George Clooney: Angry Messenger

I heard George Clooney talk today, on the refugees in Chad, he seemed upset, mad, even sarcastic because the world body, or perhaps folks like you and me are not doing enough for these poor folk who are dying night an day, starvation, disease, etc. He has a mission I see, and he blames everyone who does not help, or those he expects should help, to carry is burden of unmet expectations, he is even angry about it. Perhaps he needs to travel more, see more poverty, just not go and have a camera follow him around like a mouse following an elephant, take pictures, show it on CNN, and talk at the UN like he is an expert. If indeed he cares as much as his face shows, go sell everything, and bring those poor suffering souls what you feel they need. Perhaps God is calling him, and he should act on this calling, but he is not God, and maybe God is not calling all those folks he feels should be called.

On the other hand, if you have traveled widely, he would know, Chad is but one heartbreaking place among many. He proclaims simply to be a messenger; he sounds more like the not so Good Samaritan that walks around the poor man on the ground, hoping someone else will fix it for them. He needs to get a hold on his arrogance, and pray, if he believes in God, then write that check out George, that will prove your worth, or is it salt. Take ten-million dollars, it’s just a half movie showing for you, and feed these people: or perhaps 20-million, it is one movie for you, three months pay, but it will feed these folks for along, long time. We need more action George, not so much talk, and pictures.

I looked at George closely while he was on his trip to Chad and his speech at the UN, and he looked healthy, no tired eyes, nice ironed cloths, cleaned shaved, he had the sparkle of a star, and he is one, in Hollywood, I doubt anyone knew him in Chad, and if the poor would have known, they may have asked him for a hand out. Anyhow, the folks he visited didn’t look as glamorous as he, how could he walk by them and not feed them. Nice pictures though, now he can tell his grandkids, how he went to Chad to save them, but the UN, wouldn’t listen.

Obama vs. Hillary (and EK?)

Obama, is somehow in a high because Sen. Edward Kennedy has put his arm around his shoulder, as if he was an Uncle Tom.
I do not know Obama that well, as far as a political person, or his views, but I do know Edward, and I’d not allow his hands over my shoulder when the camera was looking, Edward is what I would call, a cold blooded murderer. Remember the book, “Dark Waters,” by Joyce Otis… here is a guy when the chips get down,
runs to a hole in the ground and like an ostrich, hides his head, hoping no one saw what he did, or have we all forgot he was responsible for the death of a young woman not so long ago. It is like having O.J. indorsing me for an honorary PH.D, forget it.

#2202

Abu Laith al-Libi (Poetic Epitaph)

Poetic Epitaph


Saddam’s been waiting I hear, down there
down younger in the netherworld, waiting
for you Abu Laith, planning a big bash, with
lots of whores, booze and cash.
They say you worked hard for Allah, up
here, on earth, killing and robbing,
rapping and all sorts of nasty things…
things that would make a persons ears
ring, all in the name of Allah!
Now it’s simply, a gravy train, all you
got to do, is find Allah, before the
devil—for it seems to me, He’s also
been waiting for you.

#2201 1-31-2008

Sociology in Peru (Tribute to the Sociology College in Huancayo, Peru)

(The Premise: for the reader's better understanding of Sociology in Peru)


I was invited and received an award from the Sociology College in Huancayo, Peru, and thus, I feel I should write a tribute for them. I do not claim to know more about sociology than they (especially in their own country), for I only have a minor in undergraduate studies in sociology, but I do have a major in Psychology, a License in Counseling, a Ph.D. in traveling the world, and a Ed. D, (Doctorate) in education (culture and learning).

The reason for this essay of sorts, perhaps my help the English reader more than the Peruvian Spanish reader, simply because those who come to Peru, may fall into the category of cultural shock.

Sociology, if compared to many of the other sciences, is rather new, it looks at cause and effect, as does psychology; but more as a whole, than an individual, where psychology does just the opposite—and at what we may call, the present social picture, its status, or phenomena—reading a society’s history will help the person involved in knowing the society they are stepping into (my wife Rosa, read two huge books, over 1000-pages per book, so she would know the United States, when she moved there with me for six years); in this case Peru, and its people. Other elements involved are the government, economics, and problems in the society. Etc.
And like all sciences, the sociologist of Peru, look to make a chart; anthropology is always involved with a society, sooner or later it is put on the table, I had studied antropology in College years ago, and it does tell stories, perhaps of why a society is what it is, or ended up to be as it is, and a few more why’s.
The cup of tea for the sociologist, is quite mixed as you can see for in a society there are of course many, many obstacles to look at, and each society may have different ones, ones more serious, or less serious than its neighbors, or friends.
Like in most all sciences, one will find prejudices involved, here as well, for my opinions are mine, and perhaps not my friends. Also the French, or Russian, may not agree to my way of thinking. This is ok, they see things differently. Who is correct? In a society, you must adjust. For forty-years the singing group, ‘The Beatles,’ was banded from entering Israel, now Israel has invited them to Israel. Things change in a society, slowly. Social and political views do not always remain the same, as well as for solutions.

The Seeds of the Eel People (Part III)

Part III

The Seeds of the Eel People


They know their ways, they act stupid some times, but it is on purpose, they
think faster than we act, --it is our life they
process, as if it was theirs—a war is going on here. They feel they are special, and the rest of us
we’re made to adjust to them—the eel people (one must remember, there are several species to the eel family).

Magnificent, they can look, and act, President Garcia of Peru, is one, and so was, and is W. Burroughs, A. Ginsberg, Saddam, Castro, Hillary, Annan, Giuliani, Russia’s top dog, Iran’s middle dog, and I can go on and on and on.
The faces may not even match the slayer instinct they have, for it is hidden often, their slim colorless souls, are never exposed…
the eel people haul them about, like a trash can; in the world they may
even be giving flowers
out, made out of utopian dung, nameless faces, are many, headless, blissful
hymns they sing to heaven, hoping God will want them—fooled they are in their on dung, for God is not their pet, and yet, they’d hope so.
These are the eel people, the arguing ones, and strangers unto themselves,
afraid of death, because they’ve done so much wrong, but can’t believe God would send them to hell, or one of the 72-deaths.
Thus, knowing where they are going (some do you know, especially just before
they die) they plant seeds here on earth, doing the Devil’s work.
Yet, let them not kid themselves, death, in a world of nothingness, awaits them;
day-less, darkness, only a black handkerchief to wipe the tears and sweat
from their forehead; yet, like phantoms, they come!


I never thought of people like this before, the, so called eel people, it perchance
was a hidden fancy; lo, to think I was so immature, unstable, to see civilization with glass marble eyes—and no mirrors, when widespread
corruption, rooted in the
people’s soul and heart, was the immeasurable abyss the eel people had come out of, bringing their most revered traditions: arms of pleasure,
pessimistic views, to let the people know or think they can restore to society
(what they took, in the name of God—and righteousness, and so all can have a better life) their great anti decadents measures; these are the conquered souls by Satan.
This subtle infusion of cult in our time, and false faiths, with mystic superstitious,
roots, indifference, all penetration of the eel people, into the enslaved—us-
people, people they want to rule, and control; hence, deep in their hearts, they have no ethical theory, yet they produce one
for us, --we are the ‘us,’ thing for them: these are the laughing philosophers—kin to the eel people, you
could say.

The Eel People (Part II, Hid in an Egg)

Part II
The Eel People
(Hid in an Egg)


There was no key to life, so I would find out—in the great city of San
Francisco, back in 1968-69, if there was a key it was in my head,
my head, somewhere in my head; so I simply walked the streets
of Castro, Mission, Dolores, I’d walk, day after day, caught the
trolley along the way. In those far off days—everything in Frisco
seemed to move, I, myself was in a state of poverty, I knew,
and I think everyone I knew, knew, but I didn’t care who knew
back then, I was but twenty-one. Strange, how things work out,
soon thereafter, after I’d leave San Francisco, I’d be in Boot Camp,
down South, and onto Europe, and in time back to Minnesota.
But back to Castro, the streets were full of homosexuals, trying to pick up
my cigarette putts, to prime me I suppose, to their abodes, bars,
buy me drinks, in hopes and wishes, and so forth…but I escaped
their whims, and desires, and universe; I guess that remains
with us, even if you’re not of the same strain, it gnaws at yaw.
Enough of that, --cancel it! What came, or comes, is gone, and good.
Leave it closed, for no regrets, they just gave me toothaches.

I then went to Mexico, met my brother in Montclair, California,
got robbed, and bare, by three fat Mexicans, they almost laughed,
(I hid my money in my sock, bare I might be, but with socks on)
Alas, offering them what change I had in my pockets, they
moaned, and groaned, but took it, and the whore left me alone
(she was part of the set up…sex that way is only pleasure,
happiness does not come along for the ride…you marry for that).
I suppose I didn’t mind, we all must sacrifice to the hungry hounds
sooner or later, and to the hounds of Mexico, why not?
and the roar of the Mexican skull came, frowned, that he only
got, $22-dollars from me, some change…! no more, yet
five hundred dollars remained in my sock, and I walked out of that
mess, with no broken ribs. Ai! Thank God, all I had was a
laughing eye, lucky that day, but in years to come, luck would
stay with me, would remain. Two plane crashes, a heart attack, a stroke,
a few close calls in the war of Vietnam, I feel like a cat with nine
lives. At Sixty, you have to grab the last moments you remember, they
fade quickly. In saying that, let me explain:
“Later perhaps…” I tell myself, but I don’t foresee later, nowadays,
so for you I got to write my first thoughts, lest, I lose them.

So much I didn’t know. God waiting for me in the void, waiting
for me to wake up, and grab his palm. Taking my eyes out of the dim
clouds, and instead of dreaming, I became all I could, told the dream
to shove off. I told myself each year, I was getting too close to the
grave, thus, move and become, I set the halo down, and believe it,
the war was on. Triumph after triumph…and I even made peace
with God!
The main problem along the way, was the eel people, the incapable
people, whom want you to become like them, incapable…oh yes,
yes indeed, the eel people, breed, bread I say, breed eel people
—they have no sun on the mind,
no, nothing, just existence, a pitiful group they are… you know them,
freaked in the brain, lost to cocaine. Cannot, or will not adjust to
change. Hid in an egg (you could say) waiting like idiot for the
snowman to walk, talk, and play their games.
We are the forever people, headed for the end, and the eel people, are
right behind, asleep.

