Burning Autumn Leaves [a poem in Spanish and English]
Burning Autumn Leaves
[1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota]
My long steel pointed rake punctured
And twisted through tons of autumn leaves
(back in the '50s);
And there's a hill yet, I didn't rake, I see
Behind it, two embankments
Leaves I didn't rake a day ago;
The essence of fall sleeps on the ground.
I love the scent of burning leaves:
I seem to dream of them nowadays.
I cannot shake the excitement I get
From the sight and smells of burning leaves.
Now the city will not allow the burning,
Not sure what can take its place-:
Only wishful thinking and dreaming, I think.
But every leaf that now appears, in autumn
I keep hearing the cracking of the fire; see
The flickering-flames of burning leaves; I
Can even smell--the autumn leaves of long ago.
I have had too much of raking leaves, I do believe-.
I'm now old and tired, too tired to rake those hills;
Yet raking I still desire, not sure why.
There were a thousand days I raked, back then
Held in hand, the rake that struck the earth-
Spiked, into its dirt-capturing those critters (leaves)
Like thieves-: thieves sleeping.
This tiredness of mine will never go away, I fear
It's called aging, or something, so I will have to find
Another place, to smell the burning autumn leaves;
And perhaps, perchance, do just a ting of raking:
Before the long, long, very long sleep.
Hojas ardientes de otoño(Los años de 1950 en St. Paúl. Minnesota)
Mi rastrillo de acero largo y puntiagudo pinchó
Y dio vuelta a través de toneladas de hojas
(Atrás en los años 50);
Y hay una colina aún, que no rastrillé, yo veo
Detrás de esto, dos terraplenes
De hojas que yo no rastrille hace un dìa;
La esencia del otoño dormirá sobre el piso.
Me gusta la esencia de las hojas ardiendo;
Yo parezco soñar con ellas estos días.
No puedo sacudirme el entusiasmo que consigo
De la vista y los olores de quemar hojas:
Ahora la ciudad no permitirá quemar,
No seguro de qué puede tomar lugar-:
Solo el optimismo pensando y soñando, Pienso
Pero cada hoja que ahora aparece, en otoño
Yo sigo oyendo el crujir del fuego; veo
El parpadear de las llamas de hojas ardiendo; yo
Puedo aún oler- las hojas de otoño de hace tiempo.
He tenido demasiado rastrillando hojas, Yo creo-
Ahora yo estoy viejo y cansado, demasiado cansado
para rastrillar esas colinas;
Aun rastrillando y todavía deseando, no seguro ¿por qué?
Hubo miles de días que rastrillé, atrás entonces
Sosteniendo en la mano, el rastrillo que golpeo la tierra-
Claveteando, dentro de su suciedad- capturando aquellos
Como ladrones-: ladrones durmiendo.
Este cansancio mío no se irá jamás, yo temo
Esto es llamado envejecimiento o vejez, entonces yo tendré
Otro lugar, para oler las hojas ardiendo en otoño;
Y talvez, la posibilidad, de hacer justo un intento de rastrillar:
Antes de largo, largo, muy largo sueño.
Poet Dennis Siluk http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Walt Whitman, Romance With a Stranger
The concept of brief encounters, even romantic encounters, with a stranger recurs often in the verses of Walt Whitman.Take, for example, these lines from one of the inscriptions that Whitman wrote to his 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass.
Azra, Azra,Wake up Azra.Wake up Azra,It is time to go.
My hero, my best friend, my Grannio (a.k.a my Grandmother)
She raised me like I was her own daughter from the day I was born 32 years ago.She loved me like nobody else has ever loved me in my life.
now is not the time to openopen that great door againnot the time to be more tolerantnot the time to play to winnow is not the time for justiceevolution mercy choicesnot the time to pet the puppiesyipping with pathetic voicesnow is not the time for kindnessnot the time for compromisenot the time for loving blindnessnot the time to close my eyesnow for one too many peoplenot that i have gained no goodheart has sown but flesh is reapingtears to mind and wasted bloodnow my inner wolf seeks equalsonly those whose chords can howldeadly whether lone or socialdefending young or on the prowltell me not that you would dieupon the spines of my displeasurelive for me and for you will icherish each cell as if a treasureput me not inside a cagebut roam with me through snow and sunbe by my side or breathe my dustfor i shall bleed again for noneNiki LasherArtist, Writer, and Webmatronhttp://www.kthulah.
