“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]