#2197 1-30-2008

Intestines of the Devil (at Ta Prohm)

They strangle the temple walls,
these intestines of the devils
(the roots at Ta Prohm).
Intestines of the devils—they
leave as they pass this way,
big as huge pythons:
thumbs and limbs, of the dead,
coughed up on their long
journey back to hell…
Returning home at last…,
leaving a haunted midnight!...

#2195 1-30-2008

Lima's Anniversary (a Little History/1-2008)

Lima’s Anniversary
(a Little History)

Just a word or two on Lima; I live in Lima, about four months out of the year, have been here going on eight years. Lima, the word Lima, comes from one of the oldest languages in the world, a language much used in the sierras, but not much in the eight-million metropolis of Lima, nowadays. Quechua, is the name of the language, and the word means, “Rimac” or in simple English, it means, ‘The talking River,’ (or, Rio). My wife’s mother spoke it well, and those who can in Peru, are considered able to speak two languages. In Lima, the river is called, the Rimac Rio.
Lima is known in the world as “The City of Kings,” founded by the Spanish conquistador, Francisco Pizarro, close to five-hundred years ago.
Furthermore, “People of the Sun,” better know as the Inca, had their empire here in Peru, which spread out almost like the Roman Empire, touching and swallowing many South American countries (to include, Equator and into Chile).
Most folks in Peru are of the Roman Catholic religion.
There is also a great verity of foods in Peru, especially in the mountains, but also in Lima, Ginny Pig, which I enjoy, being one of the favorites of the Peruvian people, all over Peru.
They, the Peruvians, like Americans, perhaps one of the last countries that do, and they treat Americans with much respect, yet it would not be wise to carry too much money on you, there are a lot of thieves, and they don’t care if you are white, black, yellow or red, American or European, or Chinese; money is money, and so be careful, if you visit Lima.
Peru, at this time, is a good place to retire (your money is worth three times its value in the states), not sure how it will be five years from now, things change in South America, fast.
Well, I could go on and on, but let me close by saying, there is much to see and do in Lima, from archeological sites, to museums, to festivals, and dances, and the Plaza de Arms, which has its grand cathedral.

Fatal blow: who will be Presidnt of the USA?

Fatal blow: who will be President of the USA?


First of all we have a very poor selection of candidates out there running for president of the United States. I hope we do not end up like Peru, who had to pick between the devil (Humala), and Garcia (who drained the country dry in the 80s. And guess who they ended up with, after having a selection of 105- candidates, you got it, the lesser of the evils, Garcia; thank goodness for Bush, if it wasn’t for him, Garcia would look worse than what he does, and should. If Bush had not brought the dollar down in South America, Garcia, would have inflation higher, and the Soles worthless. America is headed down the same road.
Let’s be frank about this, did anyone really think a black man could win the race to become President of the United States. Put your bias aside and be honest, I could have told you that a year ago, the blacks maybe ready for it, but they are the only ones that are.
And a woman, well, maybe the country is up to that—if it is shoved down their throats, but Hillary? (My selection of a black American, and woman for president, would have been Rice, I would vote for her tomorrow if I could).
Here we go, picking between the evils. And now we got McCain on the other side of the fence; the laughing hyena. All these candidates are a joke; Barack Obama, sounds more like the old Mahmud Ali, the boxer in the ring, ready to throw his punches for a quick knockout in round one.
Hillary says she’s got the experience, perhaps she does, if she don’t give the country away to the Arabs, or kneel to the United Nations, or play house with the PLO, or is it Hamas now.
Edwards, male, young, white, a good kind of boy not sure if he is ready for the big time though, and there are a few religious elements involved here; Romney, a more serious lad than McCain, but what does he have? They all want to end the war in Iraq, I think, but dare not say so, too quick.
If we end up with Obama, you can be assured, Alabama will end up being emancipated. Hillary, will have the military bow to her whims, and McCain, may go on a laughing spree. Too many ducks in the pond, and all too willing to eat the others; Mitt Romney keeps coming to mind, not sure why.

Russia: King for a Day

Russia: King for a Day

Russia is warning the world, or at least the United Nations, which represents the world, and the EU, not to fool around in Kosovo, or we may slap your hands, or perhaps start a nuclear war, or perhaps, stop sending them oil, or perhaps, not talk to them for a month. Not sure what they can do, but they are warning the world all the same: do not send troops into Kosovo. No one has paid full attention to them yet, but who knows, maybe they will. I am happy the EU has thus far, told them in so many words, hush up, we can, and we may. Although, the EU is really a weak set of states, if it comes to push and shove, I think they would fall over with a blow of wind, if not for the United States NATO, and even NATO, is not brave enough to fight Russia alone, without the nuclear backup of the arsenal the United States has around the world. So why be so daring when you know, the price can be so High? It is called a bluff. If the EU falls for it, then they might just as well hang it up in the future, they will be bullied about, isn’t that how it usually goes, an old game from my high school days. But if you get a lot of NATO soldiers in the Kosovo, then Kosovo feels safe to part its ways with Serbia, and that is bad news for Moscow. They don’t want another free thinking country over there—do they?

Annan the Anticrhist: Bend Your BAck (1-29-2008)

Annan the Antichrist: Bend your Back
(1-29-2008)

Annan is part of the problem at present, not part of the solution in Kenya, or at least he is at the moment; when Annan was there in the 1980s, and was suppose to have solved the issues there, three-million citizens died because of his lack of vigor, and his lingering in his proud arrogance. Now again he is given political supremacy over this war in Kenya, round two (as the referee): he put to death the soul of Kenya back in the ‘80s, as the rebels bombed to death the cities, and ground, and people, in government and in thought, the wills of the nation. He simply, back then, quickened the process with his presence, and thus came decay. Now he wants Kenya to drink poison again (enough is enough).
Former, United Nations chief Kofi Annan, can he fight this new ethnic violence? Is this trouble we see in Kenya, really about the rigging of the December 27 vote to win re-election? Usually it is the situation on top, the problem is underneath. Annan can’t see it, because he is part of the problem, not the solution, at present. He fights with words, old used up words, and gives advice, perhaps he should ask questions, and give them something better than what they have—back!! Why else would they stop? If you gave me words and nothing better than what I have, why would I stop? Why would anybody stop without something better than what they started out with? He answers because of arrogance and greed—it reeks on him, I say again, he should be asking a question that really is the sum of it, he does not have the luxury of competing with jealousy, envy—the power in Kenya is out of control, and he is not the controller.
I have really followed this guy much too long in my writing career. He needs to ask the people: by war, what will be their way of life—if continued? Now and after; if it continues; and when they are no longer housed, or have work, and commonly striped barefoot, no substantial cloths, or school, what then? No feed for live stock, no barley for beer, and no wheat for bread, what then, no flour, any loaves, any salt, or olives, or cabbages. Hit the pulse, the diet of the rich as well as the poor, the rebel, they may not be expected to live on peace, but peace will give them old age for now. Bequeath a similar life to the rebels, to give their chilren a better life (the rich have money to fight back, the rebels, can be bought, so buy them for now—give, so they do not have to take). Be humble, tell them infanticide will prevail—their children as well as those they wish to kill, but may not get the chance to, will be left on doorsteps, for no one to feed; but it is too hard for the antichrist—Annan to bend his back in his aristocracy.
He needs to stop talking about ‘Human Rights,’ it is over played by all the so called goodie groups out there howling the same old crap, and doing nothing. The mourning will not stop so easily. No one cares how much you know, or have, until you show how much you care, and give. Perhaps he needs to cry for the people, cry, and cry publicly and show them how much he cares. Take the $2000-dollar suit off, and cry. He needs to feel the pain of the people, and then maybe, just maybe, he will walk out the hero, as he wants to be.

Four Fame and Death Poems (by: D.L. Siluk, Ed.D.

Four Fame and Death Poems


1

Allen Ginsberg’s Mess

Allen Ginsberg wrote a poem once
“I got old and s..t in my pants … …”
and so forth.
When he was young he did the same thing,
so what’s the difference now? I ask myself.
In either case,
he let others clean up his mess…!

#2193 1-28-2008



2


Guyana Today
(1-28-2008)

They’re killing wildly in Guyana
these days—gangs,
smashing down doors
to houses, and killing kids
with smiling faces, like fish, on
a butcher’s table…!

#2189 1-28-2008



3


Earth, from the Moon

The moon, has a bright eye
and a dark, and blindside to this eye;
yet, it sees, from day to day, the earth’s ways…;
the over population, and the many military invasions,
countries playing nuclear science, like Monopoly,
and much, much more!
It isn’t worried about human salvation,
alchemy, or equations, or such things.
The moon feels, all such related should be
cared for, by the humans, those with
two good eyes.



#2188 1-28-2008



4


The War God

Three words: The War God.
Who is the war God? God?
I thought I knew, until now.
I never heard his voice—
the God voice, the real voice
of the War God.
Some have said it is Jesus,
for He will come on a white war horse,
for war—during the end days!
But that is not now, perhaps soon though.
Others say it is JHVH—from the past,
but again, that is not now, it was then!
I eliminated Buddha, for some odd reason.
So who is left, but Allah?
But like the rest, that also is a guess.

All the religious folks shut their doors,
when they hear such talk, or
blame it on Satan, he has broad shoulders,
does he not?
Perhaps Satan may blame it on Confucius,
or some Hindu god (why not!).

Perchance the world is addicted to war,
and god and war are a good exchange
for peace, when one gets tired of war.
On another note, we need someone to
blame, do we not,
when we get tired of the same old game
played way too long.

