The Cockroach Haiku’s (or Hokku)

The Cockroach Haiku’s (or Hokku)


Commentary:

The haiku is a Japanese tercet; its lines consist of 5, 7 and 5 syllables respectively. In my first book of poetry, I did several of them; to be proper, the lines are unrhymed, I say proper in the sense of how the poem was meant to be.

We can add to this hardship, short poem, by adding the name of a longer Haiku, called Tanka. Here we add two additional lines. Thus, making a chain, and now we got five lines; the two extra lines have seven syllables each. I have done these poems in the past (not naming them Tanka, but they were). This part of the poem should revolve smoothly with the above three lines.

There are always exceptions to the policy, is that not true, and in my case, it is good, because I do not like to be locked into form, to where it robs effect, and emotion. Thus, we have the Enclosed Tercet, that allows rhyme (aba)) usually)). Then we have the Sicilian Tercet, this also allows rhyme, iambic pentameter.

We can also go to the Triad, a loose Irish form. I’m part Irish, so this can come in handy. Here we have three tercets, all bearing some relationship to each other, and all consisting to be one poem. Then you see Siluk’s Haiku, and that is another story. We have several linking poems, some with a slight rhyme to it, others not, the lines are 17-syllables, and usually I like them 7, 5, 5 --not always though. (there are other forms of haiku I have not mentioned, Chinese, etc., and I think the main purpose of the haiku, or poem (or any poem for that matter), is to insure it is readable to the reader (if not a specific group in mind, for some poems are so difficult, you need a combination to unlock them). Light it may be, or hard and heavy. Here it is lighthearted, but much truth to it.


The Cockroach Haiku’s
(The poems)


Cockroach I

Now listen, you Cockroaches—
don’t tell the thieves—
where I live!

#1639

Cockroach II

Leaping from my neighbor’s yard
“Excuse me,” he said,
“Where is the damn bread?”

#1640


Cockroach III

The night is so long and hot,
Here the cockroach rests
By my bedroom door!...

#1641


Cockroach IV

Fatty cockroach, please stand still
Dennis is coming
(where are my glasses?)

#1642


Cockroach V

The old fat cockroach, he bends
His fat little knees
Listening for me.

#1643


Cockroach VI

Cockroach, cockroach please beware
I’m stepping down
These hard wooden stairs.

#1644

Cockroach VII

Since it is summer and hot
Can we not, have some—
Cockroach courtesy?

#1644

(1-30-2007))Written in the evening, while in Lima, Peru)) Commentary added 1-31-2007, and poems restructured.

The Old Camera (A Tribute to Mike Rossert)

The Old Camera
(A tribute to old times)

Sometimes I feel
(looking at that old picture
from that old camera—back in ‘58)
feel I’m still that eleven-year old boy
in Como Park (St. Paul, Minnesota)
standing in the sun
with my pal, Mike Rossert
(like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer)
smiling—proud as can be
(over nothing)) just life))
arm around his shoulder
(his around mine)) now 59)).
I suppose there wasn’t a care in the world
(just loose time, romping time—).
That old camera (1840s)
caught it all:
life was so simple
it was a ball…!

#1632 1-29-2007

Note: Dedicated to Mike Rossert. Mike and I roamed St. Paul as kids, between 1956, perhaps to 1959; but we remained friends until I was perhaps 15-years old, then we both lost track of each other. He was perhaps my first real friend, I mean, one I spent any quality time with. We’d roam the banks of the Mississippi River, and wake up the bombs in the caves thereabouts. We run and explore the tunnels under the streets of St. Paul, Minnesota, that went from the Capitol to the Historical Society, and to other such places. And to the top of the hill where the museum used to be, and of course out to Como Park; we’d also run in and out of the elevators downtown, like clowns. I think he was more daring than I but it was—nonetheless, unforgettable times, times that are worth looking to back; thus, it is prudent I do believe, to let ones kids explore the wonders of youth, it is only around for a clap of an eye, than lost to oblivion, unless you can capture it, in a poem.

A Reminiscence of Keiko Fujimori [A Limerick]

A Reminiscence of Keiko Fujimori
[A Limerick]

Keiko Fujimori once said
(in so many words):
Be careful who you select
For your next president (of Peru)
Lest we be stuck—
For five-years, then what…?

#1634 1-29-2007 (Written in Lima, Peru) the Limerick is paraphrased to how I understood, what she meant, from a TV News broadcast in Lima, Peru (during the elections of 2006)



Note: The statement of being careful whom you select for president Keiko Fujimori said (which I remember her saying, watching TV, and was inspired by it; which is of great importance, and very much looked at in the United States) was during the runoffs of the election of 2006, for presidential candidates of Peru; but yet I think the statement is one everyone needs to examine, everywhere and every time they (or: one) go (s) to elect an official. So often, and so quickly one forgets who is paying their wages: Not only in Peru, but all over the world (South America seems to be plagued with it share of official robbers to the point, one wants to become an elected official simply for monetary gain).
Sometimes you get what you ask for only to regret later (and sometimes forget) you asked for it. I agree with Keiko, look at their track record (what have they done to deserve to represent the people)) too often we put into office unqualified people)).
So often we are fooled by their smile, and how they present a lecture. They (politicians) are trained to lecture, how to grab emotion of the soul of a person, how to use certain words to gain influence over a group or crowd. They know who they are talking to, what select group they are addressing. That is why we must elect our officials by thinking, not by our emotions.
I know the verse I wrote for Keiko, is short in words, if not oversimplified, but nothing more really needs to be added.

The Coke Stream: The Mantaro Rio (Peru))In English & Spanish))

The Mantaro Rio of Peru:
A Coke Stream



When you come to visit the Mantaro Valley, just beyond the huge mountains called the Andes, you will enter a Valley unequaled on earth, and again, I must say, you will be surrounded by the second largest mountains in the world, the Andes, although they are not the huge ones, perhaps only 2000-feet tall, but you are 10,500-feet high already, thus, you are 12000-feet above sea-level. The valley is more beautiful than the Scared Valley I think, and it has the old time touch to it; that is to say it brings you back two-hundred years with its adobe houses, ox and carts, and donkeys, lamas and dogs running up and down the hills, throughout the valley villages. And once in the city of Huancayo (population apex: 325,000), you have all the modern amenities a big city has, so you got a mixture of both, old and new. And the women still dress in their old Wanka garb, with gold and black Wanka hats: a land of intrigue, mystic and romantic Wanka-ism. But there is a sad part to this tale, or story, when you follow the once beautiful river called the Mantaro Rio (and I have been here now four times, and am thinking about living here), you follow a green path, a blue sky, and an infested, contaminated mud stream, sad to say, but a touch of reality: called the Mantaro Rio. It looks more like a coke-a-cola stream than a river that should be blue or green.

Once you gaze upon it, you will not want to swim in it, as the animals do not want to drink from it, both man and beast are wise in this area, for should they, I’m sure they’d not do it twice. Yes, it’s a shame, perhaps those polluting it, should clean it, or drink from it: but that would be murder wouldn’t it, and we are not savages are we not; yet some folks seem to think, otherwise: that being, they have the right, or preference to do as they please with the water of the Mantaro Rio. This was once the problem we had along the Mississippi, where I live (part of the year), in St. Paul, Minnesota, in the United States, until we the people, enforced the government to take action and enforced the folks doing the polluting, to build refineries to clean the water they were infecting. Sounds logical to me.
I’m not sure how hard it is to clean what you dirty, perhaps no harder than cleaning the neighbor’s dirty laundry, you know, the one you dirtied and left for someone else to clean (a lot of us do that don’t we): the Mantaro Rio belongs to the Valley folks, not just those living down by the mines; thus, one may want to call the Core of Engineers in Minnesota, to see how they did it, and perhaps, we can fix what needs fixing.
Now they are even (some Ungodly folks) are sending devilish letters to the Monsignor of Huancayo, saying in so many words: if you don’t shut up, we’ll kill you, or shut you up. Let me simply say this: those saying these things are simply cursing themselves to God, and putting their own, families and lives in danger: with the One they can’t see, but can see them. Why do I say this? I’ve learned in life, what you plant is what you harvest. If it is evil, it will not blossom godly flowers why should it, thus you plant deadly seeds, and you get a deadly harvest, so beware.


Note: written on the way back from Huancayo to Lima, 1/10/2007





By Poet Laureate, of San Jeronimo, Peru Dennis L. Siluk; Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture (by: Prens@ndina) and recognized by the Colegio De Periodistas del Peru as: Poeta Laureado Del Valle Del Mantaro, 2007



Spanish Version





Río Mantaro del Perú:

Un Corriente de Coca Cola


Cuando vienes a visitar el Valle del Mantaro, justo más allá de las enormes montañas llamadas Los Andes, entrarás en un Valle sin igual sobre la tierra, y otra vez, debo decir, estarás rodeado por las segundas montañas más grandes en el mundo, Los Andes, aunque estas no sean las enormes, quizás sólo 610 metros de altura, pero tú ya estarías a 3,200 metros sobre el nivel del mar, así, estarías a 3,810 metros sobre el nivel del mar.

El Valle del Mantaro es más hermoso que el Valle Sagrado del Cuzco pienso, y este tiene un toque de los viejos tiempos; es decir este te lleva atrás doscientos años, con sus casas de adobe, bueyes y carros, y asnos, llamas y perros corriendo arriba y abajo de las colinas, en todas partes de los pueblos de valle. Y una vez en la ciudad de Huancayo (población aproximada: 325,000), tendrás todos los servicios modernos que una ciudad grande tiene, así tienes una mezcla de ambos, lo antiguo y lo nuevo. Y las mujeres todavía visten en sus tradicionales trajes Wankas, con sus sombreros Wankas dorados y negros: una tierra de intriga, mística y romántica Huanca-ismo.

