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 early
Maybe 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. The eighty-threeYear old man looks about, on his screened in Porch -fetches his pipe, lights it up, sucks in aDrag, pushes out some smoke: it drifts and driftsIn the corners of the house
"Ah!" he says-proud of his life events-I say toMyself (I'm but ten): "No doubt He's already lived this?"
There are many stories he wants to tell, but first heWants to smell the fresh air, the burning of autumn Leaves-He, never intended to have lived this long ofA life, I believe, the old bear, came from Russia in 1916;He accepted life-adjusted to it
He hears the sparrows, their feathers flapping, faintlySoiled feathers, flapping, covering every inch of theirBodies- He notices frost on the nearby tree. It seems to Him, the sun is bouncing off of the ground, he gets bitsAnd pieces of it on his face, it warms it, somehow,Thaws it out?
He's breathing in, frail like,-like reading Faulkner, slowly Does it, a ting uneasy. He never left Minnesota once, onceHe arrived back home from WWI (1918), "?no need to," heSays-he's happy?The fields are clean, animals in the barns; in the city,People getting haircuts-everything shutting down. Winter is now-it came last night, a Minnesota winterIs like no other. He just woke up, his bones chilled. TheWind blows, now it whistles, no foliage to stop its echoes.
"There are only a few left like me," he murmurs. The Flavor of winter he likes; warm biscuits, hot coffee, aSmoke from a pipe or cigar. Black branches that were Green a few months ago-: it's 10-below zero.
He sees the beauty of Minnesota in a glance here andThere-It makes his brain swim with life; it is nature at itsFinest!...
For Kathy [#800 8/14/05]
In SpanishTranslated by: Nancy Penaloza
Respirando en, Minnesota [un poema]
Al comienzo del Otoño, en Minnesota, la lluvia cae, cae, En cubos, cubos Y más cubos-: gotas Comparadas con la música de sus muchos arroyuelos de Diez mil lagos; grava humedecida, grava por todas partes?
El abuelo se sienta sobre el pórtico, soñando despierto, de Algo, quizás el invierno rondando la esquina-; mientras las moscas desaparecen, con los mosquitos?Las hojas pronto desaparecerán, las sombras vendrán temprano
Tal vez él esta pensando en el verano: millas y millas y millas y millas de maizales; Su niñez ahora, hace mucho tiempo ida, él tararea un himno, una canción; mirando
La valla metálica-entubada, que él hizo, con tres postes, sobre el Terraplén, Conduciendo los pasos hacia el pórtico; Esto esta desgastado como él.
Los vientos en Minnesota huelen fresco, fresco por todo el follaje, hay Mucho de ello. El anciano de ochenta y tres años mira alrededor, sobre su protección En el Pórtico - trayendo su pipa, encendiéndolo, aspiran una Rastra, eliminando el humo: esto va a la deriva y llega las esquinas de la casa
¡" Ah!" Él dice - orgulloso de los acontecimientos de su vida- me digo a mi mismo (pero yo sólo de diez): Sin duda "¿Él ya vivió esto?"
Hay muchas historias que él quiere contar, pero primero, él quiere oler el aire fresco, la combustión de Hojas de otoño - Él, nunca tuvo la intención de haber vivido esto a lo largo de una vida, Yo creo, el viejo oso, vino de Rusia en 1916; Él aceptó la vida- adaptado a ello.
Él oye los gorriones, su batir de plumas, plumas apenas Manchadas, batir, cubriendo cada pulgada de sus Cuerpos - Él nota la helada sobre el árbol cercano. Le parece, el sol esta saltando en el campo, él consigue añicos y pedazos de ello sobre su cara, esto calienta, de algún modo, Lo deshiela hacia fuera?
Él esta respirando, frágil como, - como leyendo Faulkner, despacio hace esto, un tintineo difícil. Él nunca dejó Minnesota alguna vez, una vez que Él llegó a casa de WWI (1918), "?ninguna necesidad", él dice - que el es feliz?. los campos son limpios, los animales en los graneros; en la ciudad, la gente que consigue cortes de pelo - todo cerrando abajo. El invierno esta ahora - llegó anoche, un invierno del Minnesota no Se parece a ningún otro. Justo cuando el se despertó, sus huesos enfriados. El Viento sopla, ahora esto silba, ningún follaje para parar sus ecos.