#2187 1-28-2008

The Eel People (Requiem for an Era)

The Eel People
(Requiem for an Era)

It is quite strange that it comes to mind, gone days of an era, without rules or
ethics, a time when I walked the streets of San Francisco, slept in the barracks of North Carolina, and Alabama, and onto Germany, and Vietnam.
talking, reading, fighting, breeding, listening to Rock & Roll, Elvis Presley,
whom we all wanted to be like; buying records to listen to on the stereo
the rhythm, the rimes, they floated wild in my mind—even forty-years after—
And read Will Durant’s books, cover to cover, silently, and wept, realizing
how the world came to be— (perhaps will end)
Dreaming back through time, my time—alas, how it accelerated to now, to-
ward, Armageddon (terrorism), the final conquest—
countdown; the cities burning Night and Day—and what comes next,
it would seem from history, and visions, more unrest, intimidation
a moments cry away, and the great Bear, and China, with the phantom
Satan, awaits a crumbled bed for America, that now is forming—
like this poem I write, in the dark—tonight, wanting to hide in Oblivion—
And perhaps Death will be the remedy for many, who remember,
prophesy, in the book of Revelation, or Denial’s Book of things
to come to pass—and my own imagination of a thin world—now—
Dreaming back through time, my time—alas, how it accelerated to now, to-
ward, Armageddon.
Not much to say, but tears for those I saw in my visions, dream-visions,
massed, and fooled by illusions,
like the days before the Great Flood, I saw people screaming, selling, drinking
kneeling to, and doing whatever for fame and fortune,
worshiping the god of lust, in it all—longing for it to last—while age
leaped forward, and all became the past—nothing more?
They leaped at me, as I went out to walk the streets, looking at me like eel
people, in Castro, in San Francisco, in the corners of Augsburg,
Germany, on Wabasha in St. Paul, Minnesota, in the corners of
Vietnam, eel people, coming out of their pits, under the clouds,
stinking—the sky above—, no rest. And I went down South,
—Alabama, North Carolina, in those far off days,
the eel people, like shallow water, some hidden deep, 12,000-feet
eating off another’s grief, giving you poisonous things, as they did me
in Seattle of America—frightened I ran to the train, back to St. Paul,
Minnesota—where I had come from
to the quiet life for a spell, then onto Vietnam, war and hell,
sand and sweat, in the back of five-ton trucks, muggy and wet—
I found education along the way, a few marriages, all broke down,
and my learning continued, mad as I was, it was no dream,
rather, it was life in the living, some in the making?


#2187 1-28-2008 The poem refers to the time period, as indicated in the poem, perhaps 1968 to 1971, and now in 2008 being remembered, for what it was, and what it is now (or has come in the past 40-years), and what it might turn out to be (in the near future); just a poem on imaginative prophecy, according to patterns, history, and Biblical verse, in poetic prose.

Eel and Whale in Reykjavik (9-9-'99)

Eel and Whale in Reykjavik
(9-9-‘99)

In Reykjavik, one evening
I walked into a restaurant
(with a visiting female)—
ordered:
thick slices of eel,
slices of thin cut whale,
rolled in syrup like gravy
with potatoes and rice
(in the day, month and year of 9-9-’99);
rolled up my white evening shirt,
then took a bite of her dish
and she a bit off mine.
….
We sat and talked, a while, thereafter,
I with my coffee and coke,
Her with a glass of dry red wine,
she even had a smoke,
but I didn’t mine.
….
Then all of a suddenly,
our plates disappeared,
along with the vinegary and mustard,
and her empty glass of wine.

“I enjoyed the whale,” I told her,
and she said to me,
“So did I, and the wine.”

I thought, as I walked her
to her hotel, in the rain,
it was simply nice, to have had a night
with good company,
a stranger I had met on a boat,
off the coast of Reykjavik,
and no complaints.



#2186 1-27-2007 (2:45 PM), now looking back, remembering my long weekend in Reykjavik, and a few incidentals that took place, it was a wondrous four days there. The people were friendly and kind, alas, the prices were sky-high. And outside of the city, a few hours north, are beautiful cliffs, and a lighthouse, all memorable sites. Please do not take this poem as one saying whale killing is right or wrong, I just simply enjoyed the meal, right or wrong. I do not protest, nor do I march for anyone. In Egypt I bought Ivey, some man said to me, “How can you do that, the poor elephant!” I did not kill the elephant, I explained to the man, and in Egypt it is legal to buy ivory, or was in 1998, for I bought it publicly, yet the man felt he had a duty to display his anger with my purchase, I told him a few other things, I will leave out of this narration, for it was not going anywhere, if not in circles, and I have the nice sphinx of Ivey to this day, and do not regret buying it, as I do not regret eating eel and whale (although the eel, I would not repeat). So I seem to go with the flow, and the rules of each and every country, I don’t make them, nor march for them, I simply go by them. I do hope you enjoy the poem (if it offends you, don’t read it again.)

Garden Music (a poem)

Garden Music

Green leafage and roots
with flowers and stems:
a cactus and a totem pole,
in the center of the garden.

In and above, my deep dark
earthly garden, makes for
charming music, --upon:
twilight meeting the moon.

And the birds perched,
along the houses, once in
the garden, are now settled
reconciled for the Evening.

So, much charming music
prevails, along the many rooftops,
and countless window sills,
with dark feathers, flopping

flopping wings, softly swaying,
swaying with bent heads,
to the music of the garden,
to the rhythm of the night:

in and above the garden’s eyes.

#2177 1—27-2008

In The Fighting Fields of Bagdad and Kabul

In the Fighting Fields
of Bagdad and Kabul

Outside, and within the cities
Of Bagdad, and Kabul,
The sands blow wild,
Between the country’s roads
The hawks and the scavengers,
Here, they bravely sweep, fly low
Seldom heard amongst the arms below.

In these fighting fields
Of Bagdad and Kabul
So many dead, long days ago;
They lived, felt twilight, saw home
Were loved, gave love, and now they sprawl
In the low and wild sandy fields
Where the hawks and scavengers never bow.

Pick up this battle with the foe,
To you, who sent us here long time ago…!
We bring to you the torch, hold it high,
Do not break belief, for here we die.
If so, we shall not sleep, in these fields below
Where the hawk and scavenger, fly low.

#2185 1-27-2008


Note: Everyday some soldier is dying for the liberty of another in sandy fields of Afghanistan and Iraq, I am not sure if the inhabitants of these countries even care for freedom, or liberty, I often think we are shoving it down their throats; nor at times do I think they appreciate all the young lives be given up for them. Perhaps I look at it sideways, and this is more on how I feel than think. In any case, the only winners in this long drawn out fight is perhaps the low flying scavengers’, whom have feast over this. May the Lord be with the soldiers whom are fighting for such virtues in life to be extended?

Dirty People! ((a Poem)(Revised))

Dirty People!
(Revised 2-14-2008)


Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! The world is dirty!
The core around the Soul is dirty, dirty, dirty!

The flesh is dirty! As is one's face and eyes!

The tongue and mouth with no hair is dirty!

Hemingway, Faulkner, Tennessee Williams,
Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassidy,
W.S. Burroughs, Peter Orlovsky, Robert LaVigne,
all dirty, writers; and so is Plath and Sexton...!
And many, many, many more—like Allen Garcia
and Hillary Clinton, Castro, Chavez, Morales,
and many, many, many more. (All dirty as Imps,
devils from the abyss.)

The saints on earth are dirty, as around the core
of my Soul! The computer, television, radios are
dirty, with their filth and gore; this poem is all
humility, or perhaps vanity, whatever, it is dirty
also, like ecstasy or encrusted happiness: dirty
(as in lust, envy, aching for?) within this world's
summer of cities.

I walk about, around, in and out, to and fro, inside
this inner city circle, see dirty walls written on;
signs, and dirty cars, and poets all looking for a
lasting name, drenched in pride, dreams and shame,
from San Francisco, to Main, from New York City, to
New Orleans, from India to Egypt; from Lima to

Buenos Aires, from England to Moscow, from Iran, to Saudi
Arabia, and Australia (someday each and everyone
will be famous for a day, and then forgotten for eternity).

Dirty are the cafes of most cities in South and
Central America; with rats and cockroaches:
rivers of brown muck, dirty, dirty like swine, and
they serve the meat, chicken and fish, cow and pig
(muck style, when you dine...) it is all part of your times.

Dirty are the beaches around Lima, and the streets of Huancayo,

and the back allies of Cerro de Pasco, and the basements of

St. Paul, Minnesota, and attics of Minneapolis, and all those

good folks that made it possible: who blames the government

for what they have to do, feel they have to do... blame it on

society, they got broad shoulders: as they do in Lima, Peru,

Buenos Aires, Santiago. It's all in a days work. Ugh! This dirty

earth is filled with awful dirty people. All people who do not

even take time to flush the toilets, eat at fast food cafes,

in Lima, dirty people making happy faces, shameful minds;

dripping with venom talk and walking like peacocks.

I see, everyday, the dirty people walking, drinking rot-gut

alcohol, dope, marijuana, but no, not all, some are in this very

coffee shop, drinking this very coffee, same coffee as me,

I hope they washed the cups, I hope, I hope, I get sick

so easily. I'm in here almost every day, I wonder,

I really wonder, if anyone but me, can see the angel nearby;

not one, not even one person, is watching him,
he just turned aside. He has a silent smile, he whispered
something…"God loves you!, you’re His child!"

#2188 1-25-2008

Death Coma (a poem)

Death Coma

My mother—three days she lay in a coma
(lapsed into a death unconsciousness), before she died.
Her death was as she would have had fashioned it.
If she had a poetic last breath, or one of
some philosophical meaning, it was this:
“I am ready, I’m not afraid—,
would you like to live like this?”
Thus, somehow she made her peace
and found her quest!


#2182 1-26-2008

Allen Ginsberg's Image of God (a poem)

Allen Ginsberg’s Image of God
(a poem)

Allen hoped there was a gay Creator—
and he died with that hope—.
Now he is in hell, and hoping for a
gay savior…!
His image of God—never ends,
he thinks God is his pet!

#2184 1-26-2008

Rhyme of the Ten Ton Toad (a children's poem, of Satipo, Jungle of Peru)

Rhyme of the Ten Ton Toad

In the Satipo jungle of Peru
near the Tambo Rio,
amongst
the foliage and trees,
lives an ancient ten ton toad,
with four big, one ton toes
and a one ton tongue
behind his teeth.

His back is fat
yellow and green;
his eyes are small
like a jelly beans—
and his front arms are
open and stretched
as if ready to jump—
on someone’s chest.

His shoulders have
little green lump—
knobs, bumps and humps;
ugly as can be
this ten ton toad,
with four one ton toes
and a one ton tongue,
behind his teeth,
who lives amongst
the tall trees
has lived here, or is
it there, amongst
the foliage, and leafage
since who knows when;
or who knows how long,
or who knows who—in
del Canuja, the
jungles of Satipo
in Peru!

