The Cigar [a chapter story/Reedited 2-2008]

The Cigar
[a chapter story/Reedited 2-2008]

For some odd reason Günter’s mind started shifting into a different mode, he was at an old friend’s work place, at a party [dreaming, daydreaming]; he always liked a good cigar, now and then, on special occasions that is—and Molly, the secretary, asked him if he wanted one. He looked at her, said “yes,” in an inquisitive way, and to his misfortune, it was quite small—a stub. Bewildered somewhat, if not disturbed, for he had an odd expression on his face, he gave little response, if any, a shallow: “Thanks…!” and went about and lit it.
Then the old friend the one that mysteriously appeared, appeared one might say out of nowhere, just like that, without a warning, was sitting by him, he wanted to try the cigar, check it out: smoke it that is. But there wasn’t much, especially for both of them, and only nearly enough for him. Plus, there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room (this was an unconscious thought perhaps): and of course, you cannot share what you do not possess (he confessed to himself). And if there is a want or need, it is on the beholders side. Nonetheless, he hesitated, and looked stern into his face, his youthful face, a face that didn’t age like his,
“I have an idea,” he says to the old friend (still feeling a bit odd, as if he didn’t know something, something he should know, but couldn’t put a finger on it),
“put the end of this cigar into the chimney of your pipe, and then you’ll have enough to enjoy.”
The mystic friend looked at him pleased, and just happened to have a pipe on hand (another oddity that struck Gunter as being strange, made Gunter think twice, think that something was peculiar, not right, very wrong, something he should know, but doesn’t, and would like to know; in essence, his intuition told him: something was very, very incorrect), thus, his friend pulled it, the pipe, where it came from was, or is also a mystery, at which time Günter put the cigar—what was left of it anyhow—into the barrel of the pipe, and gave it to his stranger-friend, a friend he had known, but again I must add, he could not put his finger on exactly who he was, his name that is, where they had met, and when (we of course are thinking of his past, before this moment, or at least Gunter is, he is searching for that moment when they had previously met, but does not put too much though into it, he has a crisis on hand).
At that moment, as the friend started to smoke from the pipe, he started to choke, as if he was spitting up tobacco, pieces of the cigar, or blood, something: in addition, his throat was burning, a fatal burning sensation (actually, Gunter was feeling the same as his friend, another oddity he tells himself). The best he could come up with, in helping his friend was to tell him, what he did tell him:
“Ah...here, here take some water, swallow it quickly—hold up your head, higher, higher, quickly, to cool the throat, it’ll put out the flame,” and the friend did as he asked; moreover all was well for the moment.
Now, Günter walked away from the table, and its festivities, finding himself by the store next to the office party. He noticed cigars for sale in the window, big cigars, and a selection —, now he thinks: ‘…why didn’t Molly tell me they had big cigars here—and a choice, instead of the little one, the stub?” thinking of course, it would have possibly solved the difficulty with him sharing the tail end of his cigar and not causing the coughing of his friend. ‘Peculiar,’ he tells himself, very odd indeed, yet it is left at that. Then the old man shook his head, told himself to stop day dreaming, rescue Jean-Lee, his daughter in the Great Food that was in progress at this very moment, down along the levee, of the Mississippi River.
As he found himself opening up his eyes, he was also spitting out water.

He had been drowning, sinking, in the Mississippi River to its mud and rocky bottom (in St. Paul, Minnesota, it was the spring of 1951); and he had mentally let go for a moment; now above water, his mind reactivated, he had fallen into the water off the roof of a house that was sinking underneath itself.

Originally written 11-10-2003; revised, 8-6-2005, reedited 5/2007 and again in 2/208; a chapter story from the writings out of the manuscript of: “Look at Me!” about 275-words were added to the chapter story, theme and plot unchanged, just more discriptive.

Who are my Writers? (DLSiluk)

Who are my Writers?