Pero hay una parte triste a este cuento, o historia, cuando sigues al que era una vez el hermoso río, llamado Río Mantaro (y he estado aquí ya cuatro veces y pienso vivir aquí), tú sigues un camino verde, un cielo azul, pero una infestada, contaminada corriente de lodo: llamada Río Mantaro; triste es decirlo, pero es un poco de la realidad. Parece más bien una corriente de Coca Cola que un río que debería ser azul o verde.

Una vez que lo veas, no querrás nadar en este, así como los animales no quieren beber de este; tanto el hombre como la bestia son sabios en esta área, porque si lo hacen, estoy seguro que ellos no lo harían dos veces. Sí, esto es una vergüenza, quizás aquellos contaminándolo, deberían limpiarlo, o beber de este: pero esto sería asesinato ¿no?, y no somos salvajes ¿verdad?; aunque alguna gente parece pensar de otra manera: es decir, que ellos tiene el derecho, o la preferencia de hacer lo que a ellos les parezca con el agua del Río Mantaro. Una vez este era un problema, que nosotros tuvimos a lo largo del Río Mississippi, en San Pablo, Minnesota, en los Estados Unidos, donde yo vivo (parte del año), hasta que nosotros la gente, forzamos al gobierno para tomar medidas y obligar a la gente que generaba la contaminación, de construir refinerías para limpiar el agua que ellos infectaban. Me parece lógico a mí.


No estoy seguro cuan difícil es limpiar lo que ensuciaste, quizás no más difícil que limpiar la ropa sucia del vecino, tú sabes, el que ensuciaste y dejaste para que alguien más lo limpiara (muchos de nosotros hace eso, ¿no?): el Río Mantaro pertenece a la gente del Valle, no solamente a aquellos viviendo por las minas; así, uno podría querer llamar el Núcleo de Ingenieros en Minnesota, para ver cómo ellos lo hicieron, y quizás, podamos arreglar lo que necesita ser arreglado.

He oído que ahora ellos (alguna gente Impía) incluso están enviando cartas diabólicas al Monseñor de Huancayo, diciendo explícitamente: si usted no se calla, lo mataremos, o lo haremos callar. Déjame simplemente decir esto: aquellos diciendo estas cosas simplemente están maldiciéndose ellos mismos a Dios, y poniendo sus propias vidas y la de sus familias en peligro: con El que ellos no pueden ver, pero El puede verlos. ¿Por qué digo esto? He aprendido en la vida, que lo que plantas es lo que cosechas. Si es malo, este no producirá flores piadosas, por qué lo haría, así si plantas semillas mortales, y consigues una cosecha mortal, entonces ten cuidado.


Nota: escrito en el camino de regreso de Huancayo a Lima, 10 de Enero del 2007.

Por el Poeta Laureado de San Jerónimo, Perú, Dennis L. Siluk; premiado con el Premio Nacional de Perú, “Antena Regional” como: El mejor del 2006 promoviendo la cultura (por: Prens@ndina).







“The Magic of the Avelinos,” by Poet Laureate Dennis L. Siluk.
A book on the: culture, customs and traditions of the Mantaro Valley of Peru.


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A Brief Overview of the Historical Wanka
(An Introduction)


The Wanka culture is rich in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, and perhaps we could start at any corner in the Valley and present (or come out with) a good history surrounding the Kingdom of the Wanka. So let’s start right from the beginning, 10,000 BC, known as the Litico Period. Here we find Archeological sites called Callavallauri, and here we find nomads and hunters for the most part.
From there we can shift to the Arcaico Period, or 4000 BC. A time when agriculture appeared in the Valley, and throughout; here we can find ruins called Chanchas Puquio (Huancan0.
Now we shift another 2000-years down the timeline, a period of the Ceramic, along with the growing of corn, and an archeological site nearby the Andean city called: Conception (Junin).
Now we take a big leap, to 600-1460 AD, the Medium to Late Horizon periods; this is really the Wanka Period at its brightest. A time for breeding stock, agriculture, more villages, and of course war (the Huari)
The Huari Empire in the Mantaro Valley connected with one another, that is, the valley consolidated for the most part. The Huari disappeared and was replaced with the Wanka Kingdom about 1000 AD, although everything was somewhat really interconnected prior to this.

Now we must go to about 1200 AD, the Wanka development is well on its way, I shall call it its middle glory: here we see Jauja, San Jeronimo, Sicaya, Chorgos Bajo connect with one another.
The Capital of the empire was Tunanmarca and the Huari culture, perhaps between 500-900 AD—was predominated in the area. After their influence disappeared, the Wanka got more independent and adopted what may be considered the God of the Wanka’s. Huallallo Carhu (The Great Wanka Warrior). He was punished by Pariacaca, and made to eat dogs for his last defeat. It has been said; the God of the Wanka’s ate human flesh, which was really not that uncommon back then for that background (environment and/or societal surroundings and way of life); and to repeat myself, He was to eat dogs for penitence.

And so you see, we have looked at the Wanka from a few different historical angles, let alone, a few obscure ones: let me bring you into his home, the places the Wanka, in the later years in the Mantaro Valley called home, that is; for example: Arhuaturo (ruins): Cajas; Wariwilca; Huancayo; Pacara; Sapallanga; Chaclas; San Jeronimo (Unish koto); Quitcas (Ushucoto) and Tambo. All these places I’ve visited. There are of course more places they called home, in the valley, but this will do for this book, perhaps I will discover some more in the near future.

"The Great Wanka Warrior" (An Epic Poem of the 13th Century in English and Spanish)

—A Poetic Adventure

The Great Wanka Warrior


Ancient Wanka Ceramic

Hawks over the Valley
(An Introduction to the Wanka Warrior)

All men who live by war, present
A kind of hawk-like appearance
(as well as, a steadfast stance).
His, whose body showed strength,
Combined with endurance
Smooth shaven, features being more of
The sun, than of nature—
He was the Wanka Warrior.

His dark eyes were cold,
Under his feet, the land moaned.
He was once told, “In the ranks of the
Wanka Warrior, there is always a place”
(for a Saber-warrior like He). “

“Yes!” the Wanka Warrior exclaim
(with an elastic voice) “...but what do you mean?”
“You cried out in the stress of the fight
(battle)—you smote your enemy,” said
the chieftain, adding, “you’re quick
To anger (there was an instant of
breathless tension).”

“Very well,” said the veteran warrior,
“I seek an enemy!”
“Whom?” inquired the Chieftain?
“The plague of the Valley!”
“You know, this man is a mighty general?”
“It matters as little as if he were a
brickmaker,” held the Wanka Warrior.



(It would be another year before the Wanka Warrior would take the road home from his last great battle, The Road to Unishcoto.))

Unishcoto, a familiar way of spelling the ruins, can and has been spelled in a number of ways, for example: with two words and a “k”: Unish koto, and/or with an “H” Hunishcoto)).



First Faction
[1 thru 4]


The Warrior


1
The Warrior


I was born in the Mantaro Valley
I came from an old Wanka stock—
Race whose characteristics
Were inclined towards violence—war
We battled against one another…!

In the mountain country—I lived
A valley surround it, it is where I spent
My boyhood, a physical contest it was!
Yet all one breathe of life to me…;
A restless life, thus, I became a warrior.

One must understand the risks,
The uncertainties as a warrior;
You must be utterly fearless, wild,
Primitive, and so I became, I was:
All of this, aloof strain, and more!



2
The Blade


As a warrior I could expect nothing,
Only fury from my aching muscles:
Grasp, raw skinned knuckles, aching,
Staring down my victims, doom:
My murderous blade sharp at its point.

I learned death in a thousand forms
And due to this, I was partly dead.
In my life, at this time, I can but reply:
Continual violent action: imposes!...
Oversimplified, and now I die…!


3
Captured


I was captured once and left to die
My wife (but not then)) I shall not name))
Fumbled vainly at my feet: I had been
Physically tortured, she held me upright
She cried, and prayed and cried…!

Worthless, yet she had pity for me
And now she waited vainly, hoping…
Wringing her hands, knowing I was well
No more a shield, thus, I was free to:
Fight again; whoever saw such a woman

You will say perhaps, it is not possible
For a man like me, to fall in love—
She was indeed a blinding flame,
A deafening sound in my chest—
A sound I could never put to rest.

For a long time I was senseless, lifeless,
Longing, but healing in my sleep, to love
Never really expecting to find it, yet:
Once found, she disrupted my life…
Yet, somehow, we became one.


4
The Vanquished


I always thought I’d return to her
My little yellow flower of the mountain
“I shall return,” I decreed…! Freed
But vanquished, bloodstains kill…
They do not play favors for anyone.

In my mind, as I came to her—
I could visualize through my eyes
Her features dazzling, floating;
It is but now a transcendent vision
Yet strangely familiar as I walk…



5—Interlude
Death Shadows


As in any war, he found his minds-eyes upon the dead, his eyes trying to close (from the demised, the dull, the dead that laid now behind him, — leaning on (whatever he could), forward and quietly he advanced: he tried and tried to wipe out their memories, the battle, the blood, the gloom, yet he recalled, remembered all the shapes, shadows and colors of shades of doom…his lot in life)!

Stiffly in their cast mode, bold and cold, immortal faces shrinking: he got away from them… shook his head, kept his eyes straight ahead!

He called it hopeless surrender; he would have to learn how to be un-cold, for the world could not afford a warrior with true affection (sorrowful it would be in battle)) but he was coming home)).

In his journey back, he lost all account of time, dead feet walking, un-hurrying, he clinched his hands, a snarl on his face: one way or another, he was coming home to his wife.