#2178 1-26-2008 (1:06 PM)

In the jungles of Peru, the Satipo jungle to be exact, about a six hour drive from Lima, Peru (by bus), which is considered the central jungle of Peru, whereas the Amazon is of course of a different classification (and is north of Satipo), there is a giant stone construction, hidden amongst the tall trees and the leafage of the jungle, this structure of stone is by the River Tames, a stone figure, petroglyphs del Canuja, better know as. This is the ancient stonework of the natives in that vicinity; rock art, but this construction, or carving out of stone, is way beyond that, a beautiful, intricate stone carving of a great and giant toad.

Last Roundup for a Star

Why is everyone making such a big fuss over this dim light from Hollywood, who was a star for a few movies, or years? They are portraying it as if James Dean died, or Marlon Brando, or even Elvis. I had to stop and think just who this guy is, woops, was, Heath Ledger. As I searched my memory, and saw that he played in
“A Knight’s Tale,” I said to my wife, “Yes, I know the guy…too bad he died, wonder what happened (a rhetorical question?)” Then I went about reading some poetry of Tennessee Williams, and Allen Ginsberg’s.
It is always sad when someone takes their life, and of course we are not sure of that yet, if indeed he did overdose purposely or what—and one so young, too bad he could not have gotten this kind of notoriety while alive, it does him little good now.
And as far as “Brokeback Mountain,” goes, it was a slimy film, I’d pick “A Knight’s Tale,” any day over that, but Hollywood does strange thinks for pretty boys. I suppose what we don’t know now, will come out later, it always does, and usually it is the secrets behind closed curtains; because at this point, it is, or seems pretty strange to me, they know so little about what took place, even with a good examination, and yet they know so much about him, it tells me, something is fishy in the kitchen. But I will have to endure the suspense, for now.
I am sure the movie folks in Hollywood, are happy to have all this coverage, when the Batman will be flying over the USA pretty soon, and dropping tickets so us good folks can see, the last move of this great, great, great (not sure how many greats I should put here) hero.
Has the world lost anything? Perhaps not; his movies in time will turn to dust, and he will be on the back page in a few months, of some magazine of one of many who died in 2008. To his group of loved ones, of course he will be remembered, and the few movies he made, when they air on TV, we will say “Yah, I remember…him, what’s his name?” I do hope he died for something.

Helicopter over the Jungle ((From a Dream)(Motif...))

((From a Dream) (Motif, first thought poetry))

Mike my brother, hot muggy,
jungle all around him, lost in its sea of green,
my helicopter softly roaring
my helicopter softly roaring
my helicopter softly roaring
over the top of the mass of green—
(they just saved someone from the jungle a day ago—)
told my Commanding Officer, an Army Captain,
we had to arrange this helicopter to drop me off
in his last known locality—:
in this sea of green, this jungle
in this sea of green, this jungle
in this sea of green, this jungle:
below me, with its suburb colors of foliage
with so many shades of green
below me, in this sea of green,
with no alleyways, stop lights
just bugs, green and weeds.
Mike I thought:
where can you be,
where is he,
where can he be…
deep in this sea of green,
deep in this sea of green—below me:
the ground below me, spots of brown
brown spots, eh, where can he be?
in this sea of green, this jungle,
in this sea of green, this jungle,
below me; I notice—in this early morn,
a bright sunrise beyond the copter’s eye,
way beyond its eye, way, way
beyond its eye…
rotary motion above my head
like a watchtower jumping, rocking
“Jump” a voice says,
“we’ll pick you up later.”
Thru the blue ski I fall,
thru the blue sky I fall, fall, fall,
fall, and fall to the hot planet below,
I almost feel like an angel falling to earth,
falling to this sea of green, this jungle.
I fall, and fall, to the hot planet below,
then hit land, insects hop back and forth;
hit land, insects working hard,
with heavy green loads on their back,
with heavy green loads (I see a toad
in the foliage—hiding big as my head,
in the sea of green, this jungle;
between my feet, fingers, and boots, the
ants march, march with their loads
like trained little soldiers.
I have a horn type loudspeaker
and some other equipment, food;
it’ll have to do, last a few days.
I tell myself, ‘Staff Sergeant,’ get up,
the helicopter will be back in a day,
available, to rescue me.
I search the terrain,
I searched the terrain,
this sea of green, this hot, muggy jungle,
with heavy green toads, and ants with big loads:
thought, thinking, had a thought,
he might be in… then it all of a sudden,
my thoughts, thinking, stopped,
there over there,
there, right over there,
over there, over there,
I see him resting from the heat
under a large tree, in this sea of green,
in this green sea, this jungle:
bushes on both sides of him,
he’s eating something.

#2170 1-25-2008 (Dedicated to Mike Siluk)


Notes: About the Poem “Helicopter over the Jungle”: Here is a new poem from a dream, many lines repeated, to incorporate the motif tone, and first thoughts to produce the sensitivity and texture (or grain I want) for the poem-dream. I do not claim this to be a” First thought, best thought,” poem, that was not the idea behind this poem, or even spontaneous insight, was considered, not sure if there is any insight, other than a psychological message for me, and if so it is most likely my fear of my brother being in some kind of mental turmoil (and this in itself is a good premise for the reader to look at, for dreams are often made up of fears, desires and wishes, and messages from the Lord, and some nightmares, come directly from His Adversary). What you get in this poem really, or so I think, is a sequence of thoughts not particularly in any solid form, it is more of a natural form, mindfully set of course.

Hot Day in Lima (a poem)

(Thursday, January 24, 2008)


The city’s streets here in Lima
(on this hot summer’s day),
is full of junky cars, so it seems
weaving in and out like blind bees.
Carbon smoke, it chokes
all us, eight-million people (a million taxis)

Ugh! –it’s a hot day in Miraflores,
Rosa and I walk by the bookstore
go in and check it out,
she gets a Sherlock Holms book:

Q. “Do you want to buy some DVD’s?”
A. “Sure, I’ll get us a taxi.” Rosa says.

And the taxi takes us a few miles
into another inner circle of the city,
to what is called the “Circle”

Haw! A few cars come close to hitting us (not uncommon,
I think I’m waiting for the big accident, it hasn’t come
yet, but every day here, odds are against me).
I tell myself ‘Why not buy a car in this over crowed city?’
Haw! ‘It’s so much cheaper to take the taxi (I’m either
too lazy to look for a car, or too cheap to buy one).

Great! We made it to the shopping center safely.
Knock on Wood!

I buy the DVD called, “The Assassination of Jesse James,” and
think: ‘What more can they write about this guy…’ :
in the evening I find out it is more about Robert Ford, the
assassin. Casey Affleck, the supporting actor, is a better
actor, than the main actor, Brad Pitt. ‘Oh well,’ I tell myself:
just eat the beef jerky, and the hell with it.

Great! Its 12:56 a.m., my wife is sleeping in my sofa chair,
I got to take her to bed.

#2179 1-25-2008

Four Holy Poems (written in the '80s)

Here are a few poems written in the 1980s, never published before, I call these four poems "The Holy Poems." They were found among my papers in 2003, after my mother died, and I cleaned her house, I had many things packed away I guess. I hope you enjoy them.

1) The Hand


Of all the beauty that I’ve ever seen,
It was a hand that was supreme;
Like holy due with lights from heaven
It filled the space within our presence;
And there I sat, in respectful fear,
And torched the hand that disappeared.

Notes: Written November, 1987 ((from visions, #87) (Ref: Isa. 49:15))


2) The Garden

In a garden I saw Him,
Elbows upon a rock—
Deep in thought;

His eyes firm,
looking towards heaven.
Like pillars of stone
A lake at rest.

Then I whispered, “Lord,
Is this really you?”
An undertone come back:
“Yes, it’s True.”


Notes: Written November, 1987 (from visions) #88


3) The Mist

He said ther’d be no tears in heaven
Where I shall be some day;
And I thought, when by the pearly gates:
“What of my friends in hell?”

Then within a mist of sacred dew
I became awe-stricken, paralyzed;
It permeated my pours (osmosis)
A new beginning, I cried!

I knew now, the divine wonder to be—
A touch of God’s joy, inside of me.


Notes: Written November, 1987 ((from visions, #89)(Ref: Rev. 21:4))


4) The Thorns


Within a crown of earthly thorns
In a misty fog one early morn—
Strenuously I looked straight ahead,
And saw the deity of Christ’s head;

Tears rolled down my ransomed face
Unto the earth that took His grace
And with a hiss and smile inside—
Silently I knew, He was Alive!


Notes: Written, April, 1988 (from Visions) #93
St. Paul, Minnesota

Stillness on the Ship (a poem on grieving and the waters around the Galapagos)

(A poem on grieving and the waters around the Galapagos)


Parts of the day, and nights I watched the sea gulls,
chase the ship, sometimes along side us,
sometimes in back, sometimes perched, as if in the air,
but up there, by the Captains helm,
the gulls would roam, seemingly, uncaring,
staring into his room;
snubbing the whole world, and its land,
under a blue sky looking down onto the blue water.

Now I paced, in the moonlit night, paced
like a child, back and forth
along the side of the ship, going from Island to island,
in the Galapagos (it was September of 2003):
I had a cup of coffee in hand,
left over from dinner, in the lower café.

A few ship staff, climb up and down the white ladders
there wasn’t much of a currant in those waters,
carved in smooth, calm silk—it seemed,
I’ll sleep well tonight this evening,
until the pain of my mother’s death ascends
to my head again: it seep you know,
into my head as if there was a hole, a
hole in the boat, that leads to my brain

but somehow, these gulls and their wings
gliding in the moonlit night, pasted me
on deck, seemed to pacify me, especially when
we went by little islands full of seas and sorts:
I could always hear the times hit the rocks.


NOTE: After my mother died in July of 2003, which seemed to age me 10-years, I took a voyage to several of the Galapagos Islands, I was perhaps not the best of company, for my wife, or passengers, I kept a lot to myself, but my mother either lived with me, or I her for 34-of my years, it was traumatic when she died. In February, 2005, Donald Hall and I would talk briefly, on my loss, actually his book on his wife, helped me during those days. And here in this poem is one of those days on the deck of the ship me and my wife were on during this period. #2178 1-24-2008

Fools for Kofi Annan (1/2008)

In all the writings I have ever done, and you might put them at 5000, I have but once or twice used the word fools, or fool. It is a word even the bible cautions a writer to use. But I have to connect the dots here, and if this is not the most foolish thing I’ve heard, it is next to it. Annan (that lost soul from the United Nations, whom was General Secretary, the antichrist’s assistant, I think I called him that years ago, still believe he’s got his connections in that area; this is the guy that left his post to protest against, George W. Bush for president, and marched for his candidate, and then slid back into the UN to continue his job while resting in the Millionaires Club down the hall, I was in the UN in New York it is an impressive place—and has that club, you need only last ten years and you will be in it); anyhow, I did some sixty or more articles on him a few years ago, about five years ago or more, on the United Nations in particular, when I had inside information, even before the regular news media got a hold of it, I had it—which involved many of his so called friends.

