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Poetry in rank - poetry

Motiff


Have you ever skilled love with a big cheese you know is not a good match for you? Or how about an attractive association that roots itself deep in your memory..

Little Girl from Huancayo [a poem/in English and Spanish]


Little girl from HuancayoDo you really, actually know? Just how fast those feet will grow,On the streets of Huancayo.Little girl with jumping jacksOn the street, looking back; Back to see whose scrutiny her,A hardly boy with a bird.

Lamenting Poetic Moods [six Poems]


Advance: in Mr. Siluk's poetry one finds symbolist values, affective impressions; verbal magic and even childish jingles; at times the common 8-syllable verse (ballad metre).

The Man Who Could Not Say Sorry For His Sins


Sorry would be a start.Though you cant take back your mistakes, and you cant find an answer time, you'd think there would be remorse, for such a self portion crime, to send others out to die, to pay the blood price you have decreed, when its completely pomposity and posing, all about arrogance and greed, to assure a perceived niche in history, glowing down the years, is the area of your ambition, is the puny limit of your fears, when those you have sent to die, believing implicitly in you, leave relatives after who see, that naught you said was true, there is no accepted wisdom now for those, whose add up to you dont count, they are yesterdays forgotten, though daily they still mount, no belief of resignation, no confession to those left behind, just on with the ego, fast ahead from those times, as if nobody ever happened, as if your lies are quite ok, as if now is what to focus on, and then was a further day, lost back in the mists of time, obscured by clouds half seen, not an cause offense to the living, not impeachable and obscene, you may want to move on now, and disregard your past infamy, but you must be tried for treason, and captive for blasphemy.

Three Poems: The Monkey Man of Lima, Plus Two More


What Hides at the back the Minute?What hides at the back the minute? It seems, no one especially knows; How many times will we wakeup, To count the log gone?The rose was dead when I arrived; The sword, was rusty and dull; The chance curtain was open, And there was music in the hall.Oh lovely minute, where art thou? One, is not like the other-: Whirling in an human orbit, As the endless world discovers.

Shaking out the Rugs [Following the Poet]


Let's admire 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?.

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 lasting city of light Uneven as a crumbled cake, lit up like a Christmas tree-The wakeful city, with its stretched out wingsStretching from the mountains to the sea- Winding by means 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 induction 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 defiant 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 grubby 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, cover all-My Lima, Peru with its established Cathedral:Golden blonde with gigantic crowns, andWithin its plaza-square, a water fountain-celebrated.Under its sins, with its craggy 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 labor 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 by 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.

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.

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 engraved wood the zoned-out-ness in my head dreaming; it was change for the better than death? then I took a new drink?so many I never moved much, like dead fish. my head split like an ass it was numb and, nobody else numbness was my homeacross the street, dancing on the patio the moon was out.

The Poets Back into a corner [Three Poems with a review]


The Poet's Corner [Three poem/ see analysis of poetry under the poems]The Poets CondorThe condor fly's Amongst the hillsIn open skies Of San Jerrónimo, Near Huancayo?Forbidding any To near his path-Lest he dare To risk a attack, Near Huancayo!..

Here And There


My eyes opened. I am still alive; Living on globe earth.

The Plane from Iquitos [1959-Part One]


Iquitos & the Amazon Part OneIt was December 2, l959, I was session on a small prop-plane exit Iquitos, Peru for a trip down the Amazon en route for the opening, the mouth of the mighty Amazon,--to Manaus. As we flew low one could see the waters of the Amazon, the city continually impressed me, but more from this birds-eye view, you could see the mighty river in its squid like form, with all it tentacles [contributories: waters connecting to the river].

Biography of Charlotte Bronte


Charlotte Bronte (1816 -1855) Writer and Poet.Charlotte was the daughter of the Rev.

Expressing an Emotion - The Art of Journalism Poetry


Writing poetry is an art, a way of expression, conclusion connotation in few words. A song of passion flowing out onto the pages, words that flow into each other and yet definite the inner most belief and feelings of those who read the words.

Way of Life: Rhymes of the Inca [four poems: see in Spanish and English NOW!]


Way of Life: Rhymes of the IncaPizarro (Spanish conquistador ((1525))The blind abide by the blind The dumb admire the fool But the cleaver, like 'Pizarro,' (who could not read or write) Followed human-nature? And ruled the Inca world!Thus, Atahualpa was Beheaded out of pride and Indolence-: one might say, And ignorance ruled? .Note: don Francisco Pizarro #689 5/27/05Cepeda the Sly [Lima, Perú-l546 AD]Cepeda the Sly-, judge With two sides; one false, One pride-both mixed with lies.

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