"Hay sólo unos pocos dejados como yo " murmura él. El Sabor del invierno le gusta; bizcochos calientes, café caliente, fumar de una pipa o cigarro. Las ramas negras que eran Verdes hace unos meses-: esto es 10 bajo cero.
Él ve la belleza de Minnesota en un vistazo aquí y Allí - Esto hace a su cerebro nadar con la vida; ¡esto es la naturaleza en su fineza!...
Para Kathy [*800 8/14/05]
You can see Dennis Siluk's many books at http://www.bn.com or http://www.amazon.com
MORE RESOURCES:
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Medford students to read poetry, show art during Navy concert Dec. 4 Medford Transcript Anne Thompson, professor emeritus at Bates College, conducted two poetry workshops on Nov. 11 at the chamber office. About 30 students from grades 3 to 6 ... |
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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!.
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.
Live For Today...
Isn't that what they say?But what does that mean?There's no definition that mayanswer that question..
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.
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!.
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 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.
Eds Poem
Ed Gallagher Dec. 11, 1907 - Sept.
Three Poems: Dona Leonors Revenge; The Old Moon; Common Sides [All in Spanish/all in English]
1) Doña Leonor's Revenge [1627 AD]Rafael Ortiz's fateWas on the plateOf Doña Leonor'sWhen she arrivedIn Lima, Peru;To taste revengeFor the beheadingOf her husband.And so the plot?was now played out(in an alleyway)As she gutted her trout!In SpanishTranslated by Nancy PenalozaLa leyenda de:La venganza de doña Leonor(1627 después de cristo)El destino de Rafael Ortiz Estaba sobre el platoDe doña Leonor.
Top 20 Poetry Quotations
Explore the meaning of poetry and the motivation of poets with this special collection of evocative quotations..
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.
Lucky...
You make me smilelike I've seldom done beforeYou give me a reasonto want more and more..
The Last King of Mars [A Poetic Mytho]
[As Told by the Last] King: it was in the year 23,700 BC that one of the two moons of earth was hit by a meteor that of which, a great part of the moon broke off and hit earth's surface with a devastating impact. Thus the solar system absorbed a cataclysm in unimaginable proportions, from Jupiter to Mars; knocking Earth out of its 100,000-year Ice Age.
Kens Poem
How wonderfully sweet to be a dwellerdwelling on the road of goodbye.Bittersweet tears fall as I thinkof all the places I'll never see,all the faces I'll never know,all the joys I'll never share,as I head for the unknown.
How to Write Bad Poetry
"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling."--Oscar WildePeople write poetry for a plethora of reasons, but this article has a sharpened arrowhead aimed directly at the fingertips of amateur poets who wish to be published yet refuse to learn the attributes of a well-crafted poem.
A Death in Cajamarca, Peru (Atahualpa, in Cajamarca ((in English and Spanish))
The Epic Poem:A Death in Cajamarca, Peru[Atahualpa, in Cajamarca]Advance: This is a version, not a translation of any kind, on the incarceration and death of Atahualpa the Inca King of the Inca Empire, in the 16th century (Peru).Atahualpa, enduring in CajamarcaGreeted by De Soto, his free friend from Spain!"Be Calm! These times will be tolerant to you.
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast [Summer of 2002]?wind was blowing furiously It never left for a moment Bursts of fury I found it difficult to keep My feet placed, thus, I clung to my knees For one blissful moment I could not now disguise it From myself Some subtle feeling Manifested itself Then the current drew Sharply away from me With her mystery-Back out into the open sea Yet-, still it roared back at me! It was an expressed release It made my head swim I noticed it kept-step With my exultation!?#761 7/14/2005Notes: There are mysteries to the sea, at times it seems as to have its own mind, its own character; as if nature was plugged into all that exist. Earth itself being an entity with its own lively soul.
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..
Rocks
Take some time to stop and look at nature. Pick up a rock or two and think about where it might have started out and what it might have gone through to end up where you found it.
An Old Wood Pile [a poem with notes]
Old skin, once held tightAgainst her skeleton-Rose no more, just drapedLoosely over unpadded flesh;Un-tightened muscles, and tissue,Lost its courage, no-fortitude-,Gone are the days and yearsThat stood against the Indomitable elements; The skeleton, now a landmarkHidden under flesh and bloodGuts and moral fiber, backbone?Collapsed from drudgeryTime, time: cascading inside-.Bones now leaving impressionsAccepting fateLike tarnished silver!.
