The Lost Millennium
[A short epic poem]
In a corner of the world
There was a land called Sumer
Whose waters once reached...
The Euphrates valley and the
Syrian Desert, its high plateau,
As a result, the mud of two northern streams
Created a delta, with a pitiless sun
But rich was the soil, as anywhere
On earth...and God created man
And man here made his home:
This was the beginning, diversified
By marshes and reed-beds,
Rivers flush with their banks...
After the Great Flood, retreating
Waters and cultivating took place.
Hence, into Sumer the giants of old
Went, degreed a civilization, among
The dark-haired people...sporadically
Circumstances would promote social unity.
And there was Susa, Musyan, Elam
And the Persian Gulf--Mesopotamia;
And Queen shub-ad created style, and
Pottery formed, and temples were born.
And kings came and left, like King
Gilgamesh; and thus came, gold vases,
And royal graves at UR, and the
Sumerian hymn and they hummed
To the gods; and the villagers wore
Garments of sheepskins, and molded
Clay figurines, roughly chipped
From crystal, they wore necklaces
Of this kind, and beads;
This was the lost millennium.
They thought somehow or another,
Virtue was a necessity for the gods, thus
Came sacrifices and the daily ritual,
And spells that bind, hoping to remain engaged
To keep their favor, feast-days came and went,
Animals killed like flies, barbarism, yet
It drew the gods, and mans moral judgment.
Prompt, the gods exercised their power,
And man then started to build statues
To their likeness,
And now human sacrifice found its way,
With magic from the dismembered angelic beings,
Those who gave birth to giant children, and
So it was, an unusual phenomenon came.
Astrology was born, Sumerians now ruled
The skies; astronomical knowledge came
From the gods, and the gods (angelic beings)
Came from the sky: ecclesiastical beings.
Mesopotamia came under Sumerian rule,
And Ur, Lagash and Nippur honored the
Moon-god, and then came more public works.
And it became the Sacred Way,
And the walls of the Ziggurat [Temples]
Were built, sanctuaries, with an inner court,
And doors decorated, narrow chambers,
The holy of holies, shrines, sacred vessels;
It was an unusual phenomenon...
This day and age...platforms, brickwork, statues
Gods and goddesses, oil-jars; a lost dynasty.
#1522 10/19/2006
Read Dennis Siluk’s poem “The Lost Millennium” featured in the magazine “Al Mashriq” a quarterly journal of the Middle East Studies, Volume 7, and Number 27 December 2008issue. ((Syria-Wide) (Centre for Research and Development))
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The Works: Reviews, Acknowledgements and Biography of the Author
The Works:
Reviews, Acknowledgements and Biography of the Author
Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
See the Spanish Version at end of English Version
Current Acknowledgements
Given to the author: Dennis L. Siluk:
“…you have been designated Godfather of… the National Newspaper of Peru (“The Voice of the People… is the Voice of God”)… in merit to your fine virtues and profession of service that you have shown throughout your exemplary life that everybody appreciates, admires, and exalts.” Director, Apolinario Mayta Inga & Manager Rivera Flores, October 7, 2009
“I received your book “Last Autumn and Winter”…. It's beautiful you have really captured Minnesota. And I love that it is in Spanish and English. … Thanks so much for sending this treasure to me Dennis.”
Gail Weber, Editor and Owner of “Exploring Tosca”
A Minnesota cultural magazine (5-25-2010)
“…you have been designated Godfather of… the National Newspaper of Peru (“The Voice of the People… is the Voice of God”)… in merit to your fine virtues and profession of service that you have shown throughout your exemplary life that everybody appreciates, admires, and exalts.”
Director, Apolinario Mayta Inga & Manager Rivera Flores, October 7, 2009
One of Dennis’ books have been added to the World of Literature and Culture in Peru “Peruvian Poems (and other Poems)” in English and Spanish. 2009-2010
The Synergy Group Recommended Reading (April, 2010) pertaining to topics on Behavioral and Emotional Health, the book: “The Path to Sobriety…” by Dr. Dennis L. Siluk
Editor’s Picks: ‘exploring Tosca,’ a Minnesota, Cultural Magazine, winter 2010 Issue: Short Stories for Men and Women: “A Leaf and a Rose…” (and other stories) by award winning author Dennis Siluk is a perfect gift for scholar or non scholar—and especially for the world traveler.”
“Seems you can write your books faster than I can read them. I don't know how you do it. A poet, an artist and a writer - and much more I'm sure. I may have to have a wall in my office just dedicated to the genius of Dennis Siluk.” 2-18-2010 —Gail Weber, Editor, “Exploring Tosca”
Musical Work by Dennis L. Siluk, 1947: “The Journey Never Ends” (sound cassette): Registration Number/date: TXu000840061/1998-4-20. Edition: Rev. & add ed. 18-songs
†
Awarded the Prize Excellence: The Poet & Writer of 2006 by Corporacion de Prensa Autonoma (of the Mantaro Valley of Peru)
Awarded the National Prize of Peru by Antena Regional: The best of 2006 for promoting culture.
Poet Laureate of San Jeronimo de Tunan, Peru (2005); and the Mantaro Valley (8-2007) (Awarded the (Gold) Grand Cross of the City (2006))
Lic. Dennis L. Siluk, awarded a medal of merit, and diploma from the Journalists Professional Association of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment.
On November 26, 2007, Lic. Dennis L. Siluk was nominated, Poet Laureate of Cerro de Pasco and received recognition as an Illustrious Visitor of the Cities of Cerro de Pasco, and Huayllay, Peru.
“Union Mathematic School” (Huancayo, Peru), Honor to the Merit to: Lic. Dennis Lee Siluk Ed.D. (Awarded) Poet and Writer Excellence of 2007, for contributing to the culture and regional identity, Huancayo. December 1, 2007, Signed: Pedro Guillen, Director.