Anyhow, he is back in the Kenyan lives, back I say, and God help them now. Let me update you on history (I do not want to make this article long, so I will tell it briefly). Before he was General Secretary, he was in charge of the He was ahead of the team that was suppose to bring stability to Kenya, sent by the UN, in the 1980s, but stood by and watched three-million lives slaughtered. He is, was a walking talking, Pol Pot, christened by the United Nations, and he screwed up the whole thing. Are we out of our heads to allow this man to get back into the same position he was in, to take care, and responsibility for the lives of these people? God help us, our decision makes are fools. How much history do we need to put on the table to learn our lesson? He maybe a brother to that nation, but he has no brotherly love for it. That is all I can say.

Sand (a war poem on Iraq and Afghanistan)

Stack the bodies high in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Lower them onto the ships and planes—
Be quick about it, we have two wars to fight;
I am the sand.

We stacked them high in Korea
And we stacked them high in Vietnam
Just lower them onto the ships and planes
Be quick about it, we have wars to fight;
I am the sand.

Where am I?
What is this new place?

I am the sand.
Let me fight.


#2177 1-24-2008

Guard Duty on a Dusty Road (a poem out of Vietnam--1971)

In Vietnam I wrote one poem and only one (1971):


Guard Duty on a Dusty Road

I’m out here on guard duty
rifle and all…
(sent a letter to Rachel).
The dust on the path
that leads to my hut
(near the ammo dump)
is dusty and rough…
not much to do here
just talk to yourself
count the hours
as they go by
(make sure the VC
don’t get too near);
wait for the five-ton
to arrive, take me back
(off this dusty road)
to 611 Ordnance,
which I call home!


Note: I remember thinking (at the time), I should send a poem home, perhaps to my mother, or send it to someone, anybody, to let them know I was alive, even a magazine or newspaper came to mind. I remember, the day was long, and hot, I was in Cam Ranh Bay, South Vietnam, and was selected for guard duty, and when the truck picked me up, to take me back, we drove down along the South China Sea, a smoother road there, and up into our campsite, several miles from the three ammo dumps that occupied the peninsula. I put the poem in my pocket, and forgot I left it there, would not realize it for a spell, and then tucked it away. The poem was written about June, 1971. It was shortly after this time, we got hit by rockets, which were at 2:00 AM in the morning, and I’d have to go this time inside of the ammo dump to guard, not sure what we were guarding, the rockets came all round us, and some within meters of me. The VC would blow up the Air Force dump that night which was next to Charlie Dump, (one man got killed) and our dump being Alpha. It was a trying night. Anyhow, after many years, the poem appears, and for the first time since 1971, it is available for reading. It doesn’t say much, just a hot day, on guard duty, far away.

The Unattested Echo (Poem 20/1964)

(The Threshold) Poem #20

Advance: In 1964, being 17-years old, my poetry had changed a little, to a more profound philosophy form; in that year I can only find two poems left, that I wrote, where the rest are, no one knows, anyhow, #20 “The Unattested Echo,” and #21, “The Master of a Hundred Hounds.” These two poems were put into my first book called, “The Other Door” (1981, reedited and revised) The poetry after these poems, came slow, a few in Vietnam, and then I started back up writing again in the 1980s, a newspaper in Minneapolis picked up about ten of my poems, published them, and then onto the 90s, but I didn’t reach a large amount of poems in those years, up until 2001, I had only written about 250 to 400 poems (many of them misplaced), in comparison to the 2200, I have now (1/2008). .


Am I the water of the seas,
The copper-pointed tides?
Is he the rain that falls on me,
The wetness that subsides?

Are we the tumult in the ice;
The streaming glacier’s glow?
Is he the dampness that frostbites;
The trench, its flowing echo?

Were we the tempo of all chants,
The chimes that dwell—befriends?
Was he the weather among their rhymes,
The meter that begrimes?

He is the tempest in the rain,
A shadow in the snow.
We are his lust to shame;
A blasphemous thirst; echo.

The Master of a Hundred Hounds (A poem #21, 1964)

Advance: In 1964, being 17-years old, my poetry had changed a little, to a more profound philosophy form; in that year I can only find two poems left, that I wrote, where the rest are, no one knows, anyhow, #20 “The Unattested Echo,” and #21, “The Master of a Hundred Hounds.” These two poems were put into my first book called, “The Other Door” (1981, reedited and revised) The poetry after these poems, came slow, a few in Vietnam, and then I started back up writing again in the 1980s, a newspaper in Minneapolis picked up about ten of my poems, published them, and then onto the 90s, but I didn’t reach a large amount of poems in those years, up until 2001, I had only written about 250 to 400 poems (many of them misplaced), in comparison to the 2200, I have now (1/2008).



The Master of a Hundred Hounds
(The Vine’s Soliloquy) Poem # 21 (of 2174-poems)


He swam with his kind,
Sighed when they sighed,
And had become the master of a hundred hounds,
—a pilgrim of Evil—
As the masters before him.

As he walked, others carried his load—
this was not uncommon of his foe, yet
Forward he trusted oppressed,
Insidious, more entrenched;
Forward he became repugnant.

He slept then with toiling thoughts,
Hoping for their extinction,
But they did not (there was little time left).

Then the master upon awakening apostrophically cried:
“Oh, but there is no God.”
Then talked of days past:
the wars he never fought,
the heroes he never knew,
the ideas that were just there.
With all of this—He
hallucinated,
burdened with logic;
Yet he could not conceive nor digest,
For he knew, he lived it!

Then boasting of only one regret—that being,
The loss of breath,
He emphatically screamed in a personifying characteristic:
“I, the master of a hundred hounds—I am!”
The standing sullen and erect, he wept (there was so
Little time left).

Thereafter he removed the dirt from his eyes,
Wiped he dew from his lips,
And with a murmur, substantiated his deterioration.
He knew now he had run before he learned to walk,
for his legs did not obey,
And on reflection had followed teachers who never
taught;
He knew now hey were the thinkers who never walked,
(He knew now, time was very short).

Ensuing, a tempest of catastrophe flooded his cerebrum;
Insofar as his title became an overtone.
There remained nothing of his own.
He then called to the dawn and daylight; as a result,
light was laced upon his dynasty; now,
Opening his eyes for the very first time,
He knew for he very first time
The dreadful closing of them.

And to his descent he left:
the dampness shed upon is lips,
the blisters that swelled upon his thighs,
And the sand that covered his eyes.

Beyond Man (Dennis Siluk's #18 poem, 1963)

(A poem written before its time)

((Originally written in 1963, and published in “The Surveyor,” Washington High School newspaper, St. Paul, Minnesota)(and first time published on the internet; the poem was originally written while in Journalism Class, at the age of 16-years old, Dennis’ first published work)) Poem # 18


Let’s assume!
People seem to think
It’s far too far,
The darkness beyond the sun;
But it’s actually but a distance
Of the far-off run.

But yet it shields
A shivery chillness,
A warming sense of defeat,
But an ever lasting wanting
Of the far-off victories.

You know,
Imagination can go a long way,
As far as man can see,
And yet beyond the darkness
Man has yet to be.

Beyond he blue of the sky
Man has yet to see
The everlasting oceans,
Which stir eternally?


Note: One must remember, this poem was written before man had landed on the moon. Space was just being challenged, Star Trek, was just beginning to show up on TV. The Universe was a strange and haunting viewpoint of sorts; guesses for everyone. #18/ 1963. Therefore when I wrote this poem, it captures the moment, giving a breath of imagination, for us students at Washington High School. Metaphysics, or the study of the cosmos, was for the population at large, a new branch of study, other than the fictional movies of monsters from the moon or Mars, or Edgar Rice Burrough's books on Mars. So it was a poem for the school to be looked at, and the journalism teacher found it good enough for the paper.

"Christ’s Hymn of Conception"

There was nothing, nothing at all, all was non-existent:
there was no universe, no beginning beyond it.
What came about, and was? Was shape, and sanctuary?
And in this shape was unfathomed power and life?
Death was not yet born, created, only immortality:
there was no day or night, just thrust.
That very thing, that came from the breath of the Creator
apart from Him, there was nothing at all.

Darkness came, when the Creator,
created a being that concealed his darkness,
this all was haphazard, thus, chaos prevailed in Bliss
somewhere in what was now called the universe.

This Adversary, thereafter raised a craving
in the beings that were created by the Creator along with Him.
This new thing called aspiration was a kind of
primal germ, within this spirit.
A new creation, that came out of freewill,
no kinship in the non-existent past with the Creator.
And the Adversary’s darkness, gave his seed
to the other beings, from corner to corner
of the Creator’s abode, called Heaven.
This all was above the blue dot,
and then, all the darkness was sent below it.
And those beings that lived on the blue dot,
begetters of the Adversary, were not equal to the
angelic mighty forces—they were dark-men,
once ruled by the Adversary their king, now
sent to hell, beneath the earth, demons.

No one knows for sure, when this all took place
When this and that was created, when men
of another nature, turned to be demigods.
He, Christ, the hands of creation,
formed it all, in the eyes of his father, in highest heaven,
He, and the Holy Spirit, all together.

#2173 1-23-2008

Chant to the Arc Angel

Hear me arch angel, who knows me for who I am.
I know you have been with me since I was born, and I know you will stay with me until I return to where I came from.
Perhaps you are the passionate whisper whom inspires this poet to dream.
You are the One who calls to me at the end of each journey, after day is done, to bless my rest.
You were sent by Him, from which all things are born.
I have seen the shadowy tomb, where all things must go, to die and be reborn entirely.
You, my arch angel friend, are from the weaver of time, the teacher of mysteries; I know though, I can swallow fear, discover the beauty that is far and near, be given strength and courage to endure, when you are near.
I am but a simple man, with scars from injustice; I have tried to overcome, fight the hidden demons that transform, forge their way into my life.
You are my glinting sword that protects me from harm, and from their might.
You are the healer of my past wounds, the angelic soldier who stood by me when I was right or wrong, in my time.
You have helped me become strong; bury my arrogance to become humble. You rise up for the oppressed, and I have fought to be like you, Justice tempered with mercy.
Perhaps in a way, I am you, part of you, and I am within you, for I have sought you, within and without of my heart and soul. Know me; take my Love with you…!

