some stage in the first 200 years of America's history.
The Valley Of Pain
We were exiled from the Plot of Eden. Its sinless wonders nevermore to regain.
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 dramatic journey all the way through the prose journalism of Dylan Thomas", the creation was fashioned by Tim Baker, an Accomplice of the Royal Countrywide Theatre, who won the Manchester Sundown News Best Visiting Construction award in 1992 for the amply highly praised To Kill a Mockingbird.
Why I enjoy Writing?
During interviews and broad-spectrum conversations with the public,one of the most challenging questions for me to answer(timely and thoroughly) is,"Why do you enjoy writing"?So due to the challenge manifested in such a question,I pondered on creating an answer. Many reasons came to mind,but after digesting much"time for thought",I managed to condense my comeback to three items.
Three Poems (While in Transition/English and Spanish)
Here are three more poems by the author, Dennis Siluk, while nomadic througout Focal and South America.Three Poems While in Transition (In Spanish and English)Poem OneEnglish VersionOrange Timid MoonO´er the Copan skyan arch of dark weave their webswith low-lights, as the moon rises.
The Art of In receipt of 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 a small amount copy fingers to use in an endeavor to refine your craft. What does it certainly mean when a big shot who cares about you, but not for poetry says, "Wow, this is great.
The Treasure of Catalina Huanca (In English and Spanish)
Note: printed after bearing in mind the hardly adobe 16th century place of worship San Sebastian, in San Jeronimo, by the mountains of Huancayo, Peru, after being taken there by the Wandering Quechua guide, Enrique (4-13-2005).The Treasure of Catalina HuancaWritten by Dennis L.
You make me smile like I've seldom done before You give me a reason to want more and more..
Our home was warm in the shade of the trees or when the sun was not upon it.It was built on the side of a hill, near a lake where spirits could be free.
Burning Autumn Plants [a poem in Spanish and English]
Burning Autumn Leaves [1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota]My long steel critical rake punctured And twisted all the way through tons of autumn leaves (back in the '50s); And there's a hill yet, I didn't rake, I see Behind it, two embankments Leaves I didn't rake a day ago; The essence of fall sleeps on the ground.
Thank You To Our Soldiers And A Compliment To Old Glory And A Prayer For Peace
Thank youDedicated to soldiers and their loved onesFor those who have laid in fox holes,carried guns,marched for hours.For those who have had cold wakeful nights,endless days of discomfort.
I AM SO Obliged for simpler times. Stores were bunged on Sundays, TV shows seemed to make more sense, Family members spent ample time with each other, And associates were valued more than things.
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [a Poem]
Daybreak at Pikes Creek [Summer of 2005]Daybreak by Lake Superior Rising out of the woods like: A swamp mist I'm coming up for breakfast(at the B&B) I pace the grounds The scent of green shrubbery: Trees, flora, flowers-rain Intoxicates me- Branches like big brown arms Descend? The embankment, to the right Blue eyed, like mine-reflect From the creek beneath me (my wife says 'be careful' she went to get the camera) The greens and blues touch My face and blue jeans- Reflections mirrored like Musical notes of a symphony (I'll see them later in pictures) For now, it's daybreak In Minnesota.#813 8/26/2005Note: the author, Dennis Siluk, took his wife Rosa [me: on my birthday] to Lake Superior, this summer, and I highly thought of the largest lake in the world.
You Lost Your Last Bet and Me
I will never think twice nor will I roll the dice When it comes to my life I will take my Grannio's adviceYou play the hand you're dealt when it comes to who will be your Dad - But if you bluff about a card's face value for too many years you disregard you had - No Aces or King of Hearts in your fundamental deck - But fairly a worthless Joker-So Wild and Mad..
Kafka lands resurrected in Crewe deposited by a gray alien craft, And even as he is wondering what to do He is asked to show his pass Or pay an direct one off fine At a cash machine of his choice And they are examination all the time On his irises face and voice.And of avenue they find that he is not, They detect 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 basically cannot be, He is not programmed and he is not ranked He is absolutely not like you and me.
An Old Wood Pile [a poem with notes]
Old skin, once held tight Against her skeleton- Rose no more, just draped Loosely over unpadded flesh; Un-tightened muscles, and tissue, Lost its courage, no-fortitude-, Gone are the days and years That stood aligned with the Indomitable elements; The skeleton, now a landmark Hidden under flesh and blood Guts and moral fiber, backbone? Collapsed from drudgery Time, time: cascading inside-. Bones now goodbye impressions Accepting fate Like imperfect silver!.
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