The Sociologists Professional Association of Peru, Central Region, granted to Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk, Writer Laureate for his professional contribution in the social interaction of the towns and rescue of their identity. Huancayo December 6, 2007 —Lic. Juan Condori –Senior Member of the Sociologists Professional Association.
The Association of Broadcasters of the Central Region of Peru, nominated Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk Honorary Member for his works done on the Central Region of Peru; in addition, the Mayor of Huancayo, Freddy Arana Velarde, gave Dr. Siluk, ‘Reconocimiento de Honor,’ and ‘Illustrious Personage…’ status (December, 2007).
The Peruvian North American Cultural Institute granted to Dr. Siluk a “Diploma of Honor” for his important contribution to the propagation of the cultural Andean values. Huancayo – Perú, December 28, 2007. Signed: Director of Culture: Diana V. Casas R. and President of the Directive Board: Alfonso Velit Nunez.
Diploma of Recognition, awarded to Dennis Siluk, Poet Laureate, by the Editor Jose Arrieta, of the magazine, “Destacados,” Sept, 2008, for “Heroic Enterprising and contribution in development of the economic, social educational and cultural Region of Junin, Peru (in, 2007)”.
Awarded “Honorary Member” of the Journalists Professional Association of Peru (The Journalists Professional Association of Peru granted Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk Honorary Membership and authorizes him to practice the profession in the Peruvian territory. Lima, October 1st, 2008)
Radio Acknowledgement: many of these poems were read on live radio from, Mr. Dennis Siluk’s Radio Program in Huancayo, “Poetry Moment,” on FM 89.5, University Radio, on Tuesdays and Thursdays (12:20 PM), in the months of October and November 2007, in Huancayo, Peru. Hosted by Eduardo Cardenas, and read in Spanish by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and in English by Dennis L. Siluk.
The Council (ruling body) of the Continental University, of Huancayo, Peru, congratulates and recognizes Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk for his abundant intellectual contribution (with his writings), permitting the Mantaro Valley’s attributes to be known worldwide. November, 27, 2008 (Resolution No. 309-2008 CU/UCCI-2008, signed by the president, Director and Assessor.
Acknowledgment from the National Institute of Culture of District of Villa Rica, Oxapampa, Pasco, Peru, given to Dennis Lee Siluk, for his participation in the Literature “Nuestras Voces,” in conjunction with the 64th Anniversary of the District, 29 November of 2008.
Diploma given to Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk, as Writer and Talent of the Poetry of the year 2007, by Antena Regional (Edición de Premiación Anual de Costa, Sierra y Selva).
♦
(Special Karate Notes): Dr. Dennis L. Siluk studied Karate under three renowned karate masters during the 1960s, between 1967 and ‘68, under Charles Iverson (of Minnesota), who was considered one of the two main Black Belt Masters, in 1960, to bring forth the new American karate style called: “Shorei-Ryu (in part, taken out of the older Japanese style, Goju Ryu, as indicated in the Black Belt Magazine, page 54, June, 1977 issue). Then in 1968, and ’69, moving to San Francisco for a year, Siluk studied under the great master, Gosei Yamaguchi, of Goju-Kai Karate (whom Bruce Lee, had met, and considered more than his equal), at which time Siluk demonstrated his skills to the legendary karate master “The Cat” Gogen Yamauchi, and became moderate friends with Gogen, touring San Francisco with him. Thereafter, in 2002, he wrote the book “Romancing San Francisco,” describing his times in San Francisco, and at the Goju-Kai Karate-Do (and its 1968, All International Championship, where he was the appointed and main photographer).
Older Reviews and Acknowledgments
“…I liked your poem [‘The Bear-men of Qolqepunku’] very much. It is a very poignant piece.”
Aalia Wayfare
Researcher on the Practices
Of the Ukukus
***
“I just received your book ‘Spell of the Andes,’ and I like it a lot.’
—Luis Guillermo Guedes, Director
Of the Ricardo Palma Museum-House
In Lima, Peru [July, 2005]
***
“The Original title of the book Dennis L. Siluk presents is ‘Spell of the Andes’ which poems and stories were inspired by various places of our region and can be read in English and Spanish. The book divided in two parts presents the poems that evoked the Mantaro Valley, La Laguna de Paca…Miraflores, among other places. The book is dedicated to ‘the beautiful city of Huancayo’…”
By: Marissa Cardenas, Correo Newspaper,
Huancayo, Peru [7/9/05]
Translated into English by Rosa Peñaloza.
***
Mr. Siluk’s writings, in particular the book: ‘Islam, in Search of Satan’s Rib,’ induced a letter from Arial Sharon, Prime Minister of Israel, along with a signed picture. [2004]
***
“You’re a Master of the written world.” [Reference to the book: ‘Death on Demand’]
—Benjamin Szumskyj,
Editor of SSWFT-magazine out of Australia [2005]
***
A poetic Children’s tale “The Tale of Willy, the Humpback Whale” 1982 Pulitzer Prize entry, with favorable comments sent back by the committee.
***
“Dennis is a prolific and passionate writer.”
—Matt James,
Editor of ‘useless.knowledge,’ Magazine [2005]
***
“The Other Door,”…by Dennis L. Siluk…This is a collection of some 45 poems written…over a 20-year period in many parts of the world. Siluk has traveled widely in this country and Europe and some of the poems reflect his impressions of places he has visited. All of them have a philosophical turn. Scattered through the poems—some long, some only three lines—are lyrical lines and interesting descriptions. Siluk illustrated the book with his own pen and ink drawings.” —St. Paul Pioneer Press [1981)
***
“Your stories are wonderful little vignettes of immigrant life….”
“… (The Little Russian Twins) it is affecting….”