#2172 1-23-2008

"When the Rose Dies" & "In the Nick of Time" (In English and Spanish)

Two Complimentary Poems: these two poems will be put into Mr. Siluk's forth coming book, "Poetry of the Miners," in the "Complimentary," section, by One Peruvian poet, from Huancayo, Peru and one American poet, from St. Paul, Minnesota, USA as indicated by the two poems.

(1)
English Version

WHEN THE ROSE DIES

By Poet, Professor and Journalist:
Apolinario Fermin Mayta Inga
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
Edited by Dennis L. Siluk

WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not the echo of the mountains
Not the light that comes out of one’s tears
Neither the river with its banks, that goes alone
WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not the shade of the wings that the birds leave
Not the winds from the wheat fields
Neither the sadness of the clouds.
WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not the sky full of doves
Not the dreams from the grass
Neither the stones in its anguish.
WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not even the color of the morning.

Spanish Version

CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE

Por el Poeta, Profesor y Periodista
Apolinario Fermín Mayta Inga

CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni el eco de las montañas
Ni la luz que sale de tus lágrimas
Ni el río que en sus orillas herido va sólo.
CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni la sombra que el ala de los pájaros deja
Ni los vientos de los trigales
Ni la tristeza de las nubes.
CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni un cielo de palomas
Ni los sueños de la yerba
Ni las piedras con su angustia.
CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni el color de la mañana.

(2)
English Version

“In the Nick of Time”
By Poet Cindy White

I met Dennis (Siluk) at B&N
Café—a decent place to
write and draw. To
set one’s creative juices
among the crowd. Among
the roar of the blender that
would wind up words for
a poet—any poet.

Dennis is an inspiration,
for this lowly poet, as
I sit in the same B/N
café without him, thinking
of his new life in Peru.
Thinking I might catch
his spirit, his muse and
sprout my words.

It was an honor; still
is an honor to sit
in this space, where
one poet met another poet
in the nick of time.


Spanish Version

“Justo a Tiempo”

Por la Poetisa Cindy White
Traducido por Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk


Conocí a Dennis (Siluk) en el
Café de Barnes y Noble—
un lugar decente para
escribir y dibujar. Para
colocar los creativos zumos de uno
entre la multitud. Entre
el estruendo de la licuadora que
finalizaría las palabras para
un poeta—cualquier poeta.

Dennis es una inspiración
para esta poeta modesta, mientras
me siento en el mismo café de
Barnes y Noble sin él, pensando
en su nueva vida en Perú.
Pensando talvez pueda coger
su espíritu, su meditar y
desarrollar mis palabras.

Fue un honor; todavía
es un honor sentarme
en este lugar, donde
un poeta conoció a otro poeta
justo a tiempo.

Two Poems: "The Potato Patch," & "Smirking Cucumbers" In English and Spanish

Advance: The poems, “The Potato Patch,” and “Smirking Cucumbers” is an expression by the author of how sometimes we learn, that is to say, the process of learning can be an interesting quirk of fate (or irony); as often times it has been for him.
The “Potato Patch,” tells the author: life is full of surprises, or can be, contrary to the poem on the “Smirking Cucumbers,” which teaches, or taught the author, there are wise men around us, if only we will take the time to notice them, learn, listen and put to use such wisdom in life—he has tried—this is to say, life often times is obvious.

Spanish Version

Avance
(Dos Poemas en el Desarrollo de la Vida)
Los poemas, “La Parcela de Papas” y “Pepinos Sonrientes” son una expresión del autor en cómo a veces aprendemos, esto es decir, el proceso de aprendizaje puede ser una idiosincrasia interesante del destino (o ironía del destino); como a menudo esto ha sido para él.
“La Parcela de Papas” le dice al autor: que la vida está llena de sorpresas, o puede estar; por el contrario el poema “Pepinos Sonrientes” enseña, o le enseñó al autor, que hay hombres sabios alrededor de uno, si sólo nos tomáramos el tiempo para fijarnos en ellos, aprender, escuchar y poner en práctica tales sabidurías en la vida—él lo ha intentado, es decir, la vida a menudo es evidente.


1

The Potato Patch
(A Minnesota Poem)

One day—oh, I suppose I was, say ten,
I asked my mother to ask my grandfather
For a garden plot—, somewhere in our
Backyard:
And somehow, she got him to agree—;
Twisted his knees perhaps—I don’t
Know—but the Old Russian Bear
Was hard to please…!

It wasn’t a garden to plow or hoe,
Just a patch, a little plot in the backyard
By the fence: that’s all.
And there I planted my first garden—
Potatoes….

It was kind of neat (so I thought), hidden
From anyone passing by; until I found out
Potatoes grow underground—
(not on top), and yes, it was
A mess, thereafter: digging, weeding,
Watering.

It seemed the season would never end,
But I did stick with it; and then came the
Day, the great day, to pluck those
Potatoes from their abode, and to show
Them to my mother and grandpa:
I was quite proud.

And when I did, when I pulled those
(roots and all) potatoes—from
Under the earth, I was devastated to
To find out: the eyes were bigger
Than the potatoes.
Traumatic I took it at first, I think
I even cursed

Advice? I have none, but I’ll tell you,
I never tried to grow potatoes again.

The year this story took place was perhaps 1958, in St. Paul, Minnesota. We all lived together in an extended family situation, my grandpa, mother, brother and me, on Cayuga Street: written at the Coffee House in Minnesota (Har Mar Mall, Barns and Nobel). No: 1183 1/2005

Spanish Version

La Parcela de Papas
(Un Poema de Minnesota)

Un día—ah, supongo yo tenía, por decir diez años,
Le pedí a mi madre que le pidiera a mi abuelo

Un terreno para jardín—, en algún lugar en nuestro
Patio trasero:

Y de algún modo, ella consiguió que él aceptara—;
¡Torció sus rodillas, quizás—no
lo sé—pero el Viejo Oso Ruso
Era difícil de complacer…!

No era un jardín para arar o cavar,
Sólo un segmento, un poco de terreno en el patio trasero
Por el cerco: esto era todo.
Y allí planté mi primer jardín—
Papas…

Era algo estupendo (eso pensé), ocultado
De cualquiera que pasara por allí; hasta que me enteré
Que las papas crecen debajo de la tierra—
(no encima), y sí, esto era
Un lío, después: cavar, arrancar la mala hierba,
Regar.

Parecía que la estación nunca terminaría,
Pero me mantuve en ello; y luego vino el
Día, el gran día, de sacar aquellas
Papas de su morada, y mostrarlos
A mi madre y a mi abuelo:
Yo estaba bastante orgulloso.

Y cuando lo hice, cuando saqué aquellas
papas (raíces y todo) —de
Debajo de la tierra, estuve devastado de
Encontrar: que los ojos eran más grandes
Que las papas.
Traumático lo tomé al principio, pienso
Que incluso maldije

¿Consejo? No tengo ninguno, pero te diré,
Que nunca traté de cultivar papas otra vez.

El año en que ocurrió esta historia fue quizás 1958, en San Pablo, Minnesota. Vivíamos todos juntos, en una clase de clan familiar, mi abuelo, mi madre, mi hermano y yo, en la Calle Cayuga. Escrito en la Cafetería en Minnesota. # 1183 31/Enero/2005.


2

Smirking Cucumbers
(An Alabama Poem)

I planted my vegetables for a few
years, exactly where I wanted ‘em
to be planted. Said to myself: if I
had to make a living and nothing
grows, no one needs to point
fingers, or be anonymous; so,
it’s my hoe, my garden—, I’ll clean
the scraps up, I’ve been at that so
long I can’t possibly wear my hands
down (so I told myself). All my life
I’ve been at it: they lay it down, I
pick it up; weedin’ with a hoe-blade
isn’t easy. You try it—see!

I loaned my land out to a retired
farmer one year, who had little land
to mention, but wanted to grow
something: better than me with a
hoe he was—made whatever he
planted grow (I never could). He
even used his own water (he lived
across from me, in Alabama back in
’77).

As I stood—day after day—looking
out my kitchen window, watching
him plant, and hoe, and water, and
the cucumbers grow, (God knows
what for) —He said those vegetables,
cucumbers he done planted would
grow fat, and huge—, and they did.
He could have shown me a few
things about planting, hoeing and
growing (back then); things I never
thought of, but I just wanted some
of those cucumbers. Funny, when
we’re young. Now looking back I
can still see that old farmer looking
over his shoulder at me: smirking.

Notes by the author: reflections of my youth, when I lived in Alabama, back in 1977-1979. During this time of my life I was in the military, served 11-years, 8-active, 3-reserves; owned a home outside the military compound, in a little nearby city, and like so many times in my life tried to grow a garden. I have given it up after a half century of trying; it is not my gig in life. #1010 1/28/2006 (Written at the Coffee House in Minnesota).


Spanish Version

Pepinos Sonrientes
(Un Poema de Alabama)

Planté mis verduras, por unos cuantos
años, exactamente donde quise que ellas
fueran plantadas. Me dije a mi mismo: si me
tengo que ganar el pan y nada
crece, nadie necesita echar la culpa,
o ser anónimo; por eso,
esta es mi azada, mi jardín—, limpiaré
los restos de encima, he estado en esto tanto
tiempo posiblemente no puedo agotar mis manos
(eso me dije). Toda mi vida
estuve en esto: ellos los dejan, yo
los recojo; sacar mala hierba con una azada
no es fácil. ¡Tú lo intentas—ves!

Presté mi tierra a un agricultor jubilado
un año, quien tenía poca tierra
para mencionar, pero quería cultivar
algo: mejor que yo con la
azada él era—hizo que cualquier cosa que
plantara creciera (yo nunca pude). Él
incluso usaba su propia agua (él vivía
al frente de mí, en Alabama allá por los años
1977).

