Three poems: dona leonors revenge; the old moon; communal sides [all in spanish/all in english] - poetry
1) Doña Leonor's Revenge
Rafael Ortiz's fate
When she arrived
For the beheading
?was now played out
Translated by Nancy Penaloza
La leyenda de:
El destino de Rafael Ortiz
Cuando ella llegó
Por la decapitación
Fue llevado a su fin ahora
2) The Old Moon
The winds, the winds-moments pass
Under its demise dark at twilight
Looking, looking down, down at me?.
There is a time amid now and then
She has her clandestine eyes you know
La Luna Vieja
Los vientos, los vientos-momentos pasan
Bajo sus pasajeras sombras en el crepúsculo
Mirando, mirando abajo, mirándome a mí?
Hay un tiempo entre ahora y entonces
3) Communal Sides [English Versión]
Youth has its age
With break ties-
Life, death, and quest,
Note: this poem was found by the cause after 25-years being misplaced; in black and white May, l981, and reviewed by Poetry North Review, Anchorage, Alaska by Dale A. Stirling, Editor/Publisher l980-86, Poetry North Review, his comments: "?very charming and convey real feeling?. " Biographer is naive if it was available by any prior anthologies, but feels up to this journalism it has not been published; consequently, the first time available in this set of poems. #82
La juventud tiene su edad
El otro piensa por qué;
Con lazos separados -
La vida, la muerte, y la búsqueda,
Y una esperanza en el pecho
Estos nunca descansan.
Note: este poema fue encontrado por el autor después de 25 años siendo extraviado; Escrito mayo, l981, y poesía revisada por, Revisión al norte, el Anclaje, Alaska por Dale A. Stirling, Redactor/Editor l980-86, Poesía revisión al norte, sus comentarios: "?muy sencillo y transporta el verdadero sentimiento. " El autor no es consciente si esto fue publicado por cualquier antología anterior, pero conociendo esta escritura no ha sido publicado; por consiguiente, por primera vez publicada en este juego de poemas.
Dennis Siluk, Poet, his new book being "Spell of the Andes," and "Cold Kindness," at your internet sites,or conceivably in some book stores http://www. bn. com or http://www. amazon. com
New Poetic Work By Ethiopian Colonist Promotes Respect, Courage And Cultural Sensitivity
McLean, VA - "The Remedial Conscious" tells the story of an Ethiopian migrant boy on his fascinating journey to America and adulthood. Dramatist Kifle Bantayehu, a 23 year-old second-generation Ethiopian immigrant, recounts this affecting tale in poetic format.
Chan Chan and The Gorriones (Two Poems in English and Spanish)
The next two poems, one in English, the other in English and Spanish were done at some point in this ongoing trip in Peru, while in Lima, though the poem concerning: Chan Chan was oriinally in progress last year,while at the antiquated site in Northern Peru, it was just complete recently.The Gorriones of LimaIt is fall all about me-The Gorriones are swimming in the air Underneath the Lima skyAs if-, if fish could fly?Summer has gone its wayIt is fall again I say! The birds-, they just walk on byLooking, as if, if on parade-AndThe world keeps spinning;They just do not see it Until the hour comes?When the sun goes down!?When,Things get a hardly dim;Yet the Gorriones keep on swimming Gracefully, swimming, in the wind-Under the Lima sky? .
Never Ever More
Once upon a midnight dreary, coffee cold and apparition bleary, all night sat there characters COBOL, coding broaden crossways the bed sheets, changing grammar for the mainframe, having checkered 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 nobody more.
Three Sweet Poems, and Two Not So Sweet [now in: SPANISH and English]
1) End PoemWherever you are today- Is where you were meant to be; It's where God, dotted the 'i' and the 't'?!2) God's AngelsGod asked his angels: "Why do you look so sad?" Responded one angel: "Sir, we can't find the shade."3) An Empty SpaceOut of wisdom one will wait, travel far for love; the thirst will not kill them.