—Sibyl-Child (a women’s art and culture journal) by Nancy Protun, Hyattsville, Md.; published by the Little Peoples’ Press, 1983
***
“The Other Door, by Dennis L. Siluk-62pp. $5….both stirring and mystical….”
—C.S.P. World News [1983]
***
“For those who enjoy poetry…The Other Door, offers an illustrated collection…Reflecting upon memories of his youth, Siluk depicts his old neighborhood of the 1960’s…Siluk…reflects upon his travels in poems like: ‘Bavaria’s Harvest’ (Augsburg, Germany and ‘Venice in April.’’’
—Evergreen Press
St. Paul, Minnesota [1982]
***
“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”
—The Sunday Forum
Fargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]
***
“Dennis Siluk, a St. Paul native…is the author of a recently released book of poetry called The Other Door….The 34-year old outspoken poet was born and reared in St. Paul. The Other Door has received positive reaction from the public and various publications. One of the poems included in his book, ‘Donkeyland-(A side Street Saga)’, is a reflection of Siluk’s memories…in what was once one of the highest crime areas in St. Paul.” [1983]
—Monitor
St. Paul, Minnesota
***
“This entertaining and heart-warming story …teaches a lesson, has all the necessary ingredients needed to make a warm, charming, refreshing children’s animated television movie or special.” [1983]
—Form: Producers
Report by Creative
Entertainment Systems;
West Hollywood, CA
Evaluation Editor
***
Review by:
Benjamin Szumskyj
Editor of SSWFT Magazine
Australia
“In the Pits of Hell, a Seed of Faith Grows”
"The Macabre Poems: and other selected Poems,"
"Siluk´s Atlantean poems are also well crafted, from the surreal...to the majestic...and convivial..." and the reviewer adds: "All up, Siluk, Siluk is a fine poet...His choice of topic and theme are compelling and he does not hold back in injecting his own personal thoughts and feelings directly into his prose, lyrics, odes and verse..."
To see the whole review, see:
http://calenture.fcpages.com/
Download #1... 1.1: September 2005
***
From the book, “Death on Demand,” by Mr. Siluk, says author:
E.J. Soltermann
Author of Healing from Terrorism, Fear and Global War:
"The DeadVault: A gripping tale that sucks you deep through human emotions and spits you out at the end as something better." (Feb. 2004)"
***
Note: The book: ‘The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,’ writes Pastor Naason Mulâtre, from the Church of Christ, Haiti, WI; “…I received…four books [The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon…]. My friend it’s wonderful, we are pleased of them. We are planning to do a study of them twice a month. With them we can have the capacity to learn about the Antichrist. I have read all the chapters. I have…new knowledge about how to resist and fight against this enemy. I understand how [the] devil is universal in his work against [the] church of Jesus-Christ. Thanks a lot for your effort to write a so good book or Christians around the world.” [2002]
***
Notes: Mr. Siluk was the winner of the magazine competition by “The Eldritch Dark”; for most favored writer [contributor] for 2004 [with readership of some 2.2-million].
And received a letter of gratitude from President Bush for his many articles he published in the internet Magazine, “Useless-knowledge.com,” during his campaign for President, 2004 [1.2-million readership].
Still some of his work can be seen in the Internet Ezine Magazine, with a readership of some three-million. [2005, some 350 articles, poems and short stories]
Siluk’s poetic stories and poetry in general have been recently published by the Huancayo, Peru newspaper, Correo; and “Leaves,” an international literary magazine out of India. With favorable responses by the Editor.
Mr. Siluk has been to all the locations [or thereabouts] within his stories and poetry he writes; some 683,000-miles throughout the world.
His most recent book is, “The Spell of the Andes,” to be presented at the Ricardo Palma Museum-House in October, 2005, and recently reviewed in Peru and the United States.
Reviews, Acknowledgements and Biography of the Author
Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
See the Spanish Version at end of English Version
Current Acknowledgements
Given to the author: Dennis L. Siluk:
“…you have been designated Godfather of… the National Newspaper of Peru (“The Voice of the People… is the Voice of God”)… in merit to your fine virtues and profession of service that you have shown throughout your exemplary life that everybody appreciates, admires, and exalts.” Director, Apolinario Mayta Inga & Manager Rivera Flores, October 7, 2009
“I received your book “Last Autumn and Winter”…. It's beautiful you have really captured Minnesota. And I love that it is in Spanish and English. … Thanks so much for sending this treasure to me Dennis.”
Gail Weber, Editor and Owner of “Exploring Tosca”
A Minnesota cultural magazine (5-25-2010)
“…you have been designated Godfather of… the National Newspaper of Peru (“The Voice of the People… is the Voice of God”)… in merit to your fine virtues and profession of service that you have shown throughout your exemplary life that everybody appreciates, admires, and exalts.”
Director, Apolinario Mayta Inga & Manager Rivera Flores, October 7, 2009
One of Dennis’ books have been added to the World of Literature and Culture in Peru “Peruvian Poems (and other Poems)” in English and Spanish. 2009-2010
The Synergy Group Recommended Reading (April, 2010) pertaining to topics on Behavioral and Emotional Health, the book: “The Path to Sobriety…” by Dr. Dennis L. Siluk
Editor’s Picks: ‘exploring Tosca,’ a Minnesota, Cultural Magazine, winter 2010 Issue: Short Stories for Men and Women: “A Leaf and a Rose…” (and other stories) by award winning author Dennis Siluk is a perfect gift for scholar or non scholar—and especially for the world traveler.”
“Seems you can write your books faster than I can read them. I don't know how you do it. A poet, an artist and a writer - and much more I'm sure. I may have to have a wall in my office just dedicated to the genius of Dennis Siluk.” 2-18-2010 —Gail Weber, Editor, “Exploring Tosca”
Musical Work by Dennis L. Siluk, 1947: “The Journey Never Ends” (sound cassette): Registration Number/date: TXu000840061/1998-4-20. Edition: Rev. & add ed. 18-songs
†
Awarded the Prize Excellence: The Poet & Writer of 2006 by Corporacion de Prensa Autonoma (of the Mantaro Valley of Peru)
Awarded the National Prize of Peru by Antena Regional: The best of 2006 for promoting culture.