Two Poems on the Traditions of Peru [in English and Spanish]
Atahualpa's Game[Peruvian]Sometimes, it's not wiseTo share your wisdom---as did, Atahualpa (The Inca King) in the Game of chess; thereafter,He was condemned to death.6/6/05 #713Note: Atahualpa, was the most famous of the Inca Kings, in the 16th century of Peru, I do relieve, and was held for ransom by the Spaniards.
Lima, City with the Stretched out Wings [In English and Spanish]
Lima, City with the Stretched out WingsIt's an ink-black night: no stars: a moon in sightJust dots of: red, green and white-white lightsAs the plane descends, descends, slides down On the long-drawn-out-spun-out lingering city of lights Uneven as a crumbled cake, lit up like a Christmas tree-The sleepless city, with its stretched out wingsStretching from the mountains to the sea-Winding through the valley's, forests, and streams Stretches, stretches its naked wings-endlesslyAs,I'm descending, down, over and around the city(descending, descending, and sliding to the ground)The city with stretched out wings-and endless lightsDown, behind, around, the ground, it's immune to meI'm just part of its evening, a baptism in its inky seaInvisible people: cats, dogs, birds, and rats-infiniteUncountable: dots; streams of lit dots, dot-lights;People: walking, talking, sleeping, eating by the dotsPeople: waiting, killing, robbing, praying, by the dotsFor tomorrow, tomorrow and another tomorrowThey say-:you are ruthless, and I know this to be trueAnd they tell me you have thieves and murders-And this, I dare say-but shall-is also true, very trueBut show me a city to the contrary of eight-million-? I shake my fist and say: '?show me! But no one does'So alive, so brave, with strong and hungry hearts;I say, show me one that sings in poverty and smilesProve me one that celebrates year-round of its heroesShow me painters that are as good-that sell on streets-As good as: Picasso, Dali, Rembrandt, and Yang YangAnd that welcomes the world with stretched out arms-Show me all this, or some of this, and I will say no moreWith this,I descend to its streets, its crowed winding streetsAs well as, to its neighborhoods with dust and soiled air,And hear the laughs of the children; the dogs on roofsSights of the shoe-shiners: men and boys, in the parksAnd the numerous food carts; -- musicians, paper sellersAnd with its naked featherless wings, covering all-My Lima, Peru with its renowned Cathedral:Golden yellow with towering crowns, andWithin its plaza-square, a water fountain-celebrated.Under its sins, with its wrinkled aged men, lovely women,They all stand tall and bow to its Inca history, its glory-Its world that once ruled all, like the Roman Empire,Like the American Dream, they were the noble, the kingsAnd now, from drudgery and toil, sweat and strive, all, all Grinding, grinding away, each and everyday, lover of the, King of Kings: Jesus Christ-this is the Lima I know today; a mighty ship that has already sailed the seven seas, now resting!?Spanish VersionLima,La ciudad con las alas extendidasTranslated by Rosa PeñalozaEsta es una noche oscura: no estrellas, ni luna a la vistaSolo puntos: rojo, verde y blanco-luces blancasMientras que el avión desciende, desciende, bajandoA la larga-extendida-plana persistente ciudad de luces Plana como un panqueque, encendida como un árbol de navidad-La despierta ciudad, con sus alas extendidasExtendidas desde las montañas hacia el océanoZigzagueante a través de los valles, bosques y riachuelosEstirando, estirando sus alas desnudas-interminablesMientras,Voy descendiendo, abajo, por encima y alrededor de la ciudad(Descendiendo, descendiendo, y deslizándose a la tierra)La ciudad con las alas extendidas-y luces interminablesAbajo, Abajo, detrás, alrededor, la tierra, es inmune a míSólo soy parte de esta noche, un bautizado en su oscuro océanoInvisible: gente, gatos, perros, pájaros, y