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.