Poet Laureate of San Jeronimo de Tunan, Peru (2005); and the Mantaro Valley (8-2007) (Awarded the (Gold) Grand Cross of the City (2006))
Lic. Dennis L. Siluk, awarded a medal of merit, and diploma from the Journalists Professional Association of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment.
On November 26, 2007, Lic. Dennis L. Siluk was nominated, Poet Laureate of Cerro de Pasco and received recognition as an Illustrious Visitor of the Cities of Cerro de Pasco, and Huayllay, Peru.
“Union Mathematic School” (Huancayo, Peru), Honor to the Merit to: Lic. Dennis Lee Siluk Ed.D. (Awarded) Poet and Writer Excellence of 2007, for contributing to the culture and regional identity, Huancayo. December 1, 2007, Signed: Pedro Guillen, Director.
The Sociologists Professional Association of Peru, Central Region, granted to Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk, Writer Laureate for his professional contribution in the social interaction of the towns and rescue of their identity. Huancayo December 6, 2007 —Lic. Juan Condori –Senior Member of the Sociologists Professional Association.
The Association of Broadcasters of the Central Region of Peru, nominated Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk Honorary Member for his works done on the Central Region of Peru; in addition, the Mayor of Huancayo, Freddy Arana Velarde, gave Dr. Siluk, ‘Reconocimiento de Honor,’ and ‘Illustrious Personage…’ status (December, 2007).
The Peruvian North American Cultural Institute granted to Dr. Siluk a “Diploma of Honor” for his important contribution to the propagation of the cultural Andean values. Huancayo – Perú, December 28, 2007. Signed: Director of Culture: Diana V. Casas R. and President of the Directive Board: Alfonso Velit Nunez.
Diploma of Recognition, awarded to Dennis Siluk, Poet Laureate, by the Editor Jose Arrieta, of the magazine, “Destacados,” Sept, 2008, for “Heroic Enterprising and contribution in development of the economic, social educational and cultural Region of Junin, Peru (in, 2007)”.
Awarded “Honorary Member” of the Journalists Professional Association of Peru (The Journalists Professional Association of Peru granted Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk Honorary Membership and authorizes him to practice the profession in the Peruvian territory. Lima, October 1st, 2008)
Radio Acknowledgement: many of these poems were read on live radio from, Mr. Dennis Siluk’s Radio Program in Huancayo, “Poetry Moment,” on FM 89.5, University Radio, on Tuesdays and Thursdays (12:20 PM), in the months of October and November 2007, in Huancayo, Peru. Hosted by Eduardo Cardenas, and read in Spanish by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and in English by Dennis L. Siluk.
The Council (ruling body) of the Continental University, of Huancayo, Peru, congratulates and recognizes Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk for his abundant intellectual contribution (with his writings), permitting the Mantaro Valley’s attributes to be known worldwide. November, 27, 2008 (Resolution No. 309-2008 CU/UCCI-2008, signed by the president, Director and Assessor.
Acknowledgment from the National Institute of Culture of District of Villa Rica, Oxapampa, Pasco, Peru, given to Dennis Lee Siluk, for his participation in the Literature “Nuestras Voces,” in conjunction with the 64th Anniversary of the District, 29 November of 2008.
Diploma given to Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk, as Writer and Talent of the Poetry of the year 2007, by Antena Regional (Edición de Premiación Anual de Costa, Sierra y Selva).
♦
(Special Karate Notes): Dr. Dennis L. Siluk studied Karate under three renowned karate masters during the 1960s, between 1967 and ‘68, under Charles Iverson (of Minnesota), who was considered one of the two main Black Belt Masters, in 1960, to bring forth the new American karate style called: “Shorei-Ryu (in part, taken out of the older Japanese style, Goju Ryu, as indicated in the Black Belt Magazine, page 54, June, 1977 issue). Then in 1968, and ’69, moving to San Francisco for a year, Siluk studied under the great master, Gosei Yamaguchi, of Goju-Kai Karate (whom Bruce Lee, had met, and considered more than his equal), at which time Siluk demonstrated his skills to the legendary karate master “The Cat” Gogen Yamauchi, and became moderate friends with Gogen, touring San Francisco with him. Thereafter, in 2002, he wrote the book “Romancing San Francisco,” describing his times in San Francisco, and at the Goju-Kai Karate-Do (and its 1968, All International Championship, where he was the appointed and main photographer).
Older Reviews and Acknowledgments
“…I liked your poem [‘The Bear-men of Qolqepunku’] very much. It is a very poignant piece.”
Aalia Wayfare
Researcher on the Practices
Of the Ukukus
***
“I just received your book ‘Spell of the Andes,’ and I like it a lot.’
—Luis Guillermo Guedes, Director
Of the Ricardo Palma Museum-House
In Lima, Peru [July, 2005]
***
“The Original title of the book Dennis L. Siluk presents is ‘Spell of the Andes’ which poems and stories were inspired by various places of our region and can be read in English and Spanish. The book divided in two parts presents the poems that evoked the Mantaro Valley, La Laguna de Paca…Miraflores, among other places. The book is dedicated to ‘the beautiful city of Huancayo’…”
By: Marissa Cardenas, Correo Newspaper,
Huancayo, Peru [7/9/05]
Translated into English by Rosa Peñaloza.