Mientras estuve—día a día—mirando afuera de
la ventana de mi cocina, mirándolo
a él plantar, y cavar, y regar, y
los pepinos crecer, (sólo Dios sabe
para qué) —él dijo que aquellos
pepinos que él acabó plantando se
pondrían gordos, y enormes—, y así fue.
Él pudo haberme mostrado algunas cosas
sobre plantación, cavada y
crecimiento (en ese entonces); cosas en las que nunca
pensé, pero yo sólo quería algunos
de aquellos pepinos. Gracioso, cuando
somos jóvenes. Ahora que miro atrás
todavía puedo ver al viejo agricultor mirándome
sobre sus hombros: sonriendo perversamente.


# 1010 28/Enero/2006 (Escrito en la Cafetería en Minnesota).

Apuntes por el autor: Reflexiones de mi juventud, cuando vivía en Alabama, allá por los años 1977-1979. Durante ese tiempo de mi vida estuve en el Ejercito, serví por 11 años, 8 años de actividad, y 3 años de reserva; poseía una casa afuera del recinto militar, en una pequeña ciudad cercana, y como tantas veces en mi vida traté de cultivar un jardín. Lo he dejado después de medio siglo de tentativa; este no es mi actuación en la vida.

Mountain People (Near Cerro de Pasco, Peru)

Introduction: in this book, “Poetry of the Miners,” I have written about the miners, and the city of Cerro de Pasco, also about Stone Forest, although only one Epic Poem, yet it is a long one, and tells an ancient story; but what about the mountain people that live in the outskirts, that is, the outer edge of all this. Oh yes, they have a story to tell, and every time I go up the mountains and pass their adobe houses, farms, corrals, and so forth, and see the alpacas, dogs, and donkey’s, I wonder aimlessly about these mysterious folks, I can’t help but think, how come I have not written about them. The children in the doorways, the mothers cooking, fathers herding the sheep, or alpacas pacing in the corrals and on the hillsides; they have their own story to tell 15000-feet up the Andes, and so, having said that I shall tell you my feelings on the matter, in the following two poems, simple as they may be:


High Up in the Sierras
(Mountain People I)


High up in the Sierras, deep in the Andes—
men and women covered with warm cloths,
cheeks like roses, eyes half closed, (inexplicable)
live; walk the mountain paths, hillsides, marked
with Alpaca feet.

Here, one must be careful though, rocks slip down,
fall from their holds. Here, not many trees grow,
and those that do, bear no, to little fruit. Mostly naked
and dotted along the country roads. But so very
little seems needed here anyhow.

A radio, a fiesta (with dance, song and drink),
spreads a cheerful smile on most faces, along the
landscape, here, near Cerro de Pasco, Peru.


No: 2121 (12-23-2007)


Daybreak near Pasco
(Mountain People II)

In the morning, be assured in the center of the houses
(on the other-edge of the City of Pasco), high up in the
Andes, someone’s asleep; warm blood is galloping in
the outside corral; a baby is moving in the womb of a
housewife; the light of the sun is just appearing over
the horizon—; shadows are leaving the moon; prayers
are being said, as the mouse hides deeper inside his
tunnel…!

No: 2122 (12-23-2007)

The Old Miner-Exiled (in English and Spanish)

(Foreword to the poem:) Very seldom do I give introductions to my poems, but somehow I feel I must for this one. Perhaps this poem is more philosophical than hard core miner juice; it was not really meant to infer miners in particular, but in a broader sense, people in general. So as I started to write the book “Poetry on Miners,” I added a miner into this poem, which really wasn’t part of the poem to start (in heart, it wasn’t part of any book to be quite frank, it was just a poem that came to me one afternoon sitting in the sun, thinking, just thinking—but also I was working during this time on the miner’s book), but thinking at the same time, miners are like everyone else, as humans we all have certain traits, attitudes, thoughts, views and judgments, we can also add doubts and qualms about things, life in general, death in particular, living after death if indeed we can come to some peace of mind about this. Anyhow, many of us fall into this category—and so this is where and why the poem was created. Not to put the miner into a box, and say: here he is, or here they are. Rather to say, ‘Here is a box, many of us have fallen into’; I have also found in much of today’s writings, in particular, poetry, certain subjects are taboo, and thus find a lack of poetry or writings on old age, the aging. The very thing we start doing the first day of birth; having said that, I hope now you enjoy the poem more.


Part One

Inside our minds we’ve built a door (many of us);
around it, we made a special frame…; there,
we hid old age…(hoping it never surfaces again):
not even a ghost could have enter it (be found);
here, one only can hear old riddles and sounds—
while playing out (the end part) of life’s game.

Every moment now, is reality… (now at) the
present end: yes, we’ve really entered old age;
thus, the old miner looks back and accepts it,
says: “I hoped for the best, yet somehow,
in some way, some dreams got scattered by the wind
(got away, that is, along the way of life).”

And now old age—invades him, it reaches out to touch
his hands (he doesn’t bend, but nonetheless, it touches
him): ‘…not much time left…’ he mumbles, waiting.

It’s all part of a show, you see, perhaps—
not a perfect one, for us (but the only one around)—;
and to it all, life has a theme, to teach: nothing lasts
forever, nothing at all, it all ends, so don’t build the
frame too tight—around the door, lest you die
unrepentant, thinking you have a little more time
left; life may not be so kind, nor time.

Hence, learn “To let go…let go, to simply let go,
and be ready to move on! Make peace with God!”


Part Two

Now the Old Miner is exiled from earth—vanished
in the night! ((Just like that.)(Deceased.)) It happens
that way you know, sudden, without notice.

New voices are heard; the toys he once had on earth
are gone: consequently, the exile has begun.
We have removed time from the equation…
all is new—the past, we so delicately cultivated
has changed, death we now have known,
and it moves on, and we with it!

Now, we are a billion miles away from what we grew to
know—; the old miner has learned quick: he must follow
the voices, there is a new agreement, for the sake of
harmony, in the universe, so he is told…; hence,
he now realizes, man was never
alone!...

No: 2095 (12-9-2007)


Spanish Version


El Anciano Minero—Exiliado


(Prólogo al Poema:) Raras veces hago introducciones a mis poemas, pero de alguna forma siento que debo hacer una por este. Talvez este poema es más filosófico; este no fue destinado para relacionarlo a los mineros en particular, sino en un sentido amplio, a la gente en general. Como me encuentro escribiendo mi libro “Las Poesías sobre los Mineros” adicioné a un minero dentro de este poema, que realmente no era parte de este poema al comienzo (en realidad, este no era parte de ningún libro para serte franco, sólo era un poema que vino a mi una tarde cuando estaba sentando en el sol, pensando, sólo pensando—pero también estaba trabajando durante este tiempo en mi libro ya mencionado, y pensando al mismo tiempo, que los mineros son personas como cualquier otra, como humanos nosotros tenemos ciertos rasgos, actitudes, pensamientos, puntos de vista y juicio, podemos también adicionar dudas y reparos sobre las cosas, la vida en general, la muerte en particular, vida después de la muerte si realmente podemos encontrar tranquilidad sobre esto. En todo caso, muchos de nosotros caemos en esta categoría—y por eso esto es dónde y porqué el poema fue creado. No para poner a los mineros dentro de una caja y decir: aquí él está, o acá ellos están. Más bien para decir, “Aquí hay una caja, en el que muchos de nosotros hemos caído dentro”. También encontré que en muchos de los escritos de hoy, en particular, poesías, ciertas clases de temas son tabú, y así encontramos una falta de poesías o escritos sobre la ancianidad, la vejez; que es la verdadera cosa que empezamos hacer desde el primer día de nacimiento. Habiendo dicho esto, espero que ahora tú disfrutes más este poema.


Parte Uno

Dentro de nuestras mentes construimos una puerta (muchos de nosotros);
alrededor de esta, hacemos un marco especial…; allí,
nosotros escondemos a la vejez… (esperando que esta nunca salga a la superficie de nuevo):
ni siquiera un fantasma podría haber entrado a esta (si es encontrado);
aquí, uno sólo puede oír viejos acertijos y sonidos—
mientras jugamos afuera (la parte final) del juego de la vida.

Cada momento ahora, es realidad… (ahora en) el
presente final: sí, realmente hemos entrado en la vejez;
así, el anciano minero mira atrás y acepta esto,
dice: “Esperaba lo mejor, aunque de alguna manera,
de alguna manera, algunos sueños quedaron dispersos en los vientos
(se fueron, a lo largo del camino)”

Y ahora la vejez—lo invade a él, esta lo alcanza para tocar
sus manos (él no se dobla, pero no obstante, esta lo toca):
“…no queda mucho tiempo…” él murmura, esperando.

Todo esto es parte de un espectáculo, que ves, talvez—
uno no perfecto para nosotros (pero el único alrededor) —;
y a todo esto, la vida tiene una premisa, para enseñar:
nada dura para siempre, absolutamente nada, todo termina,

por eso no construyas el marco muy ajustado—
alrededor de la puerta, en caso que
tú mueras sin remordimiento,
pensando que te queda un poquito más de tiempo,
la vida talvez no es del todo agradable, tampoco el tiempo.
¡Aprende “a dejarlo…dejarlo, para simplemente dejarlo, y estar listo para continuar!
¡Ten paz con Dios!”

Parte Dos

Ahora el anciano minero es exiliado de la tierra— ¡desaparecido en la noche!
((así de rápido) (Difunto)).
Esto sucede de esta forma tú sabes,
repentinamente, sin aviso.

Nuevas voces son oídas; los juguetes que una vez él tuvo en la tierra
no están: así el exilio ha empezado. Hemos eliminado
el tiempo de la ecuación…todo es nuevo—el pasado, que
nosotros finamente cultivamos ha cambiado, la muerte ahora
hemos conocido, y esta avanza, ¡y nosotros con esta!

Ahora, estamos a un billón de millas lejos de lo que llegamos
a conocer—; el anciano minero ha aprendido rápido:
él debe seguir las voces, hay un nuevo acuerdo,

por el amor a la armonía, en el universo, eso es lo que le dicen…; así,
él ahora se da cuenta, ¡el hombre nunca estuvo
sólo!...