Their features showed—teeth, faces bleached white: incapable of further movement, he made odd sounds (shaking his head up and down)) he was dying)). His breath hissed almost equal to the wind, as he recollected, all the death smells: wordless, he sank inside, to a silence of crudeness, yet he kept walking talking, wailing.


Second Faction
(Parts one thru five)
The Great Wanka Battle


Part One
By the Teeth of the Moon


Four thousand warriors battled this night
Two-thousand Wanka warriors would die
Along the Mantaro Rio, in the Valley
And they had equal weapons and all
And many of the warriors were hidden

On both sides of the Rio were Wankas
The Wankainos and I (the ancient ones)
We, kept up our incessant fires, spirits
But with scant avail, for we all knew
Slowly the enemy, the foe crept closer...

Closer and closer they crept for accuracy
To the edge of the Rio–spying they came
Hid in the ditches along the Rio, and trees
Held their positions, waiting, just waiting:
In short order—, hoping to wipe us out.

Suffering terrible, in the cold winds
It would have been madness to swim
Across the Rio at night, but we did
Suffering terrible from the cold winds
Slowly we crept closer to them…!

Thus, we crossed the Rio at night with
Only the teeth of the moon for light;
Arching down now on the ground
Blue blades by our sides—determined
Bizarre figures—spears at our thighs:



Part Two
Battle along the Rio

Once on land we rushed the camp
In-between fires, dogs and cats…
I heard voices vaguely familiar:
“Then I slashed off heads—they rolled
Grinning down the hill to the mud—”;

Panting, blood stained, fierce faces
Led only, by the teeth of the moon—
Flamed eyes, fumbling in our haste,
“Back!” I heard someone say—
Instantly my ears heard a distant roar!

The shooting of porras snarled by—
Fire arrows singed my hair
I was the last Wanka warrior to die:
In this chaotic war: blindly we fought
Some bodies smoking—burnt crisp…

I saw the remnants of my comrades
There was no escape, none—none at all!
We walked into a devouring path –
I and I alone, escaped to the Rio…
By the teeth, and face of the moon!

I raced through the water’s blackness—
I suspect, I was confused, mumbling:
The erratic moon, bobbing above me
Then I reached my side of the Rio—
There was the spy in the hollow log…!


Part Three
In the Midst of Battle

In the midst of the Wanka battle
Massed thick with Wanka bodies
We were all fighting like demons
The battle was a gasping deadlock
They could not thrust us back…

We slashed, heaped high their bodies
Then when we were exhausted, they
Came in full force—hand to hand
Men stumbling among the dead—
Flesh and blood, and thunderous roars!...

Wanka warriors—we were everyplace
Everyone madden to a frenzy (hidden)
They—our enemy Wanka brothers,
They were hidden high in trees, logs, ditches
Desperate melee, we gave way!..

The battle streamed out, throughout
The camp, and down to the Rio,
Trampling feet, shouts—with blue steel
Hand to hand, came the vengeance:
All foes in the same Valley and Rio...!


Part Four
Death (in the Midst of Agony)


On we died like locust, so thick in battle
So broad we could not spread our arms,
And once tried, our: wide, busted wings
Fought on (with broken arms and knees
We fought on); consequently, being
Repaid—we died in pain, agony.

Red, red blood was the repayment—
I could not pity them, or they us…
The battle sight dazed us all
Some cowering in terror, and me, me—
I was in the painful midst of Agony!...

Hacking and slashing—warriors!
I avoided chance blows—somehow,
I slashed and gashed, a path to the Rio
I swam swiftly through the currents
My bronze limbs against the water-walls;

Now across the Rio, glaring in on me—
I found a path, where the wind blew…
The dome of the moon –shattered
In the semi-darkness: my bronze limbs
Crushed, with pain and now the rain…!

I heard in the distance, Wanka iron lungs,
And pounding feet like triumpht drums—
They said, “We conquered the fools,” yet
They, like us, are from the Valley—too,
And some day they will be conquered also.


Part Five
Stone Walls


Of this past cataclysmic frenzy
That took place a day ago—
The death of howling humans,
Brought me memory crushing walls
A ghastly roaring through it all…!

You think before a battle, and during:
Your body can blast through it all,
How many fell yesterday, I do not know
But I was the only one to escape—
Across the rio, through the river’s flow

What I expected to find or gain in war
Is different than what I found—
Like blind and brainless monsters
We fought—a blinding white flame
Enveloped in a frantic oblivion.

You my say, perhaps it was all in vain,
My only reply is that I was part of it,
Senseless as it is, was, and will be—:
Again, afterwards, one becomes vested
In delirium, paralyzed with it…!


After the Battle
(Parts six and seven)


Interlude
(to: After the Battle)

Ascension


The road (from the Rio) traveled relatively straight to the mountain; the Wanka warrior identified with it, it curved upwards and to the right sharply ascending to the top, part of the way, would be easy—he knew, yet painful, for he had his wounds, as a result, when he climbed it, he zigzaged his way to the top; cupped on top was his ancestors ruins, the old bins for harvest time year around, and beyond that a small stone house, his home.

As he climbed the mountain, some 5000-feet upwards, he thought not of dying or battle (not yet anyways) or the conveyance upward, but of the small stone house, Unishcoto itself, and he did not want to forget it, it was his drive.
He looked up (the countryside behind him now), the top could not be seen, it all looked steep, yet he climbed it a hundred times before, it looked like a waterfall, ready to cascade ontop of him, broken rock and all, like an ocean of earth.
Each breath he took, was like the last bit of breathable oxygen; the night clouds were dreary, moved across the moon like windblown waves, ceremonial looking; they had shapes of stiff looking corpses, with necks twisted about like wooden crews, holding them together. (Death was waiting?)



—Part Six
By Lantern of the Moon

I struggled now up the side of the sierra
The old creek bottom, behind me now
My mind in a scanty obliviousness—
At last I saw, from afar…
A silhouette standing in the darkness…!

As I walked towards my home—,
Thinning tree branches loomed at me
From the dark hushed vague sky—;
A dog started barking ahead:
Guided only by the sky’s lantern…!

I felt a sad, gloomy, and faintly chilled
My wounds—told my body it was dying
Fading among the living sierra trees;
The dog heard me, he barked again,
His shadow trying to listen: ‘Who is it?’

My wife stared off into the darkness—
I saw her, heard her voice ebbing my way
‘Come down this path,’ I wanted to say
But motionless I lay, like a broken branch
Off a living tree, I was but a silent echo.




—Part Seven
I Died


I died, went into a condemned silence
I died, and the silence swiftly rippled
It was neither night, nor day—but still
I wanted to follow the path ahead,
You know the one to my house!

But I was dead—among the living trees
The house seemed to leap before me
(a different dimension perhaps);
Then I found myself beside her—
I whispered her name—stirringly!

Her lips were cold, or were they mine?
She tasted fatality, doom—didn’t know
Her head bowed between her breasts
I was now above her: she was so brave.
(And I died, and she went to bed.)

And I thought then, about the times
She and I, held each other—abreast:
And we would lay in the meadows,
And quietly in the darkness—she’d
Make me warm, and she was soft.

(But this doom, I could not escape.)





Interlude
(Last Kill)) Or Battle of the Jackal))


(Last Thoughts :)

“I remember now—‘Dog’ as we called him,
Stood there in the haze, as I came upon him:
My eyes ablaze with fight, with an old hate:
‘He is all jackal,’ I thought, now in battle—

The leader—the Jackal, slow as an ox, came
Towards me—I gathered my feet, below, I
Leaped, struck, I sheared through his neck
Cords: blood flowed from him, like the Rio.
It was my last kill. I jumped over fires, swift
—I wasted no time, seized him by the knees,
Cast him over my head—how dead is dead, I
Thought. Next, I jumped back up, onto my feet:
Then bending low, like a sweeping condor, I,
I howled like the enemy, like a pack of hounds,
As the fires dwindled down: now the blood of
The foe was on my blade, but I was alive—
For the moment: like the wind that follows me.”



—Part Eight
Spring and Decay

There were no intimate things in her room, empty—; the entire house remained still— with a chill of desolation, spring had come, with a bright blue sky, she saw flowers lying on the ground, as if forgotten…

—She walked further into the wooded area, there—withered and dead laid her husband. Crumbled in his fingers, flowers, she touched his hand, they had left a stain she noticed; yet, disgustingly, he smelled: reeked with decay—!

Soberly, in the chill of the morning, she paused (leaning over his body), fretfully relieved, and alarmed, her fear and bewilderment had come true: then trying to remember what little they had done together, and her worrying now over, she sighed a long, long sigh.

The gist of it was plain enough, she had never understood him or war, but she did today, it meant—detachment. It all implied—one must put it behind them, to stay alive, to survive, yet shocked and curious—she didn’t appreciate it.

She asked herself— “What are the words to this?” there was nothing to do [perform, carry out] save, hope for a new husband, yet that brought back distaste, and dread; she had to trust to a stranger (she’d put this aside for the time being).


—Part Nine (conclusion) Interlude
The Ghost of Weeping


(Grieving) She stood sluggishly by her fireplace, her hands cold to the bones—she stood before it, then turned towards the window, there she could see the drooping trees, her heart leaped a little “You fool!” she exclaimed; his shadowy shape came leaping unto the open sill of the window—, “You idiot,” she exclaimed; the shadow seemed to stare at her, with a wild repose.

Her wet face, lighted up “Don’t,” she cried, and then she tasted her own tears—she clung to the window, the shadow showed saber intensity “Have I gone crazy?” she asked herself.

She had been hoping he would have come home, I mean, come home for good (long ago)) not like this)), she had waited—so she said aloud, “… longer than a thousand fires—in my stone oven…” and perhaps had she not found his body, she would have waited longer. “No,” she answered, “wishful thinking!” That is what it was. “What?” she said; a voice said, “…you’ll find someone soon…” she stared quietly (it was as if the voice was annoyed).