***
Mr. Siluk’s writings, in particular the book: ‘Islam, in Search of Satan’s Rib,’ induced a letter from Arial Sharon, Prime Minister of Israel, along with a signed picture. [2004]
***
“You’re a Master of the written world.” [Reference to the book: ‘Death on Demand’]
—Benjamin Szumskyj,
Editor of SSWFT-magazine out of Australia [2005]
***
A poetic Children’s tale “The Tale of Willy, the Humpback Whale” 1982 Pulitzer Prize entry, with favorable comments sent back by the committee.
***
“Dennis is a prolific and passionate writer.”
—Matt James,
Editor of ‘useless.knowledge,’ Magazine [2005]
***
“The Other Door,”…by Dennis L. Siluk…This is a collection of some 45 poems written…over a 20-year period in many parts of the world. Siluk has traveled widely in this country and Europe and some of the poems reflect his impressions of places he has visited. All of them have a philosophical turn. Scattered through the poems—some long, some only three lines—are lyrical lines and interesting descriptions. Siluk illustrated the book with his own pen and ink drawings.” —St. Paul Pioneer Press [1981)
***
“Your stories are wonderful little vignettes of immigrant life….”
“… (The Little Russian Twins) it is affecting….”
—Sibyl-Child (a women’s art and culture journal) by Nancy Protun, Hyattsville, Md.; published by the Little Peoples’ Press, 1983
***
“The Other Door, by Dennis L. Siluk-62pp. $5….both stirring and mystical….”
—C.S.P. World News [1983]
***
“For those who enjoy poetry…The Other Door, offers an illustrated collection…Reflecting upon memories of his youth, Siluk depicts his old neighborhood of the 1960’s…Siluk…reflects upon his travels in poems like: ‘Bavaria’s Harvest’ (Augsburg, Germany and ‘Venice in April.’’’
—Evergreen Press
St. Paul, Minnesota [1982]
***
“Siluk publishes book; Siluk…formerly lived in North Dakota…”
—The Sunday Forum
Fargo-Moorhead, North Dakota [1982]
***
“Dennis Siluk, a St. Paul native…is the author of a recently released book of poetry called The Other Door….The 34-year old outspoken poet was born and reared in St. Paul. The Other Door has received positive reaction from the public and various publications. One of the poems included in his book, ‘Donkeyland-(A side Street Saga)’, is a reflection of Siluk’s memories…in what was once one of the highest crime areas in St. Paul.” [1983]
—Monitor
St. Paul, Minnesota
***
“This entertaining and heart-warming story …teaches a lesson, has all the necessary ingredients needed to make a warm, charming, refreshing children’s animated television movie or special.” [1983]
—Form: Producers
Report by Creative
Entertainment Systems;
West Hollywood, CA
Evaluation Editor
***
Review by:
Benjamin Szumskyj
Editor of SSWFT Magazine
Australia
“In the Pits of Hell, a Seed of Faith Grows”
"The Macabre Poems: and other selected Poems,"
"Siluk´s Atlantean poems are also well crafted, from the surreal...to the majestic...and convivial..." and the reviewer adds: "All up, Siluk, Siluk is a fine poet...His choice of topic and theme are compelling and he does not hold back in injecting his own personal thoughts and feelings directly into his prose, lyrics, odes and verse..."
To see the whole review, see:
http://calenture.fcpages.com/
Download #1... 1.1: September 2005
***
From the book, “Death on Demand,” by Mr. Siluk, says author:
E.J. Soltermann
Author of Healing from Terrorism, Fear and Global War:
"The DeadVault: A gripping tale that sucks you deep through human emotions and spits you out at the end as something better." (Feb. 2004)"
***
Note: The book: ‘The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon,’ writes Pastor Naason Mulâtre, from the Church of Christ, Haiti, WI; “…I received…four books [The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon…]. My friend it’s wonderful, we are pleased of them. We are planning to do a study of them twice a month. With them we can have the capacity to learn about the Antichrist. I have read all the chapters. I have…new knowledge about how to resist and fight against this enemy. I understand how [the] devil is universal in his work against [the] church of Jesus-Christ. Thanks a lot for your effort to write a so good book or Christians around the world.” [2002]
***
Notes: Mr. Siluk was the winner of the magazine competition by “The Eldritch Dark”; for most favored writer [contributor] for 2004 [with readership of some 2.2-million].
And received a letter of gratitude from President Bush for his many articles he published in the internet Magazine, “Useless-knowledge.com,” during his campaign for President, 2004 [1.2-million readership].
Still some of his work can be seen in the Internet Ezine Magazine, with a readership of some three-million. [2005, some 350 articles, poems and short stories]
Siluk’s poetic stories and poetry in general have been recently published by the Huancayo, Peru newspaper, Correo; and “Leaves,” an international literary magazine out of India. With favorable responses by the Editor.
Mr. Siluk has been to all the locations [or thereabouts] within his stories and poetry he writes; some 683,000-miles throughout the world.
His most recent book is, “The Spell of the Andes,” to be presented at the Ricardo Palma Museum-House in October, 2005, and recently reviewed in Peru and the United States.
English Version
Biography
(By Rosa Penaloza)
Dennis Lee Siluk, born on October 7, 1947, in Saint Paul, Minnesota, United States of America. His father was of Irish origins and his mother of Russian and Polish stock. Dennis grew up under the protection of his mother ((Elsie T. Siluk)(1920-2003)) and his grandfather ((Anton Siluk)(1891-1974)), of Russian birth that came to America in 1916, participated in the First World War (1918), in which he had to return to Europe for a year, then married Ella of Polish stock and settled in St. Paul. Dennis has one brother, Mike Siluk (October 8, 1945…).Since Dennis was a child he enjoyed poetry, and at the age of twelve wrote his first poem ‘Who,’ thereafter, a number of his poetry was published in his high school newspaper, while in journalism class, at Washington High School, in St. Paul, Minnesota (‘Beyond Time,’ and ‘Typing,’). Some of these early poems can be found in his first book, “The Other Door” (1981, now a classic and much sought after book). In 1965, at the age of 16-years old, he had won second place in the city of St. Paul, art competition (sponsored by the: Jaycees), at Washington High School. During this period between the ages of twelve and fourteen years old, he worked as a shoeshine boy, until he got his first real job at the World Theater, as an usher, and candy counter distributor.
