Character of the Poet; and Several Poems [in English and Spanish]

“Here are several poems by the international poet, Dennis Siluk, and a few thoughts on how he feels a poet should be available for the public to look at and into his poems and come out with a better view of the poet himself, and his thoughts.” Rosa Penaloza

To write poetry or to be a poet, one must allow others to know you (so I feel), that is, the poet does not hide part of his life in the corners for people to search for, it is in his poetry, or should be; like a painter, or musician. The poet need not be difficult to read, some try to be on purpose, I find it should just come out automatically and if need be, smooth it out later. One may find compassion, rowdiness, even savagery in poetry, be it a style or an emotion being displayed, in mine, it has its horns and tails likewise. I find instincts should be clear and forward: see the road you want to take with intensity to its end. These poems of mine are mostly fresh from my pen. I thought you might like a few thoughts to go along with them I have on poetry before I deliver it. Sincerely, Dennis

1)

Gras y Mala Hierba

En la fortaleza de sueños

Hombres viejos con planes maliciosos

Pusieron sus nombres,

Interminablemente,

Incuestionable–

En la atractiva cubierta de libros,

Lo imprimieron, para tener

Resonancia;

Hombres viejos con barbas largas,

Hombres jóvenes con pieles tan claras

Las sirenas de nuestros tiempos

Crímenes culturales…

El gras y la mala hierba

(Entonces, el soñador debería saber)

Todos crecen juntos bastante lento…

(Y terminan como este poema).

Grass and Weeds [English Version]

In the Parthian of dreams

Old men with evil schemes

Have placed their names,

Endlessly,

Indisputable–

In the attractive binding of books,

Ink on paper, for reverberating

Echoes;

Old men with long beards

Young men with skin so fair

The mermaids of our times

Cultural crimes…

The grass and the weeds

(So, the dreamer should know)

All grow together–quite slow…

(And end like this poem).

#473 [2/4/2005]

2)

El Demonio de Medianoche

Al demonio, no le encanta hablar

él prefiere caminar en silencio;

y mientras extiende sus manos por perdidos

él fija sus ojos en la presa.

Saltando se aleja, alrededor de la curva–

donde nadie, nunca ha estado;

allí, en el campo, él cavará

una tumba para enterar su cerdo nocturno.

El cava y cava, como un idiota

cruelmente, tácito.

Entonces, con grava en su escogido,

el arranca el corazón a través de sus costillas.

“Tonto humano…” el murmura despacio

y se sacude en su humano enemigo;

cuando en el campo [ahora] oscuro y desolado,

él canta a los–vientos macabros!

El salta y baila adelante y atrás,

Como beneficio de esta alma

Oh! Cuán inteligente uno debe ser,

Para evitar este demonio de medianoche (?)

The Midnight Ghoul [English Version]

The ghoul, he does not love to talk

he’d rather keep a silent walk;

and as he reaches out for strays

he locks his eyes on the prey.

Away he leaps, around the bend–

where no one else, has ever been;

there, in the field he will dig

a grave to bury his midnight pig.

He digs and digs, like a fool,

heartlessly, unspoken to.

Then, with gravel on his pick,

he plucks out the heart from his ribs.

“Silly human…” he murmurs low

and tosses in his human foe;

when in the field [now] dark and grim,

he chants to the–eldritch winds!

He leaps and dances to and fro,

as if to profit from this soul.

O! how much wiser must one be,

to avoid these ghouls at midnight…[?]

#478 [2/10/05] Inspired by George Sterling; the sketch of the Ghoul, was considered by many the best in this little book.

3)

Spanish Version

Aquí en el Café

Hoy muchos amigos se detuvieron para saludarme,

Aquí en el café; y hoy, mi tarde en esta vida

Tuvo una cara incansable.

Hoy todos morimos un poco,

Un día menos en nuestras vidas para vivir.

Cuántas tardes más tenemos para vivir?

Esta tarde una procesión de personas

Me pidieron un memento de mi tiempo.

–Mañana, talvez nadie vendrá;

talvez ni siquiera mí.