Her chin now in her palms, looking into the fire, “You don’t want to!” She said “Surely for what it’s got to be.” She added, “Whatever you think, it is because it is what you want to believe.”

She picked up a cup, drank its contents and sat back, her face rosy in the firelight. She closed the window, “People smell bad because of the things they do;” she said, “living corruption, flags the flesh, all soiled.” She felt clean to the bone—then the fire went out, as she fell to sleep.

She murmured “He gave half of himself to me, and the other half, perhaps the better half, he swapped for war—that part, I could never find, until now.”




Stone Oven

Beside the stone oven—she slept
One bronze woman, half-grieving
Her face shining with heat
And rolling dark eyes; by her
Feet one dog and four puppies,
Scratching and bumping—
As they ate—their meal…the
Fire reflected: flashes of teeth;
Curiosity had vanished—.

#1453 (9-8-2006)


Stone Window

Outside her stone window
In the sky no stars showed,
The earth was a deflated swell,
The sky was sagging its dark shape,
The trees beyond like chilled ghosts,
And the moon shown a cold
Corpse-like light—ascending; a gray
Chill seeped through the stones.

In her seeping lifeless mind,
She said, “How long must I grieve
For the dead?” As if pleading in
This gray like silence, for it
Quickly to dissolve, and end.


#1454 (9-8-2006)


Afterward (Epitaph):


The House on Unishcoto

Weep for the one so strong to die
Who war has taken at last!

Mourn for his wife that sings no more
And the ruins called Unishcoto—

This was he who had a flaming heart
And heroic breath,

Whose weapons are laid, and hung
In the House by Unishcoto;

It was he, who grew mighty in war,
But her war was otherwise:

Thus, weep for one so strong in war
Whose war is now, of the night!



#1451 9-7-2006 Note: Unishcoto is a ruin on top of one of the mountains in the Mantaro Valley of Peru.


#1450 “The Road to Unishcoto”, 9-6-2006 (First parts written the first and last week of August, and the last parts written the first week of September, 2006)) drawings also drawn during the same period.

Spanish Version



GWB


El Camino a Unishcoto
San Jerónimo de Tunán, Huancayo, Perú


Comentarios Iniciales

Una Mirada Breve al Guerrero Wanka del Valle del Mantaro:

La cultura Chavín es la más antigua de las grandes civilizaciones peruanas; esta floreció entre los años 1800 y 300 antes de Cristo, aproximadamente dos milenios antes del Imperio Incaico, siendo el jaguar un símbolo de la cultura. La cultura Inca quizás fue la más inteligente e imperialista de todas las culturas que aparecieron en Perú, pero los Wankas de Huancayo fueron quizás los guerreros más resistente de todos los que surgieron en la historia de Perú: localizado a 3,260 metros (de altitud) en el valle fértil del Río Mantaro.

La ciudad de Huancayo (en tono convencional, de hoy en día) es muy famosa por su feria dominical, y a dos kilómetros de Huancayo está lo que se llama Torre-Torre, coloreadas formaciones geológicas rojas debido a la erosión. En un nuevo parque de la ciudad, estatuas Wankas de piedra evocan la cultura de la antigua civilización Huanca.

El guerrero Wanka vivió entre los años 800 y 1400 después de Cristo (Huanca: o Wanka) Waaka Michiq (o: Huanca Quechua: original) He viajado por todas partes en el Valle del Mantaro, y éste es fuera de toda descripción, su belleza y sus vistas espectaculares desde la cima de las montañas cercanas. Hasta entonces, era natural (mientras que el tiempo progresaba) para los Wankas tratar sus diferencias hablando, no siempre peleando entre ellos, lo cual ellos lo hacían bastante; así, repito, lo que usualmente seguía era la conversación (ya que todos ellos eran vecinos de todos modos): conversación significaba: "Kawagley", o cantar, bailar, o tocar, como lo hacen hoy.

El Wanka amaba la tierra ((En el idioma Quechua, la palabra pacha es usada para describir a la tierra)(o allpa, que quiere decir suelo o tierra; y Urqu Pacha, se refiere al mundo de los muertos))


Los Wankas Continuaron

Hay que recordar que en el mundo de Los Wankas, o en particular, el mundo Andino, nada es finito. La vida y la muerte son como el agua, una necesidad, y parte de la creación. Pachayachachi (vivir en esta tierra, fue una parte de su filosofía), hay que aceptar el proceso normal de vida y muerte, no sea que él sea atormentado su vida entera con desconcierto.

GUERRA: No sé de ninguna palabra específica para Guerra, en Quechua, o en el diccionario Wanka: la palabra: awqatinkuy, significa luchar, que es bastante cercana. O wañuchina kushunchu, que quiere decir causar la muerte. Tomando esto a un más nivel personal: la palabra “guerrero” en Yupiaq; así, un guerrero es llamado: el nombre de un guerrero es decir, es anguyagta.

El Guerrero usó: arcos, flechas, arpones, lanzas, tiradores, kayaks, y vivía en pueblos. Ellos tenían una casa de la comunidad para hablar cosas abiertamente; y a menudo ellos luchaban entre ellos mismos, como lo dije antes. Ellos también jugaban juegos, juegos de habilidad, cosas así. Había quizás un período de tiempo en que los Wankas intentaron psicológicamente—así como espiritualmente—en un acercamiento, acordando formas para abolir la guerra entre ellos, o entre los de su propia clase. Hoy en día hay bailes en cambio, como vemos; así, sostienen juntos la cultura e idioma, sus esfuerzos de revitalización, podrías decir.

Hacer la guerra: El enfoque de esta historia no está tanto sobre cómo hacer guerra, o la capacidad para hacer guerra, sino más bien sobre la capacidad de mirar la guerra, para reflejar las acciones individuales y las acciones del pueblo (hay siempre un conglomerado de cierta clase involucrado; y muchas partes de los dolores que acompañan a la guerra)—en este caso, usando herramientas como armas para matarse el uno al otro; y veremos que es más que un grito de batalla oído a través de un río, sino un recorrido. Como vemos hoy día en el Valle del Mantaro de Perú, la Armonía ha reemplazado a la guerra.

Debería ser notado, que el Guerrero Wanka era un individuo destacado e impresionante, con una expresión feroz y dientes deslumbrantes cuando estaba en batalla.

Los Wankas Hoy: Los Wankas hoy se parecen mucho a cualquier otro grupo de gente en muchas formas, ellos tienen sus problemas como: el alcoholismo, la violencia doméstica y suicidios en el ámbito de la comunidad. Y auto-gobernación y derechos educativos—ellos continúan buscando, en los niveles institucionales y políticos. No hay ninguna palabra para alcoholismo en el lenguaje Quechua, tampoco ninguna palabra para suicidio, por lo tanto, estos tuvieron que ser inventados durante el siglo XX y XXI ((podemos llamarlos: hatun wasi o yatray wasi)(la casa de aprendizaje))


Avance para el Poema:

Sobre la cima de la Montaña San Cristóbal, conocida de otra manera como la Montaña Catalina Wanka, reside una vieja ruina, Unishcoto, está quizás a 15,000 pies sobre el nivel del mar, o talvez más alto. Las viejas ruinas tienen 19 puestos, o cuartos de almacenaje. La ubicación exacta sería, en el Valle del Mantaro de Perú, más allá de Los Andes; metido, y encima de la ciudad pequeña, llamada San Jerónimo de Tunán. El río Mantaro está cerca, y si uno quiere subir la montaña, esto toma de dos a cuatro horas (o más), dependiendo de la condición física. Pero la vista desde la cima es abrumadora; tú no sólo ves la ciudad pequeña, sino el valle entero y sus montañas.

Las arcas de almacenaje fueron usadas para almacenar papas y otras verduras. Y mientras subes la montaña puedes ver—aquí y allí— los restos del proceso de cultivación que usaron hace mil años. Una vez el valle fue salpicado con pequeñas ruinas pero la agricultura ha destruido la mayor parte de ellas, junto con las lluvias, etcétera, etcétera; pero Unishcoto permanece, y es un tesoro para contemplar.



—Una Aventura Poética
El Camino a Unishcoto


Halcones sobre el Valle
(Una Introducción al Guerrero Wanka)


Todos los hombres que viven por la guerra, presentan
Una especie de aspecto parecido a un halcón
(así como, una postura firme)
Él, cuyo cuerpo mostró fortaleza
Combinado con resistencia
Afeitado suave, rasgos siendo más
Del sol, que natural—
El fue el guerrero Wanka.

Sus ojos oscuros eran fríos;
Bajo sus pies, la tierra gimió.
Una vez le dijeron, “En las filas del
Guerrero Wanka, siempre hay un lugar”
(para un Guerrero de sable como él)

“¡Sí!” el Guerrero Wanka exclama
(con una voz elástica) “... pero ¿qué quieres decir?”
“Tú gritas en la tensión de la lucha
(batalla)—tú eliminas a tu enemigo”, dijo
el jefe, añadiendo, “tú eres rápido
Para enfadarte (hubo un instante de tensión sin aliento)”.


“Muy bien”, dijo el guerrero veterano,
“¡Busco un enemigo!”
“¿A quién?” Preguntó el jefe.
“¡A la plaga del Valle!”
“Tú sabes, este hombre es un general poderoso”
“Esto importa tan poco como si él fuera un
fabricante de ladrillos”, sostuvo el Guerrero Wanka.