At the age of twenty Dennis had already become a somewhat, seasoned traveler; he had traveled with an assortment of friends across the country, staying in Omaha, Nebraska, working across the river. Also he had traveled to Seattle Washington, living there in the Ballard District, working for a window frame company. Things did not work out for him, with his friends so he returned after a short visit, perhaps a month or so.
Dennis’ next trip was his first long trip in that he’d stay for a year; in 1968 he went to San Francisco where he learned Karate (Go Jo Rue) from the renowned Gosei Yamaguchi who became his protector also, during his stay in San Francisco and during this year he met on a personal level, Gogan, Gosei’s father known as, “The Cat,” here he studied and taught children the art of Karate, and was in one tournament.
At the age of twenty-two Dennis enter into the United States Army (participating in the Vietnam War in 1971, and receiving three medals of Accommodation, for his outstanding service, during these years, he became a Staff Sergeant (eight plus, years Active, and three years Inactive Reserve). During his tours of duty, his permanence in the Army assisted him in the financial burden for paying his college education, he attended the University of Maryland (1974-76) receiving his first degree in Behavioral Science; during this time he also attended Central Texas College (where he took only two courses). Thereafter, in Alabama, he continued his education at Troy State University, receiving his second degree, in Psychology and Literature. Thereafter, he attended the University of Minnesota (for Psychology, and Counseling), and Liberty University (doing studies in Theology), mostly graduate and post graduate work. Thereafter, Dennis received his License, in the State of Minnesota in counseling area, his expertise being in developmental psychology, and dual disorders, coupled with drugs and alcohol.
During the 1990s, for the most part (1988 to 2001) Dennis worked for private institutions, clinics, and likewise with the Bureau of Prison, while still writing. His first book, was published in 1981, his second in 1982 (during this time his poetry was being published by a Minneapolis Newspaper, along with some of his short stories in selected books by independent publishers. Thus, he stopped his professional career in June of 2001 because of an impending illness, and did just writing as he could, taking up much of his old unfinished manuscripts trying to smooth them out, along with his poetry.
During the 1990s Dennis became an ordained minister by the International Church of Jesus Christ, allowing him to evangelize to whoever asked at the same time he was doing his work as a Counselor.
In February 2000 he married a Peruvian lady, Rosa Peñaloza.
Dennis L. Siluk has traveled twenty-six times around the world. He has been to over sixty countries, and to forty-six states out of fifty of the United States. His most recent trips were in 2007, where he went to Iguaçu Falls on both sides, in Argentina, and Brazil (and would return there in March of 2010); he went to Cajamarca in Peru, and in 2006, and to the Panama Canal.
While he was doing all these activities, he continued writing articles on psychology, for a counseling magazine, along with his poems and short stories for such magazines as “Swiftt” a magazine out of Australia, and “Leaves” a magazine out of India, and “Caminos” in Peru. He has 41-websites, and has over 160,000-readers a month. His poems, articles, tales, etc., can be read on over 4000-websites, worldwide. He has recently edited and translated with his wife, Rosa, the poetry of Juan Parra del Riego, the most skilled poet Peru has ever produced in the past, the first time to be put into English, and now in the book “The Windmills.” His writings have been translated into five languages (Spanish, German, Japanese, Korean, Serbian, and of course in English).
Up to date, Dennis L. Siluk has written Forty-four books. A number of his books have been about the cultures, traditions and the ways of life in Peru, in English and Spanish. Because of that he had received acknowledgments and awards for his work done in Peru. He has produced 2600-poems, 625-short stories and tales, 1300-articles in addition to his books, and 18-chapbooks (several of these poetic children’s chapbooks were written in the 1980s between 1982 and 1984 and are rarely seen, if not almost extinct (and sold as classics on eBay). Some only one hundred copies were made.)
In 2005 Mr. Siluk was nominated The Poet Laureate of San Jeronimo de Tunan, Huancayo, Peru, and he has received diplomas of acknowledgment for his works on the Mantaro Valley of Peru by the University Los Andes. In 2006 he received the Grand Cross of the City of San Jeronimo de Tunan, also he had receive a diploma as the Best Writer of 2006 for promoting culture, given by Antena Regional; likewise he has receive a diploma of Excellence as the Poet and Writer of 2006, given by Corporation of Autonomous Press (in 2007); in a like manner he had received acknowledgment for his works on the Mantaro Valley of Peru by the National University of the Center of Peru, and by the Journalist School of Junin-Huancavelica of Peru. He also received two Columnist awards, 2004 and 2005, and one of his stories was elected story of the month for October, 2006, by ‘The English Magazine’.
In 2007, Mr. Siluk was nominated Poet Laureate of Cerro de Pasco, Perú; and Poet Laureate of the Mantaro Valley, Peru; he was also awarded Honorary Journalist by the Professional association of Journalists of Peru. He also got his Doctor degree in Arts and Education from Belford University of Texas, USA, due to his studies, experience, writings and published works.
His most recent work to be published sometime in 2010, is “The Cotton Belt,” Mr. Siluk had lived in the Cotton Belt of the United States in the 1960s and ‘70s. The other recent writings are those under the heading “Natural Writings,” which can be seen within the category of works by the author and poet.
Spanish Version
Biografía de Dennis Lee Siluk Ed.D.
(by Rosa Penaloza)
Dennis nació en 7 de Octubre de 1947 en San Pablo, Minnesota, Estados Unidos. Su padre fue Irlandés y su madre de origen Ruso y Polaco.