ratas, infinidadIncontables: puntos, riachuelos de luz, puntos de luz; Gente: caminando, conversando, durmiendo, comiendo bajo los puntos de luzGente: esperando, matando, robando, rezando bajo los puntos de luzPor mañana, mañana y otro mañanaEllos dicen--:Tu eres implacable, y yo se que esto es verdadY ellos me dicen tú tienes ladrones, y muertes-Y esto, me atrevo a decir, que esto también es cierto, muy ciertoPero muéstrame una ciudad de ocho millones contraria --?Sacudo mis puños y digo: "?muéstrame," pero nadie lo haceTan viva, tan valerosa, con corazones fuertes y hambrientos:Digo, muéstrame una que canta en pobreza, y sonríePruébame una como esa, que celebra alrededor del año a sus héroesMuéstrame pintores tan buenos-que venden en las calles-Tan buenos como: Picasso, Dali, Rembrant y Yang YangY que recibe al mundo con extendidos brazosMuéstrame todo esto, o algo de esto, y no diré masCon esto,Desciendo a sus calles, atiborrada, zigzagueantes callesAsí como su raro vecindario con polvo en el aireY oigo la risa de los niños, los perros en los techosVista de los lustrabotas, hombres y muchachos, en los parquesY los numerosos carros de comida, músicos y vendedores de periódicosY con su desnuda y desplumadas alas, cubriendo todo-Mi Lima, Perú, con su renombrada catedral:Amarilla dorada con su coronadas torres, yDentro de su plaza cuadrada, una celebrada piletaBajo su piel, con sus arrugados ancianos, tiernas mujeres,Todos ellos parados altos, y reverenciando a su historia inca, sugloria-Su mundo que una vez gobernó todo, como el Imperio RomanoComo el sueño de América, ellos fueron los nobles, los reyesY ahora de pesadez, y esfuerzo, sudor, lucha, todos, todos extenuados, fatigados, este y cada día, amantes delRey de los Reyes: Jesucristo-esta es la Lima que conozco, hoy; un poderoso barco que ya navegó los siete mares, ahora descansando?Author/Poet Dennis Siluk, web site: http://dennissiluk.
The Plane from Iquitos [1959-Part One]
Iquitos & the AmazonPart OneIt was December 2, l959, I was sitting on a small prop-plane leaving Iquitos, Peru for a trip down the Amazon toward the opening, the mouth of the mighty Amazon,--to Manaus. As we flew low one could see the waters of the Amazon, the city always impressed me, but more from this birds-eye view, you could see the mighty river in its squid like form, with all it tentacles [contributories: waters linking to the river].
I Saw the Universe
I can see the cerulean blue of the skiesOr the indigo of the nightI can see the stars wink, the grin of the moonDuring the changes of it's monthly face**I am in awe**I see the sun on it's annual trekAlternately awakening the life in the earthAnd then fading away to allow it to sleepUntil the next spring**I am told the Universe is "out there"Beyond those stars, moon and sun,Yet the power of what I can seeIs a fathoming beyond my comprehension**I am in awe**"Out there" no time, no seasons passNo sense of age, hatred or loss existOnly the infinity0f the Universe**What IS "out there"?What IS the Universe that has no end?What IS the power that creates all this?I want to see it too**And then I remember..
"I heard what you said, Red. Yet, I have to disagree.
Beautiful Dreamer, Stephen Foster, Americas First Folk Song Writer
"Beautiful Dreamer" was written by Stephen Foster just before his death in 1864 at age 37. The song became one of his most famous and most popular.
Blind Designs [a Poem] and a Note by Rosa on The Other Door
Blind DesignsBorn today, gone tomorrowLike a butterfly with no stomachBorn n the morning, dead by nightOh-let me whisperOh-let me cryWhat man has not learned?What man will not learn!In his pomposity, his rhetoric With his abstract conceptsWith his intellectWith his creativenessHe has become enslavedBy-them?By them all, he will fall. Ah! Yes-abstract conceptsBombast and rhetoric His intellectHis clevernessThis he leaves behindTo his decedents!.