((Pasaría otro año antes de que el Guerrero Wanka tomara el camino a casa desde su última gran batalla, El Camino a Unishcoto)

(Unishcoto, un modo familiar de deletrear las ruinas, puede y ha sido escrito de diferentes formas, por ejemplo: con dos palabras y una “k”: Unish koto, y/o con un "H" Unishcoto))




Primera Facción
[1 a 4]


El Guerrero



1
El Guerrero

Nací en el Valle del Mantaro
Vine de la antigua reserva Wanka—
Raza cuyas características
Fueron inclinadas hacia la violencia—guerra
¡Combatimos el uno contra el otro …!

En la región de montaña—viví
Un valle lo rodea, es dónde pasé
Mi niñez, ¡una competencia física era esto!
Aunque todo un aliento de vida para mí …;
Una vida agitada, así, me hice un guerrero.


Hay que entender los riesgos,
Las incertidumbres como guerrero;
Debes ser completamente intrépido, salvaje,
Primitivo, y eso me hice, yo fui:
¡Todo esto, frío, extraño, y más!



2
La Espada

Como guerrero, no podía esperar nada,
Sólo furor de mis músculos adoloridos:
Apretados, nudillos pelados abiertos, adoloridos;
Mirando fijamente hacia abajo a mis víctimas, fatalidad:
Mi asesina espada afilada en su punto.

Aprendí muerte en mil formas
Y debido a esto, estaba en parte muerto.
En mi vida, en este momento, sólo puedo responder:
Acción violenta constante: ¡impone!...
¡Simplificarlo demasiado, y ahora muero …!



3
Capturado

Fui capturado una vez y abandonado a morir
Mi esposa ((pero no lo era entonces) (no la nombraré))
Hurgó en vano a mis pies: ¡Había sido
Físicamente torturado, ella me sostuvo derecho
Ella gritó, y rezó y lloró …!

Inútil, pero ella tenía compasión de mí
Y ahora ella esperaba en vano, esperando …
Retorciendo sus manos, sabiendo que yo estaba bien
No más un escudo, así, yo era libre para:
Luchar otra vez; alguien vio a tal mujer [¿?]

Tú dirás quizás: … no es imposible
Para un hombre como yo, enamorarse—
Ella era de verdad una llama deslumbrante,
Un sonido ensordecedor en mi pecho—
Un sonido que nunca podría ponerlo a descansar.

Durante mucho tiempo estaba sin sentido, sin vida,
Deseando, pero curándome en mi sueño, amar,
Nunca realmente esperando encontrarlo, aunque:
Una vez encontrado, ella trastornó mi vida …
Pero, de algún modo, nos hicimos uno.



4
El Vencido

Siempre pensé que volvería a ella
Mi pequeña flor amarilla de la montaña
“¡Volveré!”, pronuncié … Liberada
Pero vencida matanza manchada de sangre...
Ellas no hacen favores a nadie.

En mi mente mientras vine a ella—
Pude visualizar, a través de mis ojos
Sus rasgos brillando, flotando;
Es pero ahora, una visión trascendental
Aunque extrañamente familiar mientras camino …



5—Interludio
Sombras de Muerte

Como en cualquier guerra, él encontró su imaginación encima de la muerte, sus ojos tratando de cerrarse (de la agonía, de la niebla, de los muertos que ahora yacían detrás de él, —apoyándose en (lo que podía), hacia adelante y silenciosamente él avanzó: ¡él intentó y trató de borrar de su memoria, la batalla, la sangre, la penumbra, aunque él recordó todas las formas, sombras y colores de las sombras de destino... su parte en la vida!)

Rígidos en sus formas de molde, valientes y fríos, caras inmortales encogiéndose: ¡él se alejó de ellos…sacudió su cabeza, mantuvo sus ojos hacia adelante!
Él llamó a esto rendición sin esperanza; él tendría que aprender a ser duro, ya que el mundo no podía permitir a un guerrero con afecto verdadero ((afligido estaría en la batalla)( pero él venía a casa))

En su viaje de vuelta, él perdió toda noción del tiempo, pies muertos caminando, lentamente, él cerró sus manos, un gruñido en su cara: de una u otra forma, él venía a casa hacia su esposa.

Sus facciones mostraron—dientes, caras blancas descoloridas: incapaz de más movimiento, él emitió sonidos raros ((moviendo su cabeza de arriba a abajo) (él estaba muriendo)). Su aliento silbó casi igual que el viento, mientras él recordó, todos los olores de muerte: mudo, él se hundió dentro, en un silencio de crudeza, aunque él siguió caminando, hablando, gimiendo.


Segunda Facción
[Parte 1 a 5]


La Gran Batalla Wanka


—Parte Uno
Por los Dientes de la Luna

Cuatro mil guerreros combatieron esta noche
Dos mil guerreros Wankas morirían
A lo largo del Río Mantaro, en el Valle
Y ellos tenían iguales armas y todo
Y muchos de los guerreros estaban ocultos.

En ambos lados del Río estaban los Wankas
Los huancaínos y yo (los antiguos)
Nosotros, mantuvimos nuestros fuegos y espíritus incesantes,
Pero con escasa ventaja, ya que todos sabíamos que
Lentamente el enemigo, el adversario se acerca sigilosamente más cerca...

Más cerca y más cerca ellos se acercaron sigilosamente por precisión
Al borde del Río—espiando ellos vinieron
Ocultos en las zanjas a lo largo del Río y árboles
Sosteniendo sus posiciones, esperando, sólo esperando:
En conclusión—, esperando borrarnos.

Terrible sufrimiento, en los vientos fríos
Habría sido una locura nadar
Cruzar el Río de noche, pero lo hicimos
¡Terrible sufrimiento de los vientos fríos
Despacio nos acercamos sigilosamente más cerca de ellos...!

Así, cruzamos el Río de noche con
Sólo los dientes de la luna por luz,
Arqueando abajo ahora en tierra
Espadas azules en nuestros lados—decididas
Formas extrañas, lanzas en nuestros muslos.



—Parte Dos
Batalla a lo Largo del Río


Una vez en tierra nos apresuramos al campo
En medio de fuegos, perros y gatos …
Oí voces vagamente familiares:
“Entonces acuchillé cabezas—ellas rodaron
Con muecas abajo de la colina hacia el fango—”;

¡Jadeando, manchados de sangre, caras enfurecidas
Guiados sólo—por los dientes de la luna—
Ojos ardientes, hurgando en nuestra prisa,
“¡Atrás!” Oí a alguien decir—
¡Al instante mis oídos oyeron un rugido distante!

Los golpes de porras rechinaron—
Flechas de Fuego, chamuscaron mi pelo,
Yo era el último guerrero Wanka en morir:
En esta guerra caótica; ciegamente luchamos
Algunos cuerpos humeando—calcinados …

Vi los restos de mis compañeros
No había escape; ¡ninguno! Ninguno en absoluto.
¡Caminamos dentro de un camino devorante—
Yo y sólo yo, escapé hacia el Río …
Por los dientes, y la cara de la luna!

Corrí a través de la oscuridad del agua—
Sospecho, que estaba confundido, musitando:
La luna errática, balanceándose arriba mío
Entonces alcancé el Río de mi lado—
¡Allí estaba el espía en el hueco del tronco...!



—Parte Tres
En Medio de la Batalla

En medio de la batalla Wanka
Densa congregación de cuerpos Wankas
Todos nosotros luchábamos como demonios
La batalla estaba un su punto muerto jadeante
Ellos no podían empujarnos atrás …

¡Acuchillamos, amontonamos alto sus cuerpos
Entonces cuando estábamos agotados, ellos
Vinieron con todas sus fuerzas—mano a mano
Los hombres tropezaban entre los muertos—
Carne y sangre, y rugidos ensordecedores!...

¡Guerreros Wankas—estábamos por todas partes
Cada uno enfurecido a un frenesí (oculto)
Ellos—nuestros hermanos enemigos Wankas,
Ellos estaban ocultos en árboles, troncos, zanjas
Tumulto desesperado, cedimos el paso!...

La batalla se desplegó, por todas partes
Del campamento, y abajo hacia el Río,
Pies pisando fuerte, gritos—con acero azul
Mano a mano, vino la venganza:
¡Todos los enemigos en el mismo Valle y Río ...!



—Parte Cuatro
Muerte (en Medio de la Agonía)


Continuamos muriendo como langostas,
Éramos muchos en la batalla
Tantos que no podíamos extender nuestros brazos,
Y cuando lo intentamos, nuestras: amplias, alas rotas
Continuaron luchando (con brazos y rodillas rotos, Continuamos luchando); por consiguiente, fuimos Pagados—morimos en dolor, en agonía.

Roja, sangre roja fue el pago—
No podía apiadarme de ellos, ni ellos de nosotros…:
La vista de la batalla nos aturdió a todos nosotros
Algunos agachados en terror, y yo, yo—
¡Estaba en medio de la dolorosa Agonía!...

¡Cortando y acuchillando—guerreros!
Evité golpes por casualidad—de algún modo;
Acuchillé y corté, en mi camino hacia el Río
Nadé rápidamente por las corrientes
Mis miembros de bronce contra los diques;

Ahora a través del Río, deslumbrante ante mí—
Encontré un camino, donde el viento sopla…
El domo de la luna—destrozado
En la media luz: ¡mis miembros de bronce
Aplastados, con dolor y ahora la lluvia …!

Oí en la distancia, pulmones de hierro de los Wankas,
Y pies golpeando como tambores triunfantes—
Ellos dijeron, “Conquistamos a los tontos”, aunque
Ellos, así como nosotros, son del Valle—también,
Y algún día ellos serán conquistados también.



—Parte Cinco
Paredes de Piedra


¡De este pasado frenesí catastrófico
Que ocurrió un día atrás—
La muerte de gente gritando,
Trajo a mi memoria paredes aplastantes
Un rugido horroroso a través de todo esto …!

Tú piensas antes de una batalla, y durante:
Tu cuerpo puede explotar por todo ello;
Cuántos cayeron ayer, no lo sé
Pero yo fui el único que escapó—
A través del río, por el flujo del río.