Desde niño a Dennis le gusta la poesía, a la edad de doce años escribió su primer poema “Quién”. Más tarde sus poesías serían publicadas en el periódico de su colegio, Washington High School, en San Pablo, Minnesota, Estados Unidos.
En 1965, a la edad de 16 años, Dennis ganó el segundo lugar en una competencia de Arte (Jaycees) en su colegio Washington High School en la ciudad de San Pablo, Minnesota.
A los veinte años, Dennis ya se había vuelto un tanto viajero, él había viajado con muchos amigos a través del país de Estados Unidos, yendo a Omaha-Nebraska, Seatle-Washington donde estuvo trabajando en una compañía que fabricaba marcos para ventanas.
En 1968 Dennis fue a San Francisco donde aprendió Karate (Go Jo Rue) con el famoso Gosei Yamaguchi quien fue su protector durante su estadía en esa ciudad. Durante ese año Dennis conoció a Gogan Yamaguchi, padre de Gosei Yamaguchi, famoso Karateka conocido como “El Gato”. Aquí Dennis aprendió Karate y enseñaba a los niños el arte de Karate, y participó en un campeonato.
A la edad de 22 años Dennis entró al servicio del Ejército Norteamericano (participando en la Guerra de Vietnam en 1971 y recibiendo tres Medallas de Satisfacción, por sus servicios sobresalientes, durante esos años, él llego a ser Sargento a cargo de un área (sirvió al Ejército Norteamericano por 11 años, 8 años activo y 3 años de Reserva Inactiva). Durante sus años de servicio en el Ejército Norteamericano, éste le ayudó a pagar sus estudios, él estudió en las Universidades: Maryland (Ciencia del Comportamiento), Troy State University (Psicología y Literatura), Universidad de Minnesota (Psicología), Liberty University (Teología). Dennis recibió su Licenciatura como Psicólogo del Estado de Minnesota siendo su especialidad Psicología Desarrollada y desórdenes duales incorporados con drogas y alcohol.
Durante 1990 por la mayor parte (1988 a 2001) Dennis trabajó para instituciones privadas, clínicas, y de la igual forma con la Oficina Federal de Prisión.
Su primer libro fue publicado en 1981, su segundo libro en 1982 (durante este tiempo sus poemas venían siendo publicadas en los periódicos de Minneapolis, junto con otros libros seleccionados por editoriales independientes. En el año 2001 Dennis dejó de trabajar como Psicólogo debido a una enfermedad inminente.
En 1990 Dennis se volvió Ministro Ordenado por la Iglesia Internacional de Jesucristo, permitiéndole a él evangelizar a cualquier persona que se lo pidiera al mismo tiempo que él realizaba sus trabajos como psicólogo.
Dennis ha viajado veintiséis veces alrededor del mundo. Ha estado en 60 países y cuarenta y cinco estados de los cincuenta estados que tiene Estados Unidos.
Dennis llegó por primera vez a Perú en 1999, era la primera vez que venía a Sudamérica. El año 2000 Dennis contrajo matrimonio con una dama peruana, Rosa Peñaloza. Desde entonces Dennis y Rosa continuaron viniendo a Perú de una a dos veces al año. Dennis ama mucho a Perú, su cultura, tradiciones, folklore, historia, los cuales le han inspirado para escribir sus obras sobre Perú.
Dennis nunca se detuvo de escribir, él escribe y lee alrededor de diez horas cada día. A la fecha ya ha publicado 42 libros. Sus últimos seis libros han sido sobre cultura y costumbres peruanas, en inglés y español.
Debido a sus obras sobre Perú Dennis ha recibido muchos reconocimientos:
Poeta Laureado de San Jerónimo de Tunán, Huancayo, 2005
Poeta Laureado del Valle del Mantaro, Huancayo, 2007.
Poeta Laureado de Cerro de Pasco, Pasco, Noviembre 2007.
También recibió otros reconocimientos como:
El Mejor Columnista del Año 2004 y 2006 en Estados Unidos
La Gran Cruz de la ciudad de San Jerónimo de Tunán, 2006
El Mejor del año 2006, por Antena Regional
El Poeta y Escritor Excelencia del 2006, por Corp. de Prensa Autónoma, 2007.
Visitante Ilustre y Distinguido de Cerro de Pasco y Huayllay, Noviembre 2007.
El 1ro. de Noviembre del 2007 Dennis recibió su Título como Doctor en Artes y Educación de la Universidad Belfor de Texas, Estados Unidos, por sus estudios, experiencia, escritos y obras publicadas. Asimismo ha sido nominado Periodista Honorario por el Colegio de Periodistas de Perú.