The Man Who Could Not Say Sorry For His Sins
Sorry would be a start.Though you cant take back your mistakes, and you cant unravel time,you'd think there would be remorse, for such a self serving crime,to send others out to die, to pay the blood price you have decreed,when its purely posturing and posing, all about vanity and greed,to secure a perceived niche in history, glowing down the years,is the extent of your ambition, is the puny limit of your fears,when those you have sent to die, believing implicitly in you,leave relatives behind who see, that nothing you said was true,there is no thought now for those, whose number you dont count,they are yesterdays forgotten, though daily they still mount,no thought of resignation, no apology to those left behind,just onward with the ego, fast forward from those times,as if nothing ever happened, as if your lies are quite ok,as if now is what to focus on, and then was another day,lost back in the mists of time, obscured by clouds half seen,not an affront to the living, not impeachable and obscene,you may want to move on now, and ignore your past infamy,but you should be tried for treason, and jailed for blasphemy.
Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English]
1.Night in Jamaica [Peruvianism: 1810]It was a rainy night they sayWhen don Simon BolivarSlept in the arms of beautiful-Luisa Crober(of Jamaica); thus anAssassin missed his markWhen he stabbed Major AmestoySleeping in the darkIn Bolivar's hammock!.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: A Discussion of How Do I Love Thee?
"How Do I Love Thee?" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning was written in 1845 while she was being courted by the English poet, Robert Browning. The poem is also titled Sonnet XLIII from Sonnets From the Portuguese.
AFRICA(to africans in diaspora)africa here i come, africaafrica of the black soul the soul of an ancient culture the culture of your timid tribes.its your voice i hear africa your voice of the talking drumsyour beaded drums and the royal trumpeterthe metal gong of your town crieri have come to see your music dance i have heard of your ageless minstrelshave i not heard of your swinging hips!i have heard enough and have come to watchwouldn't you dance for me africaafrica here i come africa would you not show me to your tribesthe timid tribes of your sweetened tongues the varied tongues of your virtuous menafrica, black soul africa tell me about your gods your gods of the sky and of the mother earthyour gods of the hills and of the rivers aboundshow me to your kings africayour kings of the ancient dynastythe ancient dynasty of rusted spear and shieldafrica, here i come africaHEAVENLY GUESTheavenly guest heralding thunderously in its own awakepelting on men as well, the godsgathering itself drop by drop.
Rules for Writing Poetry
You've been writing poetry since that first assignment in your high school writing class. You know the rules about writing poetry, right? Are there rules? Well, if you frequent the poetry forums across the Internet as much as I do, you'd find that there are a lot of amateur poets who adamantly declare that there are no rules for writing poetry and if someone even suggests reading poetry or books on poetry, many of the amateur poets will throw up a defensive front.
The Ballad of: Brawling Mad-dog Sergeant Rook [Now in: SPANISH and English]
English VersionA bunch of us guys in the hutIn ?NamWere playing cards, singing songs;In a solo-room, back of the hutLay mad-dog, Sergeant Rook;And watching from a distanceWas his sidekick, Corporal Cook.When out of the night, he wantedTo fightThis bully of six-foot-twoDog-drunk, smelling like a skunkI wanted to fight him too.
Since Youve Been Gone...
My life has changedin so so many waysIt seems to always bein a state of disarray..
Become A Poet In Ten Minutes
Have you ever sat there staring at the paper, ready to write, but unsure where to begin? Want a solution that will overcome even the worst writer's block? Anyone can start writing poetry today using a few simple techniques.One, two, .
Its What She Didnt Say
When I hear your voice inside my head it makes me think of you every single day as I fight back tears of sadness and wonder if you're okayMy life is empty without you I wish time would take away the pain but the ache in my heart persists and my simple hopes seem in vainI realize how much I hurt you and now I know it's too late to tell you how sorry I am and expect you not to hateI don't deserve a second chance to show you how much I care when you needed me the most I know I failed to be thereNow your trust in me is gone forever and I will never have the chance to say I really hope your dreams come true and happiness finds you every dayI would give almost anything in life if I could go back to that day and erase everything I said and did to make your heartache go awayWhat hurts the most is this is what you didn't say and the absence of these words haunt me each and every day..