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.
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.
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 9:37 AM
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