Lo que esperé encontrar o ganar con la guerra
Es diferente que lo que encontré—
Como monstruos ciegos y tontos
Luchamos—una cegadora llama blanca
Envuelta en un olvido frenético.

Tú dirás, quizás todo esto fue en vano,
Mi única respuesta es que yo fui parte de ello;
Insensato como es, era, y será—:
¡Otra vez, después, uno se vuelve investido
En delirio, paralizado con ello …!



Después de la Batalla
(Partes seis y siete)



Interludio
(A: Después de la Batalla)

Ascensión


El camino (desde el Río) iba relativamente directo hacia la montaña, el guerrero Wanka se identificaba con ello, este doblaba hacia arriba y hacia la derecha ascendiendo bruscamente hacia la cima; parte del camino, sería fácil— él sabía , aunque doloroso, ya que él tenía sus heridas, como consecuencia, cuando él escalaba, él zigzagueaba su camino hacia la cima; asentado en la cima estaban las ruinas de sus antepasados, las antiguas arcas para almacenar las cosechas, y más allá de estas una pequeña casa de piedra, su casa.

Mientras él subía la montaña, aproximadamente 5000 pies hacia arriba, él no pensó en morir o en batallar (no aún de todas formas) ni en el transporte hacia arriba, sino en la pequeña casa de piedra, Unishcoto mismo, y él no quería olvidarla, este era su impulso.

Él alzó la vista (el campo detrás de él ahora), no podía verse la cima, todo ello parecía empinado, aunque él había subido esta cientos de veces antes, esta parecía como una cascada, lista para caer a torrentes encima de él, con rocas rotas y todo, como un océano de tierra.

Cada aliento que él tomó, era como el último resto de oxígeno respirable; las nubes de la noche eran lúgubres, éstas se movieron a través de la luna como olas arrastradas por el viento, parecían ceremoniales, ellas tenían formas de cadáveres estirados, con cuellos torcidos como personal de madera, manteniéndose juntos. (¿Por quién esperaba la muerte?)



—Parte Seis
Por el Farol de la Luna

Me esforcé ahora subiendo el lado de la sierra
El fondo del viejo riachuelo, detrás de mí ahora
Mi mente en un olvido fino—
Por fin yo vi, a lo lejos …
¡Una sombra parada en la oscuridad …!

Mientras caminaba hacia mi casa—, árboles
Y ramas cercanas surgieron delante de mí
De la oscuridad, calló el cielo borroso—;
Un perro comenzó a ladrar delante:
¡ Guiado sólo por el farol del cielo …!

Sentí un triste, sombrío, débil escalofrío
Mis heridas—le dijeron a mi cuerpo que este estaba muriendo
Desvaneciéndose entre los árboles vivos de la sierra;
El perro me oyó, ladró otra vez,
¡¡Su sombra tratando de escuchar, ¿quién es?!!

Mi esposa, miró fijamente en la oscuridad—
Yo la vi, oi su voz acortando mi camino
Ven por este camino, quise decir
Pero inmóvil me recosté, como una rama rota
De un árbol vivo yo era sólo un eco silencioso.


—Parte Siete
Yo Muero


¡Morí, y entré en un silencio condenado
Morí, y el silencio rápidamente murmulló
No era noche—ni día—todavía
Quise seguir el camino delante,
Tú sabes, el que conduce a mi casa!

Pero yo estaba muerto—entre los árboles vivos
La casa pareció saltar delante de mí
(una dimensión diferente quizás);
Entonces me encontré yo mismo al lado de ella—
Susurré su nombre—¡conmovedoramente!


Sus labios estaban fríos, o ¿eran los míos?
Ella probó fatalidad, destino terrible—no sabía
Su cabeza inclinada entre sus pechos;
Yo estaba ahora encima de ella: ella era tan valiente.
(Y yo morí, y ella se acostó)

Y pensé entonces, en los tiempos
En que ella y yo, nos mantuvimos el uno al otro—
Y nos tiraríamos en los prados,
Y silenciosamente en la oscuridad—ella
Me calentaría, y ella era suave.

( Pero de este destino fatal, no podía escaparme)



Interludio
(Última Matanza (o Batalla del Chacal))


(Últimos Pensamientos):

“Me recuerdo ahora—‘El Perro’ como lo llamábamos,
Estuvo allí en la neblina, cuando me topé con el:
Mis ojos en llamas en lucha con un viejo odio;
‘Él es el Chacal’, pensé, ahora en batalla—

El líder—el Chacal, lento como un buey, vino
Hacia mí—junté mis pies, debajo,
Salté, golpeé, esquilé por su cuello
Cuerdas: sangre fluyó de él, como Río.
Esta era mi última matanza. Salté sobre fuegos, rápido
—No perdí ningún tiempo, lo agarré por las rodillas,
Lo arrojé sobre mi cabeza—cómo la muerte es muerte,
Pensé. Después, salté apoyado, en mis pies:
Luego doblando bajo, como un cóndor grande, yo,
Yo aullé como el enemigo, como una manada de sabuesos,
Mientras los fuegos disminuyeron abajo.
Ahora la sangre del enemigo estaba en mi espada, pero yo estaba vivo—
Por el momento: como el viento que me sigue”.



—Parte Ocho
Primavera y Decaimiento

No había cosas íntimas en su cuarto, vacío—en el cuarto entero permanecía todavía—con un frío de desolación, la primavera había venido, con un cielo azul brillante, ella vio flores tiradas en la tierra, como si olvidadas …

—Ella caminó más adelante hasta el área boscosa, allí—atrofiado y muerto yacía su esposo. Aplastadas en sus dedos, flores, ella tocó su mano, ellas habían dejado una mancha ella notó; aunque asquerosamente, él olía: ¡apestaba con decaimiento—!

Seriamente, en el frío de la mañana, ella hizo una pausa (inclinándose sobre su cuerpo), irritablemente aliviada, y alarmada, su miedo y desconcierto se habían hecho realidad: luego tratando de recordar lo poco que ellos había hecho juntos, y su preocupación ahora terminada, ella suspiró un largo, muy largo suspiro.

Lo esencial de esto era bastante simple, ella nunca lo había entendido a él ni a la guerra, pero lo hizo hoy, esto significó—objetividad. Todo esto implicó—hay que ponerlo detrás de ellos, para mantenerse vivo, sobrevivir, aunque sobresaltada y curiosa—ella no entendió esto.

Ella se preguntó— “¿Qué son las palabras a esto?” no había nada que hacer [realizar, cumplir] salvo, la esperanza de un nuevo esposo, aunque esto le dio repugnancia, y pavor; ella tendría que confiar en un extraño (ella dejaría esto de lado por el momento)



—Parte Nueve (conclusión) Interludio
El Fantasma del Llanto


(Afligida) Ella estuvo inactiva por su chimenea, sus manos frías hasta los huesos—ella estuvo delante de esta, después giró hacia la ventana, allí ella pudo ver los árboles que se inclinaban, su corazón saltó un poco “Tú bromeas”, ella exclamó; una misteriosa configuración vino saltando a la ventana abierta del alféizar—, “idiota”, ella exclamó; la sombra pareció mirarla fijamente, con una paz bárbara.

Su cara mojada, se iluminó. “No lo hagas”, ella gritó, y entonces probó sus propias lágrimas—ella se aferró a la ventana, la sombra mostró la intensidad de sable “¿Me he vuelto loca?” ella se preguntó.

Ella había estado esperando que él viniera a casa, digo, que viniera a casa para siempre ((mucho tiempo atrás)( no de esta forma)), ella había esperado tanto—eso dijo ella en voz alta, “ … más largo que mil fuegos—en mi horno de piedra...” y quizás si ella no hubiera encontrado su cuerpo, ella habría esperado más tiempo. “¡No!”, ella contestó, “¡eso es hacerse ilusiones!” Esto es lo que es. “¿Qué?” ella dijo; una voz dijo, “...tú encontrarás a alguien muy pronto…” ella miró fija y silenciosamente (era como si la voz fuera molestosa)

Su barbilla ahora en sus palmas, mirando al fuego, “¡Tú no quieres!” Ella dijo “Seguramente por lo que tiene que ser”. Ella añadió, “Cualquier cosa que pienses, es porque eso es lo que quieres creer”.

Ella cogió una taza, bebió su contenido y se sentó atrás, su cara atractiva en la luz de la lumbre. Ella cerró la ventana, “La gente huele mal debido a las cosas que hacen”; ella dijo, “la corrupción viva, marca la carne, toda manchada”. Ella se sintió limpia hasta el hueso—entonces el fuego se apagó, mientras ella se durmió.

Ella murmuró “Él me dio su mitad, y la otra mitad, quizás la mejor mitad, él la cambió por la guerra—esa parte, que nunca la pude encontrar, hasta ahora.


Horno de Piedra

Al lado del horno de piedra—ella durmió
Una mujer bronceada, medio apenada
Su cara brillando con el calor
Y ojos oscuros corredizos; a sus
Pies un perro y cuatro cachorros,
Rasguñando y chocando—
Mientras ellos comían—su comida …
El fuego reflejaba: destellos de dientes;
La curiosidad había desaparecido—.

# 1453 (8-Sep-2006)


Ventana de Piedra

Afuera de su ventana de piedra
En el cielo ninguna estrella aparecía;
La tierra era una elevación desinflada;
El cielo estaba encorvado en su forma oscura;
Los árboles más allá, como fantasmas fríos;
Y la luna mostraba una luz fría
Como una luz cadavérica—ascendiendo; un frío
gris se filtró por las piedras.