# 2095 (9-Dic-2007)

Poetic Epigrams for February, 2008

Plato and Aristotle (Haiku)

Two geniuses together
makes for two lit pieces
of dynamite


#2167 1-22-2008


Friendship Chosen

I don’t care to be everyone’s friend:
there is too much wickedness
in human nature
and I don’t have eight eyes
that circle my head…

In most cases, friendships
sink to the bottom of the sea
because they are too heavy
to carry (and it involves equality).

#2168 1-22-2008


Revolution (Haiku)

There is always a negative fraction
to every revolution,

even if it achieves some good

#2169 1-22-2008


Attractiveness (Haiku)

When we become molded
like the other, the
attractiveness leaves—;

be/ing
different is attractiveness

#2170 1-22-2008


Evil vs. Good
(A Prophetic Stance)

Where does evil fit in?
There are opposing energies here:
between Good and Evil!
Plato and Ginsberg, both looked at
its connection; in particular,
their duality’s fight for acceptance.
Socrates, claimed:
break the other’s definitions
(right or wrong):
you win.

#2168 1-21-2008


Happiness

In most cases
we are good because
we want to be happy

(happiness being a byproduct)

#2171 1-20-2008


Charm and Greed (Haiku)

It is easy to display charm not greed,
when you have freedom
from care.

#2172 1-20-2008)


Elements of Friendship

Friendship requires equality
duration, stability—but be
careful with gratitude, it throws
rocks in the way,
then it is based on kindness.

#2173 1-20-2008


Poetry is—an extension?

Poetry is an extension of psychology; it can involve meditation, to the point of calling to the mind, to ones consciousness, awareness, within the mind’s universe, the mind we will die with—calling to the mind’s eye, hope, a basic food for the human soul, beyond death.

#2174 1-19-2008

Evil vs. Good (a Prophetic Stance)

Where does evil fit in?
There are opposing energies here:
between Good and Evil!
Plato and Ginsberg, both looked at
its connection; in particular,
their duality’s fight for acceptance.
Socrates, claimed:
break the other’s definitions
(right or wrong):
you win.

#2168 1-21-2008

Reading Poetry

In Reading poetry, first read it slowly, give it your attention, like you do when you eat dinner, then read it slowly again a second time, with an open mind, third, read it again, this time, as you would read prose, it will now jump out at you.

Many poems are complex, and perhaps ambiguous, if they are too much for you, trash them (unless you want to suffer through them, then you are asking for pain, and may receive it).

Know the poet you are reading, his history will help you understand why he is writing as he is, his mind perhaps will come clearer to yours.

Get rid of your preconceptions (bias and so forth) as you read—enjoy the experience. If you like the poetry and not the poet, because of your prejudice, you’ve got an issue.

Understanding the Poet (in English and Spanish)

—To understand some poetry, or poets, one must have experienced what the poet has—identical experiences; or you must be shaped like the poet—, the exceptions are from the old school of poetry—one shoe fits all (thus, understanding the theme, plot and insight of poetry becomes much easier); from the contemporary scene, you must have the same shoe size of the poet to understand where the poet is leading you, and in poetry the poet should have a destination for the reader—lest he doesn’t care (and he should).
—The poet survives perhaps because he or she is oblivious (or not connected so much) to the world, and all its compulsions (suicide is often on the other side of this coin, if not drugs and alcohol).
—Poetry has accomplished something if it causes one to mull over it…; stretching this a little further, there is (it seems) coming a day (not so far off in the future), when poets will not even need to know a thing about literature (most don’t today); yet poetry is (or should be) considered the highest form of literature.
—Most poets write about love and death—which perhaps are the two main ingredients (or themes) to poetry; some write on social issues, which make for bad poetry; but it is “Beauty” that shines above everything, and that is often, too often over looked in place of self-interest, or a combination of negative delirious confusing thoughts put into writing by a poet under the influence of some kind of chemical. One can get a high off the beauty that surrounds them.

Last words: we as poets should not forget, we influence people, young people in particular, and owe an obligation to (if not duty to), set a good example by the way we live and write.

Written in the Plaza de Arms, Huancayo, Peru, 10:00 AM, Wednesday, 9-19-2006

Versión en español

Un Comentario sobre Poesía por: Dennis L. Siluk

Los Poetas

( Hoy en día:)

—Para entender algo de poesía, o a los poetas, hay que haber experimentado lo que el poeta ha pasado—experiencias idénticas; o haber sido formado como poeta—, las excepciones son de la vieja escuela de poesía—de que un zapato encaja a todos (así, entendiendo el tema, el argumento y la perspicacia de poesía se hace mucho más fácil). En la escena contemporánea, debes tener el mismo número de zapato del poeta para entender dónde el poeta te conduce, y en la poesía el poeta debería tener una destinación para el lector—a no ser que él no se preocupe (pero él debería).

—El poeta sobrevive quizás porque él o ella están inconscientes (o no están unidos tanto) al mundo, y a todas sus compulsiones (el suicidio está a menudo al otro lado de esta moneda, o las droga y el alcohol).

—La poesía ha logrado algo si ésta causa que uno reflexione sobre ésta…; exagerando esto un poco diría que, habrá (parece) un día que vendrá (no muy lejos en el futuro), cuando los poetas no tendrán que conocer algo sobre literatura (la mayoría no lo sabe hoy); aunque la poesía es (o debería ser) considerada la forma más alta de literatura.

—La mayoría de los poetas escriben sobre amor y muerte—que quizás son los dos ingredientes (o temas) principales en la poesía; algunos escriben sobre cuestiones sociales, lo que hace que la poesía no sea buena; pero es "La Belleza" la que brilla sobre todo, y a menudo, o muchas veces, es ignorada a cambio de intereses propios, o por una combinación de pensamientos negativos delirantes confusos puestos en la escritura por un poeta bajo la influencia de una especie de sustancia química. Uno puede inspirarse en la belleza que a uno lo rodea.

Palabras Finales: nosotros como poetas no deberíamos olvidar, que nosotros influenciamos en la gente, en los jóvenes en particular, y tenemos una obligación con ellos (o un deber con ellos), demos un buen ejemplo por la forma en que vivimos y escribimos.

Escrito en Plaza de Armas de Huancayo, Perú, a las 10:00 AM, miércoles, 20-septiembre-2006.

Nota: Leído por Eduardo Cárdenas en Radio Universitaria (UNCP-Universidad Nacional del Centro del Perú) Huancayo, Perú.

Creating the Poet

Advance: How does one, or how do you create a poet, or how does one become a poet? One must look at the roots of a poet first, just like anything in life worth its salt, you must look at how a poet was carved, out of stone or marble, it makes a difference. You see, all poets are not carved the same, yet they have some of the same qualities, one being, all good poets, melt.

Remember please, the premise, ‘The creation of a poet,’ most are inertly born to be, some are not, but find out the will is stronger than their birthright, and believe, and become.
The main object here is to simply reveal or illuminate the subject, and please remember this is my conception, others my have their own, and perhaps, they are more satisfying for them, than mine, I am not in completion with them, nor wish an argument.
In reviewing my short premise on the poet, I wish in part to look at the life of Plato, the great Greek, ancient philosopher, and perhaps his dear friend, and relative, Socrates. If you are asking why philosophers, and not poets, it is because (as I had said in the first paragraph) we are looking at the roots, the stone or marble.

—I have traveled the world over, perhaps been to over 60-countries: as did Plato in his day travel a lot (Plato to: Egypt, Judea, Italy, and Sicily). Plato was perhaps not born a poet, but in his own right became one to a certain degree. I on the other hand believe I was born one, since I have been writing poetry since the age of 12-years old.
Both of us knew, we had to gather up knowledge, he had to look for the truth of things, he found most things he learned were only half truths, I perhaps feel there is less than half in most truths. He sought out the prophets of Judea; I sought out, theological studies at a university for six months.
I at the age of 20-years old went to San Francisco, to seek out adventure, and the great karate men of that time, learned from them. Plato, had broad shoulders, and sought to be a good wrestler, and became one. He knew the art of fighting, as I did.
Plato was also a soldier, as I was, and as I had fought in a war, in Vietnam, I wrote poetry in Vietnam, as well. We both knew the discipline, the limits and the pains of war.
Plato studied a tinge of psychology and then onto philosophy, and to metaphysics (origin and structure of the universe); I took a different route; I studied a lot of psychology, a tinge of philosophy, and a bit of metaphysics, and perhaps added that to my parapsychology studies, and writings.

So you see we both were in the makings of our life as a poet, except he would take a turn, as I never did. But let’s look deeper into the structure of this thing called: making of the poet.
He had this idea, as did Socrates, to melt things down to its most comprehensive way; this perhaps was more on the philosophy side of his brain. I on the other hand, felt, to melt things down to its most simplistic organs. I think we both had the same idea, just a different mold (or style) to work with.

—There is an abyss for each and every poet, and he must dig down to it or simply find it and fall into it. Here is where knowledge is, and philosophy live, where education dwells, it is all exhibited here, and if there is no enthusiasm of poetry, he should seek something else, but it should melt here, the impressions, images, the science and art, it all belongs to him—in this environment, and this is his time to melt into it (it normally is called the university). Plato had found his in Athens, Italy, and Judea I do believe. I found mine in West Germany, Alabama, Minnesota, Texas; attending several universities.

And so you see, a poet, Plato was, but only in speculation, and a philosopher he really was in truth, but learned (like the poet) in many areas, and things, but seeking to make things melt in a comprehensive way. I on the other hand, cannot call myself a philosopher in its truest sense, and perhaps in its most comprehensive sense, I was simply a spectator of it, in my process of learning. A poet, yes, seeking out the impressions, images, effects of it all (life in general, and war, peace, the times, nature, the animals of the world, archeology, sociology, anthropology, and so forth), trying to put it all down in its most simplest approach.
Perhaps how we get to where we want to be is the same road (the poet and the philosopher must take), it just veers off a tinge along the way to the top of the mountain, but I think we all meet there, poet, philosopher, and that part we both have and seek, called metaphysics.

In Closing, let me simply say, I have not implied I hope, that you need to be like me or Plato, to be a poet. If you feel I did, it is your assumption, not my intention. Plato had money to do what he wanted. In the early part of my life I had no money, so I bought Will Durant’s books on Civilization, and read all eleven of them, chapter to chapter, and I bought a set of Encyclopedias, and did the same, subject to subject, all the way through from book one to book twenty-three. And when I had the chances in life, I grabbed them, at its throat, or tried to. Each person’s journey in becoming a poet is different.