Here at the Café [English Version]

Today many friends stopped by to greet me,

here at the café; and today, my afternoon in this life

had a tireless face.

Today we have all died a little bit,

one day less in our lives to live.

How many afternoons do we have left?

This afternoon a procession of people

asked for a moment of my time.

–Tomorrow, maybe no one will come;

perhaps…not even me.

#480 [2/12/2005] Inspired by Cesar Vallejo; written at the Café B&N bookstore, Roseville, Minnesota, Har Mar Mal. Selected by the Café staff as the best of four of Mr. Siluk’s poems; to be put into a competition at the store Feb through April, 2005.

4)

El Pobre de Perú

Sólo hay una maldición, peor

que ser pobre,

y ésta es muerte…

cuando escuchas al pobre llorando

muerte esta cerca,

ninguna cosa, calmará esto

sólo llenando el cráter

con agua fresca

lo enfriará, y aminorará la lava correr.

The Poor of Peru [English Version]

There is only one curse, worse

than being poor,

and that is death…

when you hear the poor crying

death is close behind,

no daggers will quench it

only filling the crater

with fresh water

will cool, and slow the lava flow.

#482 [2/15/05]

5)

Spanish Version

Nudillos Mordidos

Sudor, orines y lágrimas

limpian el cuerpo de venenosos:

lástima, pesar y desesperación.

Knuckle Biting [English Version]

Sweat, urine and tears

cleans the body of poisonous:

pity, grief and despair.

#497 [2/15/2005]

6)

Lados Comúnes

Juventud tiene su edad

Y edad es orgullo;

Uno piensa que él sabe

El otro se pregunta por qué;

Pero Juventud y edad

Con ataduras separadas–

Tienen partes comunes:

Vida, muerte, y plan,

Y una esperanza en el pecho

Que nunca descansa

Common Sides [English Version]

Youth has its age

And age its pride;

One thinks he knows

The other thinks why;

But youth and age

With separate ties–

Have common sides:

Life, death, and quest,

And a hope chest

That never rests.

Note: this poem was found by the author after 25-years being misplaced [not so new off his pen]; written May, l981, and reviewed by Poetry North Review, Anchorage, Alaska by Dale A. Stirling, Editor/Publisher l980-86, Poetry North Review, his comments: “…very smooth and convey real feeling….” Author is unaware if it was published by any previous anthologies, but feels up to this writing it has not been published; consequently, the first time published in this set of poems. #82

7)

Kasbah de Tanger

[Viento Negro]

Caminé entre los entusiastas y abandonados–; Árabes y homosexuales y muchachos españoles; Comerciantes y extranjeros; esto fue una larga odisea, con un viento negro cerniéndose por lo alto, largo y helado toque todo encima de mi. Vientos negros encima de mi cabeza–filtrándose, filtrándose en todos sitios, dentro, adentro de Kasbah: un laberinto sin final; el espíritu de locura contenido por–; adictos inconscientes por todos sitios–; unos pocos -…sólo unos pocos hombres corteses, riéndose aquí y allá …éste fue un incesable día caluroso. Primero me sentí como, un torero; después, como un toro; después, al final del día, me sentí vacío como la plaza de toros…después que el toro ha sido sacado y matado!…pero qué tal aventura!

English Versión

Tanger’s Kasbah ((Casaba))

[Black wind]

I walked among the eager and neglected–; Arabs and queers and Spanish boys; Merchants and foreigners; it was a long odyssey, with a hovering black wind overhead, long and icy finger all over me. Black wind above my head–seeping, seeping everywhere, within, inside the Kasbah: a maze with no end; the spirit of madness contained by–unconscious…addicts everywhere–; a few,…just a few gracious men, laughing here and there…it was a hot unceasing day. I felt at first, akin to a bullfighter; then later on, like the bull; then, at the end of the day, I felt empty like the bullring after the bull has been dragged out and butchered!…but what an adventure!

Note: in l997 the author visited Tanger, Morocco, and got into a bit of a jam; found his way back to Spain in safely. [#490 2/19/2005]

General Ideas

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Nunc molestie ullamcorper volutpat. Praesent elementum auctor pellentesque.

 

 

 

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