About a week ago someone asked me who my best writers were; I said there was too many to put down. Then today I got thinking of it, that really was a wrong statement. There are really not many, if you look at the long line of writers, if indeed there are any good novel writers out there today, there are only a few, as well as a few good poets (Like Robert Bly and Donald Hall), worth their salt. What we have today, is quick sell entertainment writers. We do not have writers today that will be remembered fifty to a hundred years from now, their books will not be on anyone’s shelves, or in any library. After they are dead, they will be forgotten perhaps in ten to twenty years. The last great writers, or my best writers were such as Nathaniel Hawthorne, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Mary Renault, F. Scott Fitzgerald, O Henry, Clare A. Smith, William Durant, H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Alan Poe, George Sterling, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jack London, Bram Stoker, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, writers of this caliber. We don’t have them today. We do have a few good writers, who have written a few good books, but then comes the garbage thereafter. Colleen McCullough (she has two or three worthy books), Ken Follet (he has two books I consider worthy). Erich Maria Remarque. Longfellow. Julius Verne are also good writers, and well above the pack.
We can write to be read, or just for posterity, or for entertainment, there is nothing wrong in either case; or you can write for both and end up somewhere in-between. My first book, “The Other Door,” now on its 26th year of existence, and is on most every internet bookstore list, has been out of print for 20-years, is still in demand, and a first edition, signed can go as high as $122 dollars, it was a $5. Dollar in 1981, the book had only 750-copies made. It will be around for the next 100-years I expect, if it has lasted this long; it has passed the test of time. It is out of print, and I will not republish it. My point is, it was written for that exact purpose.

Walt Whitman: Over and Over, and Over

Walt Whitman: out in the open


What more can be said that has not been said about Walt Whitman? A good question.
To be honest I do not have any more insight than the average man out there who has read Whitman, but let me give you my point of view anyhow, for what it is worth, and it may not be worth a lot, and then on the other hand it may be a treasure, you never know.
He was known as perhaps the Father of Free Verse, old news, and he was known perhaps as the gay, or homosexual, or bisexual poet of the 19th Century, born 1819, and died 1892. He mostly wrote on his book: “Leaves of Grass,” which started out with 12-poems, and ended up with close to 400, over a forty to sixty year span, he revised the book, like a man would with a weight problem.
In his early editions, or revisions, you can tell when he writes about women, he really means men, and in his later editions, he is more free to unwind this secret of his past, it all has to do with—I would guess—the times.
Whitman was Allen Ginsberg’s hero, as Whitman’s hero was Emerson. Everyone has a hero, even Elvis’ had a hero, who was James Dean, and Stalin’s hero was Hitler. We pick out those most suitable to us—so it seems.
To be frank, I want to cut the chase to this essay and get down to business. Was Whitman’s life time goal to make a perfect book? And this book of course would have been “Leaves of Grass”—right? And did he accomplish it?
Ginsberg tried to be like Whitman in a way. Before Ginsberg died, and prior to it, he did what I’m going to tell you he did, in a more frantic way than I can express, and it seems to me a egoistic quark of Whitman’s also; that is, he’d write his poetic prose, and have his assistant put each typed letter, or poem, into his files, like a man with a precious coin, who feels he needs to preserve it for posterity’s sake. On the other hand, Whitman went over and over and over and over his poems in “Leaves of Grass,” like a man on narcotics, who needs his next fix.
In Whitman’s case, again, I see him doing this for the same reason Ginsberg did his little dance, with his typed out poetry: afraid, posterity might overlook, or not forgive him. Thus both tried to enshrine their poems for humankind’s benefit.
Well, as I was saying, Whitman went over his poetry as if a comma might have been out of place 40-years prior, or a period 60-years prior. He died at 72-years old, and at 17, I think his first book was produced; he paid for its publication out of his pocket, about 800-copies were made, so I am assuming he started writing poetry about the age I did, 11 or 12 years old.
I call all this work he did on revision: destructive change, compromise, tampering with something he should not have been. Why? After ten years, I do not know what I was thinking at the very mount I wrote a certain piece of poetry. And I have written a certain amount every decade 50s, 60s 70s, 80s, 90s, and now; same as he did in his life time.
We need to ask, what was our motive then back then, if indeed we dare rewrite our poetry, and if we can’t come up with an exact reason, then hang it up? I think he, Walt, screwed up a many of his poems in the process of revision, he took and took a good work, and made it into a plain, ordinary work.
Recently I had a review of one of my books, “Death on Demand,” it was done five years ago. A year after that book, I did another called, “Dracula’s Ghost,” both with several short stories. But one story was in both books, and I changed only the name of the story, and the person who did the review of the book said in so many words: why in heaven’s name did he change the name, it was a good name, it followed the story well, because the story was great, he did it damage. And when I look back at it, he is absolutely right.
There are several additions to “Leaves of Grass,” the first 1855, the second 1860, and one in 1881, and another in 1926, and the one in 1926, seems to have most of the 1855 stuff in it. And there is an edition I think in 1876. My recommendation is to find one that takes the best of the best out of the first, and if you can add some of his later poems, all the better. Another noteworthy comment might be, is that, it is not for children, but open minded, mature individuals.
I could tell you my best poems I like of his, if it does not get in your way in reading him, but it will, so if you have not tried Whitman, why not, put your biases aside, and enjoy a good readying, and read between the lines—carefully.

