The Butcher of Lima and Footprints to Mantaro Valley (Two Poems)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley
(Peru; in English and Spanish)
In what retreat art hid?-
Where falling mountains groanIn shadow and among
The rapids of the Rio?Is not your name Mantaro Valley?
Beyond the footprints of the Andes--?
I can hear your voice in echoes
I can hear thy voice, divinely low.I do but know thy by a glance
As the clouds above me know? .Ah! Gone like that, but love-love!
Hath found my naked soul!
4-20-05 (#627) Note: written after seeing the Mantaro Valley, beyond the Andes.
The Butcher of Lima(Dedicated to: Mario Poggi)
Prologue: I do not wish to judge anyone, lest I be judged, and God forbid should I be judged by anyone but He. Thus, I write this following poem with a word of discretion to the reader likewise, that all is not as it seems, is it. Having said that, it has been said the Psychologist Mario Poggi-whom I met on three occasions and purchased a sculpture from, and received one from him as a gift-has learned the hard way-that is, the curse of revenge has long wings; hence, revenge is for the Lord. Why? Because both the avenger and the victim are cursed thereafter (one does not have time to make amends if that is indeed his wish; the other, loses his life slowly as he lives on). Thus, "The Butcher of Lima," is really a picture of the sculpture Mr. Poggi calls, "The Face of Anguish"; or at least it is to me. During our three meetings, I did not find in his eyes guilt for his murderous deed, for he rid a city of a maniac who was cutting up bodies and burying them,-and perhaps saved a few lives, did he not? But rather a sadness that he did not close his eyes during the process of his slaying of man called "The Butcher," and now the sculptures he has molded with his hands are the eyes of his soul.
The Poem"The Butcher of Lima"
The Psychologist, he killed
"The Butcher of Lima,"So it has been said?
With a belt around his neckHe strangled him to death!
As he sucked in his breath--Head carved like a fish!?
He died a purple death
The "Butcher of Lima?."And no one wept.
And the media cried the name:"Poggi! Poggi!?you're insane!"
It is as fate would have it
Motionless and forgotten Are the cold blades of redemption.
Poet, Author Dennis L. Siluk, is now traveling throughout South and Central America and when given the chance, is stopping at Internets to send back some of his poetry, as he creates his poems. His site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Kafka lands resurrected in Crewedeposited by a silvery alien craft,And whilst he is wondering what to doHe is asked to show his passOr pay an instant one off fineAt a cash dispenser of his choiceAnd they are checking all the timeOn his irises face and voice.And of course they find that he is not,They discover he just cannot be there,Although he seems as if he is visible,And has hands and toes and hair,If he is not on the Great Data Bank,He plainly and simply cannot be,He is not listed and he is not rankedHe is surely not like you and me.
Two Poems: San Jeronimo Brook & [in English and Spanish]
Fair Andes! Thy arms reach highOf iron-woven solid stoneThu art a condor to the skyOf glory hidden in thy heartSo many paths, a maze of art?In thy old, Mantaro ValleyWhere adobes, breathe and trembleBeyond your rustic shadowsThere lays the prettiest of brooksIs my heart, within its stream!My image deeply carved, rippledIn its undiluted shallow watersWaiting, just waiting for me?As it opens up, opens up my soulMy rippled soul-searching-eyes!..
A Different Place...
I wish we had met 20 years ago..
A Ship to Remember
Three Poems and Paradise Lost [One for Hell, One for Heaven one for an Inca King]
The Torrents of HellHell's furnace-Likened to a chimneyVomits her torrentsOf flames-Into the airThrough earths crustAnd the earth's trembles-!Agitated, she projectsA thick curtain of smokeTo heat the feet of thoseWho provoke her every wish.Like molten ironShe waits for the soul(the moment)Then molds, into her enclosureHuman serpents?Out of savage flesh!No storm, no struggleNo eruption, no typhoon,Just a terrible phenomenon,Hell is capable of producing;And upon death,Back into the AbyssThey melt!.
Savage Nature: The Life of Ted Hughes
One of the most important poets of the post-war period, Edward James Hughes (1930-1998), was drawn towards the primitive. He was enchanted by the beauty of the natural world, frequently portraying its cruel and savage temperament in his work as a reflection of his own personal suffering and mystical beliefs - convinced that modern man had lost touch with the primordial side of his nature.