Five Poems from Home [And a view on the world vs. the poet]
Five Poems from Home1) Remembering: Dorothy Parker [Dedicated to the 1920s Poetess]Let it be said, Dorothy Parker lies dead, cremated to ash and poetry; thus, she died at the ripe old age of seventy-three-.The tiny woman with a big mouth, who got jammed in the rain and couldn't get out: continued to play the game, all the same, like drops of rain upon a pane.
Stone Beds [A Poem and an Advance]
Stone Beds [Pompeii's surge]Advance: after the great epidemic of Pompeii's adjoining volcano, Vesuvius, some two-thousand years ago in the peak of the Roman Empire, what was left of the city were as a rule ashes of stone from an unleashing furnace; it is hard to conceive of what the associates went all the way through (none, not one anyone survived). I can only guess from the looks of the city today, and in its early excavations, its associates were baked alive or asleep, like pottery.
I Shall Wait...
I Shall Wait..
In the Mountans of Haiti [A Poem: in English and Spanish]
In the Mountains of Haiti(In the City)-July is a hot month-sweating Poverty out on every street (In Port de Prince); mixingMemory with appeal causes stirring. Not much rain in Haiti (in 1986); Summer kept us busy, building A health clinic, in the mountains?.
Writing Innovative Poetry
Writing innovative poetry, the kind of poetry that highly regarded literary journals publish, entails calculating closely what each word of a poem does to the reader. A good poem ought to be evocative, skillful, and cohesive, but ahead of attempting to hone these attributes, a capability poet be supposed to be clued-up of the a range of forms and attributes of contemporary poetry.
Three Poems: Phantasm of the Rocks; Lady from Lima & Bell Ringer of de Copan
Phantom of the Rocks[Huancayo, Peru]Night falls deepUpon the traveler!Low, over the AndesBy Huancayo-;They know a legend,Not of this earth,Where evil lurks(Over Palla-Huarcuan!..
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 adept of producing; And upon death, Back into the Abyss They melt!.
Take some time to stop and look at nature. Pick up a rock or two and think about where it might have on track out and what it might have gone all the way through to end up where you found it.
Two Poems In black and white All through Recovery
Since my wife and I are moving, or preparing to move, we've been going because of our equipment as most ancestors 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 affront deliberation perhaps.
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 without sleeping city, with its stretched out wingsStretching from the mountains to the sea- Winding because of 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 initiation in its inky seaInvisible people: cats, dogs, birds, and rats-infiniteUncountable: dots; streams of lit dots, dot-lights; People: walking, talking, sleeping, ingestion by the dots People: waiting, killing, robbing, praying, by the dotsFor tomorrow, tomorrow and a different 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 biting 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 copious food carts; -- musicians, paper sellersAnd with its naked featherless wings, jacket all-My Lima, Peru with its celebrated Cathedral:Golden blonde with immense 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 chore 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 before 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.
Become A Poet In Ten Minutes
Have you ever sat there staring at the paper, ready to write, but unsure where to begin? Want a elucidation that will overcome even the worst writer's block? Everybody can start characters poetry today using a few down-to-earth techniques.One, two, .
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 Crucial America. All came and all left, one way or another; now just dust and artifacts in the spiral of time.
Blind Designs [a Poem] and a Note by Rosa on The Other Door
Blind DesignsBorn today, gone tomorrow Like a butterfly with no stomach Born n the morning, dead by night Oh-let me whisper Oh-let me cry What man has not learned? What man will not learn! In his pomposity, his expression With his abstract concepts With his intellect With his creativeness He has befall enslaved By-them? By them all, he will fall. Ah! Yes-abstract concepts Bombast and expression His intellect His cleverness This he trees behind To his decedents!.
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 Cape 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 scorching fair 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.
How I admiration what he's doing as I sit alone at night. How I admiration who he's seeing How I admiration if I'm right.
Poems have another cores, or so I believe, and can only be structured well for a number of metaphoric language-heart beats; like all counselors are not made for all clients, so all poems are not made for the same person, or purpose; when we read we all have our likes and dislikes; I do not automatically know what poetry is per se, but I do know what the distinction of poetry has, and great poetry is close to an illusion?it carries an echo I do believe-figurative yes, at best, and questionable yes, by far. Here are five poems I've a short time ago wrote, all with a assorted core, focus and style.
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