(Example of a change; “Out of the Rocked Cradle,” vs. “Out of the cradle endless rocking”.)

2-15-2008

An Old Sheriff (a poem)

The old man sat in his rocker, on his porch,
back in 1906, sixty-six years old, an old sheriff,
from South Carolina. He sat on his porch, he
had put up his guns, retired some; and
out of the blue, came six-cowboys, one day:
one black, two Mexicans, and three gringos,
all totting guns, and tall hats, on horseback.
Before the old man could reach for his
shotgun, behind the door, the six men on
horseback, shot him, right in the heart.
He fell onto the floor and the six men on
horseback, just looked, and looked, and
stared, until they got bored. His wife, Anna,
was trembling tried to nurse him back, but
the old man knew, he was dying, his time was
taxed (unable to breath but a gulp air). And so,
the cowboys, one black, two Mexicans, and three
gringos, just up and road off, left, to who knows where,
and the old man died, and was quickly buried,
so he wouldn’t stink the air, and he left his legacy,
but no one really cared.

#2258 2-15-2008

Most Read Poet on the Internet?

Most Read Poet on the Internet?

Recently, I scanned the internet for who might be the most read poet on the internet today, and I found a few claims but only one can stand its ground, so I feel: Allen Jesson comes the closest but doesn’t quite make it, that is, he claims to being the most read poet (actually he claims to be the most popular, not sure if there is a difference here, but I can’t prove the popularity part of it, only the reading of Mr. Dennis Siluk’s poetry, three time Poeta Laureado); as do many others, but after checking it out, it was Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, with over 165,000-readers a month, minimum, which is really on the short end of the scale. He is on over 400-sites (over 3000-entries on the internet), one of his poems is on 34-sites alone another on 50. One of his poems has 16,000-hits or readers on one site alone. Dennis, by himself has 30-sites throughout the internet, and has written 36-books. Sorry Allen, but it doesn’t look like your claim can stand any longer. Dr. Siluk’s poetry only features his poetry, no one else’s. On one of his sites alone, he got a year ago, 250,000-visitors, and gets 6000-visitors per month now, which will be 360,000 by the end of the year; perhaps because he has now, 30-sites, at this time, and one can see movies of him now on the internet, he will pass the two million mark for readers this year, if he hasn't already. On Ezinearticles, alone he has about 560,000-visitors—with over 1400-articles and poems ((he has written 2260 poems to date)(and has over 300 short stories, and over 900 articles, and 20 or so novels)), and that is one of a countless number of sites to have his written word on. From Ezinearticles alone, around, 23,000-other folks have come to take his poetry off the site, to put it on theirs, all this can be reviewed of course simply by checking out the internet. So Mr. Jasson’s claim is a bit foggy I feel today—maybe yesterday it was ok, perhaps we can say he is number two at best, and again I say, this is my opinion, with all respect intended for the poet.