House of the Goblin [Part Two of Three/with notes]
House of the Goblin[Part Two of Three]Here is where, where the air is stillAnd the mountains shadows disappear!Here is where, unnumbered spirits dwellWhere harp and memory expire?Where the rainbow-leaps, from itsStoreroom-keep, and cries; And the sands along the oceans coastEcho then die?as in sleep?;And where enchantment turns into ghouls!..
Three Poems (While in Transition/English and Spanish)
Here are three more poems by the author, Dennis Siluk, while traveling througout Central and South America.Three Poems While in Transition (In Spanish and English)Poem OneEnglish VersionOrange Timid MoonOŽer the Copan skyan arch of shadows weave their webswith low-lights, as the moon rises.
Two Poems with Triggers [and a commentary]
So Many Einstein'sThe morning mist, insists there is a God.The earth remains faithful to its orbit.
Black Blood, in Jeremiahs Vines - A Poem and an Article
Black Blood, in Jeremiah's Vines[A Dream Poem]And I heard the crackling of wood, and I noticed the Lord God had made men of wood, and fire came from his mouth.Then the wind poured its grief upon us-over our sins; and I heard the words for the seventh time, "Go to the mountains!"Foolish people of this land pray and understand-for He cometh! Thereof, toss yourself to thy knees, for the roar of rebellious men will bleed: black blood, through the vines of Jeremiah.
The Dead God of Copan (in English and Spanish)
English VersionAnd the Death God said: "Let it rise to its glory in the Rio Valley-for a season; then let it be gone, we shall call it Copan?"Prologue: Empires come and go, liken to cosmic events, or the storms around the world: Atlantis, Mu, Greece, Persia, Rome, the Inca Nation, and even the great Maya heroic times of Copan, in Central America. All came and all left, one way or another; now just dust and artifacts in the spiral of time.
Live For Today...
Isn't that what they say?But what does that mean?There's no definition that mayanswer that question..
You can do and you can bewhatever you want.You have the power,and the right,to make the changes.
Key Largo - Frater Albertus
Key Largo:The fans turn lazily in front of the doorThey open wide showing mangroves galoreAn egret in the everglades stalks its preyHaltingly it walks along its wayOn another bright and sunny dayA woman's floppy hat shades her beauty not so brittleThe silken scarf that holds the hat flutters just a littleShe pauses in the threshold of the doorSurveying what she's looking forShe is looking straight at meHer beauty flaunted all to see.'Where are you from?' while noticing I had a frownOn the other couch she elegantly sits downIn the small hotel lobby bar'A city north and very far.
The Art of Receiving Poetic Critique
You can show your poem to your mom, your spouse, your co-workers, or your friends, but you might not get the responses that you can suck up into your little writing fingers to use in an effort to refine your craft. What does it really mean when someone who cares about you, but not for poetry says, "Wow, this is great.
Breathing-in, Minnesota [a poem: now in Spanish and English]
In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets-: dropsLikened to music from its many streams-landOf ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravelEverywhere?Grandpa sits on the porch-daydreaming of, ofSomething, perhaps winter around the corner-;As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes?Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come earlyMaybe he's thinking about summer: miles and milesAnd miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood nowLong gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at theMetal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on theEmbankment, leading up the steps to the porch;It's worn-out like him.The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from allThe foliage, there's a lot of it.
Poetry in Turbulence
To many non-specialists of literature, poetry is deeply unsatisfying. There are several reasons for this, but two in particular come to mind.
Wars, Air of Ambiguity [for: Lt. Laura Walker] in SPANISH and English
Wars, air of AmbiguityDedicated to 1st. Lt.
I Hate The Wait (Weight)
I get up in the morningAnd want to stay in bedOh, so nice and warmLike fresh from the oven bread.My day is oh so busyI wish that I could stayIn the quiet of my houseIf only I could play.
Man Unbowed [A poem]
Man UnbowedUnbowed by sin, the world of man, standsUpon his feet he gapes into the sky,The indifference of centuries within his eyes,And in his heart the curse of the old world.Who made him dead to love and God?A thing that breathes only for wants and needs,With a lack of emotion, a brother to the fox?Who tightened and pushed up his jagged brow?(To make him look so grand, so proud-so tall.