En su escurridiza mente sin vida,
Ella dijo, “¿Cuánto tiempo debo llorar
a los muertos?” Como si suplicando en
Este silencio gris, porque este
Se disuelva rápidamente, y termine.

# 1454 (8-Sep-2006)



Después (Epitafio):


La Casa en Unishcoto


¡Llorar por el que fue tan fuerte para morir
A quien la guerra lo ha tomado al final!

Aflicción por su esposa que no canta más
Y por las ruinas llamadas Unishcoto—

Este fue él, que tenía un corazón ardiente
Y aliento heroico,

Cuyas armas están puestas, y colgadas
En la Casa por Unishcoto;

Este fue él, quien se hizo poderoso en guerra,
Pero la guerra de ella era de otra manera:

¡Así, llorar por el que fue tan fuerte en guerra
Cuya guerra es ahora, de la noche!



# 1451 7-Sep-2006: Nota: Unishcoto es una ruina sobre la cima de una de las montañas en el Valle del Mantaro de Perú.


# 1450 “El Camino a Unishcoto”, 6-Sep-2006 (Las primeras partes fueron escritas la primera y última semana de agosto, y las últimas partes fueron escritas la primera semana de septiembre del 2006) los dibujos también fueron hechos durante el mismo período.


▼


End Poem

Part Three: The Hidden Diary of Bin Laden and God (The Passerby)

Part Three: The Hidden Diary of Bin Laden and God (The Passerby)


Bin thinking: ‘Oh, Lord look at this mess, Bagdad is worse than I thought, I should have told Allah, I’d prefer Afghanistan, you know, my home away from home, here they are shooting up the place.’

(He looks up and sees rockets coming in every which way, like cats and dogs raining from the sky).

‘This is not my cup of tea (he adds), got to find some shields, some good Egyptians or those folks from Jordon will do.’

A Passerby: “Hay mister you look somewhat like that Laden guy, you know… (he hesitates to think of his first name, continues and says:), Laden, laden…!”

Bin Laden comments: “His first name idiot is Bin, Bin you got it?”

The Passerby: “Man, don’t get so uptight, he’s dead and gone, we’ve forgotten his brow long ago…brother!”

Bin: “What do you mean, forgot!”

The Passerby: “Dead is dead man, in Bagdad you get a lot of it, where you’ve been man, I mean, homey?”

Bin: “I’ve only been gone a few hours, or is it days, whatever, I mean whatever!”

The Passerby: “That’s not allowed if you’re a true infidel fighter like us here.”

Bin: “What is not allowed?”

The Passerby: “Saying ‘whatever,’ like those young punks in America…you got it— Laden look alike?”

Bin: “I’m not a look alike, I am the real thing, Bin Laden in the flesh.”

The Passerby: “I don’t think soooo…but if, then you should know better; plus playing Bin Laden is worse than playing Elvis, I suppose you’ll be playing him next?”

Bin: “I’m for real man, not like those Elvis imitators, I’m the real thing.”

The Passerby: “You’re the only thing naked around here; you should find some cloths (thinking he might have been hit by a flying piece of debris), you that poor brother? I mean, just go down to the Army surplus store, USA, style, and tell them you’re on there side, get the goodies, and run back here like hell, and I’ll find you a gun or two and we can kill some infidel for the almighty Allah, and if we get killed we can go to heaven have vino and girls all over the place, I’m kind of looking forward to that.”

Bin: “Homey, the last part of your scenario, is full of it, there is no such glory in heaven as in having vino and girls.”

The Passerby: “How do you know? Now I know you’re a spy, only spies say such things, they want to take all the goodies, like those damn Americans, they got enough over yonder, and I got to suffer here in Bagdad, and you tell me there is no such thing…what’s a man to do for a freebee?”

All of a sudden rocks hit a few feet away from the passerby, Bin looks this way and that way, every-which- way, and quickly moves to a safer area, under a nearby bridge. The Passerby is hit with scraps of metal, one deep in his side, and is begging for Bin to come back and help him.

The Passerby: “Come back please, please Bin and help me.”

Bin: “Sure, sure,” he hollers, “now you believe me call me Bin when you want something, sure, sure, like Saddam, you guys are all alike, when it come down to life and limb, you’ll say anything.”

The Passerby: “But Bin, I’m a brother Arab, come save me, we can kill more infidels for Allah.”

Bin thinks about this for a moment thinking: Allah might be watching, this is a good moment perhaps to put on a good show, if I save the coward, maybe he’ll send be back to heaven, and get me out of this mess… thus, Bin starts to move to save him…

God: “I see you Bin, you’ve got better things to do, don’t worry about him, I got his number up here, he’s was about do anyhow, a few days here or there doesn’t matter, he killed enough for his pass to the whore house, that really isn’t a whore house as you’ve learned…hee, hee!”


Bin: “Shoots…I mean crap…I mean, it’s a bad day, can’t fool the almighty, what was I thinking about. Sorry fellow, that voice you just heard was the Almighty, he said your number is up, so I can’t do a thing for you. Incidentally, you’ll find out in a moment that little extra goodie package we all thought was waiting for us in yonder is not waiting.”

I can’t describe what he is saying to Bin, but he is giving him the finger in four differed geometrical designs.

1/21/2007 Humor

Part Two: The Hidden Diary of Bin Laden and God (Bagdad)

Part Two: The Hidden Diary of Bin Laden and God (Bagdad)

Bin: “Not sure if I like it down here, it’s getting a little hairy…especially Bagdad.”

Muhammad: “Harry is a Midwestern term, an infidels way of saying, ‘bad’, and we don’t use that word, ok Bin, I mean, I thought we saw eye to eye, I’m wondering?”

Bin: “Sorry, old fellow, too much of that cave TV carp, you know, Americanism, it’s everywhere.”

God listening: “You can say that again.”

Muhammad: “Yup, the big guy is watching, wants to make sure you do it right this time.”

Bin: “That’s kind of an insult, I mean, he’s had forever to do his thing, and I did more in one day to the Americans than he has in 200-years, what’s his beef?”

Muhammad: “Be careful he’s listening.”

God talking: “What’d you say, he says?”

Bin: “Is he pretending, I thought he could hear everything?”

Muhammad: “Move out of the sun, he gets a better echo from your voice in the shade.”

Bin: “Echo?”

Muhammad: “You’ve got a lot to learn, things are not exactly as you figured they’d be. In any case, God is waiting for your plans, what are they?

Bin: “What are they, I’ve only been here a few minutes, I’m not God, give me a few days to figure this out. I mean by all purposes, I should be in that damn tent with all the girls he promised for my good works, and some vino…you know, but here I am, in this mud trap going to do my duty again, for God and you, I mean, this is a hardship tour. I got to show these folks Allah raised me from the dead, like he did Christ, and perhaps they will follow me like before to their graves; I just need time to brainwash a few, and the rest will come. It is easy to fool the masses, I have a hard time with fooling the few though, and that is where I’ve got to start.”

God looking down: “So be it.”

Bin to Muhammad: “Is that all he’s got so say, ‘So be it.’ No question mark, not even a statement.”

Muhammad: “Who is to know God in his never-ending glory, he speaks, and we lesser beings try like the dickens to figure out his every motive and move, but we are but grasshoppers to him.”
Bin: “I’m getting the feeling I’m being used by him a bit, I think I want to be in that damn tent, it beats running around these tunnels and caves. I mean it is my turn.”

Muhammad: “Stop belly aching, and get down to business, we got a schedule to meet, I think. God has a lot of hope for you. And to be honest about the matter, vino in heaven is forbidden, we are you know, in no need of such things.”

Bin: “But here I’ve heard, and told everyone, and I think somewhere along the line, read, we’d have vino; I’m kind of hooked on it now, how about telling God to modify that rule?”

Muhammad: “If you drink it in heaven, you’d get no effect from it; just being in heaven is enough of an effect to satisfy you.”

Bin: “Then why did he promise girls and booze?”

Muhammad: “You got to read between the lines; he meant you will get drunk and high off his heavenly environment.”

Bin: “Well now you tell me, perhaps I better get some down here before I go back up there.”

Muhammad: “Remember you are killing for God, not suppose to be whoring around with girls and vino for yourself. What kind of hero do you want people to think you are?”

Bin went to say something else, and in the clap of an eye he was gone, I think a little agitated at Bin, thus, here he was in the Middle of Bagdad, naked as a horse, trying to figure out which way was which…!

1/20/2007

The HIdden Diary of Bin Laden and God

The Hidden Diary of Bin Laden and God


Bin Laden died, and God stood in front of him, he said,
“Allah, the most High,” and Bin said, “Sir, it is I who has wished to serve you,” and Allah said, “Oh, I thought you thought it was the other way around, sorry for the mistake, how the heck you been, from what I’ve seen you’ve been quite busy?”
A little bashful, Bin said, “Doing your work God isn’t easy you know,” and God, “But it helps, I mean, I can’t do it all myself, now can I?” Bin thought about that for a moment, figured he’d leave that alone, it was a hard question (a loaded one perhaps), then commented in passing, “Is Muhammad around?”

“I can have him at your command, what is your wish?”
Said Bin in a sheepish way, “I wanted him to comment on the good job I’ve been doing down yonder way…”
Then all of a sudden, in the clap of an eye, Muhammad showed up, he was smiling, and Bin and He met eye to eye (I think they thought alike, and liked each other, you know, clicked), said Muhammad in a random echoing voice,
“I see you are carrying out my good works, I mean, killing as many infidels as possible: hee, hee,” he said adding, “I killed more folks than you, perhaps we can talk to the big guy, and see if you can go back down yonder, and catch up to me, I mean, you did well, but blood is blood, and Allah, likes all he can have, you know: in the name of God, we can do it, do it together, me from up here, and you down there.”
“Do you think another 9/11 will do the trick?” Mohammed looked at Bin, smiled, and behind him was God, who was looking up in the sky as if he didn’t hear a thing, but he was smiling nonetheless, said Muhammad,
“Yes, that might satisfy the big guy, but how about a bigger bang for the buck, you know, we’ll supply the oil revenue through Iran or Syria, God has a few friends left there (the PLO and Hama’s gorillas can assist), and we can get a few more jets to line up, and a few more Arabs to give up their lives for the holy honor of sticking it to America and perhaps Europe, and why not add a few of our enemies in the Middle East that have been a bit cheap lately with their revenues.”
And so it was, Bin was given a second chance to make good, and I think he is almost ready….