Incidentally, Mr. Siluk’s poetry can be read in English, Spanish, Japanese, Korean, German, French and has been put into the schools in Peru, and Bosnia.

By Rosa Peñaloza

Winter of Sorrows (an Elegy for a Friend)

Winter of Sorrows
((An Elegy for a friend) (Grieving for a loved one))


Sunlight settled around her human form
(as she visited my wife and I in our parlor,
room, this afternoon)…
agony deposits, settled around her face,
her eyes settled with gold dark beams
upon mine, we talked about her twenty-years
she spent together with her husband, like
two birds with one wing, and many feathers,
to comfort each other; through the hard and
trying times.

As I looked upon her countenance, her face,
her composure—dignified, (outwardly, quickly
I noticed, she had been aging, from a broken heart,
from grieving…from her ribs aching, and her
fingers turning to rubber, from wiping the
tears from her eyes; trying to hold up her
appearance, to be strong for God, and us;
yet her words were brushed with sorrow hidden
perhaps, laced (even edited) as if on a spool of
thread, for softly like cotton they came.

She had now thawed out, frozen once I
could tell, like a tree stump, temporarily in
the Winter of Sorrows (her husband had
died, just six weeks ago, from cancer, his body
had said “That’s it…” and he said, “Oh!”
Yet he lives in her every moment, her soul.

It is indeed, an unstable place to be, no easy
way out, our spirit surrounded by memories
and thoughts! The deceased gets out of his body,
while she’s left in the box: soft pain, yet it all
drifts to heaven, in the winter of sorrows.


Dedicated to Carmon Alfaro (#2249/2-12-2008)

In a Lost World (a way of thinking)

It was always simple for my mother—or so it seemed—to be who she was, for me, to be me it never was simple, always a challenge; perhaps she was one of the few people who was content with life as it was, not lost in it. As it is I suppose as animals see it, to live life without notion of it, to love, to breed and to die, we although claim to have reason, or a God given cause, and thus, go see our maker after we die, and this makes us less lost—vivid eloquence, for debate. Anyhow, thus, animals are not in a lost world, because they do not have that reason to know they are lost, nor can be faulted for it, we are in a lost world (most of us), and don’t know it, and have raison d'être. Death makes us vanish, and we look back, tell our story, and still wonder why we were, if really, that is possible. Writers don’t like to vanish, so they write thinking their words will be read a hundred, no perhaps 10,000-years from now, unstinting vanity. They leave behind records, stupid records often, that they lived, they were. Perhaps they think, they will get lost in the hereafter, and thus, leave a record, or pyramid, here and there, or writings on the wall, to let the new ones, the ones to follow us, know we were here. Adam and Eve left a few sons behind, so I am told. My mother left me and my brother. I left a few kids here, and they in return, have left a few. We want to read stories, tell them, and live them, it is what we do down here, since we do not have to fight for survival anymore, like the animals still do; lastly, we create politics, diplomats, a form of endurance, to show our continued existence, from the thrones of the world. Boredom seeks in if indeed, we cannot find something to do, fill that gap up, the lost world gap. When we discover that we are lost, we have gained some insight. But what is being lost? Everybody thinks they are found, or not lost because they are established. Lost to me means: the need to kindle in nature (life) and face, and shed some light on humanity, reveal and bring into clear view the corner and cracks of darkness, the true extender, you might call it; man remains in bondage as long as they scuttle to, and adapt to pretense—only finding on the death bed, all those years were really unsuccessfully lived, lost in a lost world. Lost is the person who serves only himself, self interest, the admiration of our antiquity.