1/20/2007 Humor

The Lair (Part II))3-9: Poems, Humor & "On Poetry's Form"

3) Lies and Love

Life and good life and then
From the first element, to the end
I few like a Vampires heated blood
And fire reeked from my eyes
And all my deeds and words,
Died as I was judged—
On Lies and love…!

#1512 (1/16/2007)


4) Bereaved

We take death reduce it in size
Call it a penniless spinster
(then look for the prize):
No, that’s only somewhat it,
It is more like Fried Chicken,
Tightly kept in a shoe box,
Checking out, or trying to—
Where the devilled eggs were left.
Oh yes, the black Veil is lifted,
Thrown into a fire of resistance:
Then we eat a piece of chocolate,
And go to bed, senseless.

#1613 (1/15-16/2007)



5) Youthful Ignorance

The only crime for a boy at ten (claiming innocence) is he acquired the appetite, but not the means to devour it. Some call it ignorance; I call it the lack of desire for the fruits he will pluck later.

#1612 (1/15/2007)


6) Song of the Beast


“Satan! Satan is forth! Hark to his rippling-voice!
The blood that drips to Hell makes crimson his hands.
Satan is forth upon the light! Brother, think twice!
A demon has loosed the beast whose sword is sharp on the
land!”

#1624 1/19/2007



7) Held Breath

God said one day, he whisper it, to be exact, in fear His voice would echo, and cause too many earthly disruptions, He said plainly and clearly,
“There will be no more Free will.”
And the world held their breath, I remember the day quite well, a little after five, sundown had yet to come. But the day was finished—; nonetheless, the world held an empty silence. It was too late now, He had already chosen, elected, pushed (you could say) pottage on us, we the world, so someone said.
I thought: hadn’t someone seen this coming? (Foreseen, that is). Oh well, it is case of the blind leading the blind I suppose. Anyhow, this weakness of humanity I felt had gave God too much evil, corruption for God to stop it—so abruptly now (or even give it forgiveness): I mean: why not let us destroy ourselves, we’re doing a good enough job of it, it shan’t take all that much longer. So I told myself anyhow.
In any case, it was a fair gamble, He’d keep his word, He said:
“You had failed Me.”
He whispered that also, thank goodness. His whispers, I’ll let you know, are not all that calming, they vibrate the spine to a point you become paralyze, can you imagine if He yelled—God forbid. He used the word ‘had,’ I would have preferred ‘have,’ in that the latter is less fermenting, sounding.
I heard someone say, and it wasn’t me, I dare say,
“What did you expect?”
I thought it was a good question though.
He said (and I must now paraphrase it, because I was kind of ducking if not down right hiding behind a large, very large tree: it will be like a dream , and you will all suddenly wake up tomorrow, and be saved (and safe).
I thought that was a pretty good deal, then I heard a horde of voices screaming, yelling, and all that kind of stuff, “Let’s vote on this!”



1/18/2007, Lima, Peru (Humor)




8) Non-Virtue
(A sketch—From the summer of 1960))
Dedicated to Mike Siluk))


“Hurry up, come here!” He said.
My brother, Mike, was smoking in the backyard underneath some bushes afraid mother would see him, thus hiding somewhat, and he spotted me, or I him, I can’t remember fully who got the first glance, but we were seeing eye to eye now, so I leaned down and got closer to those bushes, and sure enough it was Mike, smoking a cigarette, if I had any doubts before, I had none now.
He was shifting that cigarette like car gears, between his mouth and hand, and back again. Perhaps that is where he got his name later, “Gunner,”
I couldn’t say for sure, but I think he used to gun his cars, you know, accelerate it like puffing on a cigarette to get more juice out of it, before the big bang, before the car took off. I suppose it made it all that much more pleasurable.
The pantry was part of the kitchen, connecting anyhow, to one another, and mother would walk back and forth, she could see through the pantry window, the whole backyard, and that is why Mike singled with his hands, motioned that is (to me), to join him in his little crime scene. Ah, I was not wise back then, as you will see in a moment.
“All right,” he said, “take it quick,” as if that those were my initial intentions. I was not there to start a smoking habit, that would last twenty-years, but he slid the cigarette into my right hand, as if it belonged there. Teenager to teenager, a mutual crime was now born. At this point I was already saying to myself, ‘What am I doing,’ but I kept it in my hand, and slowly brought it to my mouth.
“All right,” he said smiling. He really didn’t need to say another word, I got the picture but he said something on this order: we are equally involved. And so I perhaps learned my first lesson in self-survival, or was it self-interest. If he was evil, it was I now, because my innocence was really simply waiting to be tested under fire, so it would have happened down the road of life I suppose, somewhere, had he not triggered my so called evil side. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame him, under the circumstances, as Mark Twain once said, and I learned that phrase of his, way to late in life, “A virtue is not a virtue until tested under fire.” I didn’t do very well, did I?

So what did I learn, and what is the premise of this little sketch? Perhaps, we can call it a virtue, or a good quality one has is really a non-virtue, until tested under fire, and usually we don’t even know it.


(Humor) 1/16/2007



8) Before Dawn In Bagdad

Fast the hours outside the noonday sun fall.
Afar on the sandy soil a vehicle goes by.
I know there is little hope, sun rains from the sky,
Yet that obscure heat is over most all,
Similar for hell, and men a momentous pall.
More distant now, an icy, mechanic cry
A signal and soldiers swirl and die,
And lines wait useless, for the trumpet’s call.

Now breaks the night on America and Bagdad
Over the torso of the world, they know
What now gleams from the recording snows!
(That page of Hell’s book that lays so clean!)
As, motive to the race’s huge mischance,
Yes, men die, for Liberty? That thou cry.


#1626 1/19/2007


Note: it doesn’t seem anyone knows were we are going with the war in Iraq. So much is involved, it is hard to sort out the future, not only of the Middle East, but America and the world, we are all stuck here together you know. Saddam is no longer part of the equation, nor has been for awhile. Like in Vietnam, my war (kind of), we see chaos not only in socio-political circles over this divider of souls, but on the streets of Bagdad, with our Commanders and theirs, long-term, short-term. Perhaps there are too many scavengers trapped into this horrific explosion, risky affair, perhaps I should call it, to come up our out with a proper solution to the problem (whatever the problem is and I’m no longer aware of what the problem is, we won the war, who says we got to stay?). Whatever, like in Vietnam, night and day, the solider, the one doing the fighting, and the one we pay to do our fighting, waits and perhaps evaluates: for liberty, who says that?

9) On Poetry’s Form

People get obsessed with structure, trying to choose the correct form you want to use in poetry; that others expect you to use; you must let go and blend one idea or event into the next, lest you lose the soul of it trying to fit it into something that never should have been.

When God created man, he began in the beginning and went to the end, He knew the whole in-between of that matter, he watched, and learned perhaps, man was all vanity, as he had perhaps learned from Lucifer prior to this (if indeed God can learn, and I think he can. He once said: “That never occurred to me…” He was referring to man’s demise, or depths he could fall in sin (a particular sin).

However, I use the above to support my idea here of folks being obsessed with structure to the point of loosing everything in-between. We are not God’s so we cannot go back and find what we threw away—what might have been. I think one of the secrets is, is to listen to your voice, the one speaking inside of you, you find the silence with no pretense inside that voice, this silence may provide you with—between the silence: the syllables, letters, words, rhyme, and other elements of poetry you may want to use, and it may not, but nonetheless, you got to record it as it comes, and don’t force it in to satisfy the neighbor.

"The Lair" (new poems by D.L. Siluk) : Night Song & The Barrier

The Lair

Poetry of Dennis L. Siluk

Here are Mr. Siluk’s new, and most vivid if into disturbing poems in a longtime; readers of “The Lair,” will see the unique and simple, if not genuine representation of life, and emotional tone in life, bittersweet, seep out: in it’s harsh but brilliance in these new poems. “Poetry,” as Dennis has said in the past (or one element of it) “…must hold no pretense within it, raw or not.” In a way, these poems read as if, he was a ghost.

Rosa Penaloza de Siluk




1) Night Song

Anger set in her going, like an over would watch
As the hospital tried to hide me
From my unwed mothers arms (in 1947)
And then I took my place among
The corrupt world.

There were no bands or relatives
Upon my arrive, I
Was just simple, and naked
Looking blindly at the walls;
Now in my mothers arms
Held tightly as the nurses frowned.


Note: #1610 (1-15-2007). One child had died that night in the hospital, on October 7, 1947, at St. Josephs Hospital, in St. Paul, Minnesota; hence, I was almost fed to a new family, had my mother fallen to sleep up a few minutes more.







2) Time Barrier

The word of a camel in heat,
is not mine, don’t believe it.
The word of a stranger might be
better than a friend, be on guard.

A mans self-interest, comes in like weather
sunny one moment, gray the next
(but usually stronger than friendship.)

People walk on cracked streets
no better than water falling off a leave.

On top of the mountain I found pretense
going down it I found self-interest
In the valley—I found the poor and dying…
Those that lived by self-righteousness

What barrier do you prefer? I asked myself,
(thinking: we all need friends).


#1611 91/15/2007)


Note: This will be up dated…