Para aquellos lectores interesados en ver los trabajos por el autor, por favor, visite:
http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/
Works by the author
Books Out of Print
The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Willie the Humpback Whale (poetic tale)
The Tale of Freddy the Foolish Frog (1982)
The Tale of Teddy and His Magical Plant (1983)
The Tale of the Little Rose’s Smile (1983)
The Tale of Alex’s Mysterious Pot (1984)
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985] (for teachers, of Minnesota Schools)
Presently In Print
Visions, Theological, Religious and Supernatural
The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon (2002)
Angelic Renegades & Raphaim Giants (2002)
Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib (2002)
Return of the Nephilim to the Circle of Rephaim (2011)
Tales of the Tiamat [trilogy]
Return of the Nephilim to the Circle of Rephaim (2011)
Tales of the Tiamat [trilogy]
Tiamat, Mother of Demon I (2002)
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II (2002)
Revenge of the Tiamat III (2002)
The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:
A Path to Sobriety I (2002)
A Path to Relapse Prevention II (2003)
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery III (2004)
Autobiographical
A Romance in Augsburg I “2003)
Romancing San Francisco II (2003)
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III (2003)
Stay Down, Old Abram IV (2004)
Chasing the Sun [Travels of D.L Siluk] (2002)
Romance and/or Tragedy:The Rape of Angelina of Glastonbury 1199 AD (2002)
Novelette
Perhaps it’s Love (Minnesota to Seattle) 2004
NovelCold Kindness (Dieburg, Germany) 2005 Novelette
Suspense, short stories, Novels and Novelettes:
Death on Demand [Seven Suspenseful Short Stories] 2003 Vol: I
Dracula’s Ghost [And other Peculiar stories] 2003 Vol: II
The Jumping Serpents of Bosnia (suspenseful short stories) 2008 Vol: III
The Mumbler [psychological] 2003 (Novel)
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure] (2004) Novel
Mantic ore: Day of the Beast ((2002) (Novelette)) supernatural
Every day’s Adventure ((2002)(short stories, etc))
The Poetry of D.L. Siluk
General Poetry
The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Willie the Humpback Whale (poetic tale)
Sirens [Poems-Volume II, 2003]
The Macabre Poems [Poems-Volume III, 2004]
In My Time (Poems) 2012
Minnesota Poetry
Last Autumn and Winter [Minnesota poems, 2006]
Peruvian Poetry
Spell of the Andes [2005]
Peruvian Poems [2005]
Poetic Images Out of Peru [And other poems, 2006]
The Magic of the Avelinos (Poems on the Mantaro Valley, book One; 2006)
The Road to Unishcoto (Poems on the Mantaro Valley, Book Two, 2007)
The Poetry of Stone Forest (Cerro de Pasco, 2007)
The Windmills (Poetry of Juan Parra del Riego) 2009
The Natural Writings of D.L. Siluk
The Natural Writings of D.L. Siluk
Cornfield Laughter (and the unpublished collected stories…) 2009 (Vol. 1)
Men with Torrent Women (Two Short Novelettes and Sixteen Short stories) 2009 (Vol.II)
A Leaf and a Rose (a comprehensive library of new writings…) 2009, (Vol. III)
The Cotton Belt ((And Other Selected Writings) (Vol. IV)) 2010
Sense or Nonsense
30
By Dennis L. Siluk Ed.D.
By Dennis L. Siluk Ed.D.
Ten New Poems of: Sense or Nonsense
Introduction:
Sense or Nonsense
Making sense is the other side of making nonsense “What is what?” that is the question. (And who knows?) My advice to the reader of these poems—is not be too quick to label them—either way, unless you can understand both sides of the coin without any preconceived notions …
How to Read a Poem
(If indeed you care)
Now for a few principles: Read these poems attentively (read them several times), slowly, and with an open mind. Gather interesting data (mark certain words, images, or lines you find interesting or suggestive with a pencil). Evaluate the big picture (zero in on the basic outline, the poem’s meaning or purpose). It might be interesting to note, usually the imagery of the poem echoes the poem’s theme, if indeed you miss the theme, look for the imagery, and the echo towards it.
By the Time
(Poem One)
By the time you start thinking what have I to do’ —by the time the children are old enough to drink booze, by the time the summer clouds can no longer be seen by your naked old eyes, by the time the grapes in the cellar ferments to a rich elderly fine wine, by the time everything grows and dies around you…by this time, it is time you start to think about the dirt and the bugs in the ground, and if you are heaven bound—!
The Old Trout
(Poem Two)
When I was full of life, the sun was full of sun, now I’m old, getting older and I’m full of dying near as much as the moon is full of no air…
I am like the tides of the ocean, once about a time I came in on one, I watched them from a distance come and go; now it’s my time to ride them out (I hope slow):
Yesterday’s Rain
(Poem Three)
Yesterday, the rain was full of rain, a little gray, a little insane, which in a way was very pleasant, at 7:00 p.m.; and this is what the rain said:
“What is there to show if I do not rain all over the city and you?” Then the rain added, “I cover all around the sun, cover it up, and during this, you can sleep, otherwise get wet.”
That was yesterday, it is different today. The rain is sleeping, thank God for that (now we get the sun back)!
Alone in Paris
(Poem Four)
I traveled around the world, mostly alone for most of my life, and I never felt alone, although to others I’m sure I looked alone, and I was alone, but was I lonesome? Never until I was alone in Paris for my first time, then I knew and felt alone, because now I was alone, and felt lonesome. (I even swore never to return to Paris again, alone!)
Then I left Paris, alone, but less lonesome—even though, now I knew and felt alone: even though people were all around me, and a little girl said, “If I am here then you are not alone.” And I remarked, “I guess so!”
Note: We become aware of things—more so aware of things—once we climb the tree, and look down or perhaps above the trees and around…. On a second note, a tree to a tree is just another tree, put a hill or mountain beside it, it will love you forever. And perhaps appreciate being what it was meant to be—a tree.
Learning
(Poem Five)
He would and he was—meaning, he didn’t and he tried. But he never would and he never did. Kids are like that you know, and yes, I know one, two, three, perhaps six, no, eight, no, ten (perhaps even more, but let’s say ten… or more for the sake of argument).
Ten or more kids and no one learned a thing—sad but a fact. Nowadays, this is called ordinary kids; they try to learn, with a third of their capacity, everyday trying hard to do with less, expecting to learn more.
The first kid that tried this—this new universal track of learning, he was the one that needed to learn the most. But would he learn? Or was he learning? Who is to say? He thought tears would make him learn, but he was just the same—still the same inside…which is not the same as learning.
The Haves
(Poem Six)
I had, and I have, and I have to keep the half now of what I have—call it halve—when all is said and done what will I have had to do to keep that half? And get back what I had? Had I not thought about this, I would not have had to have written this, and I could have slept a while longer.
Denny and Diane
(Poem Seven)
Denny and Diane, Diane and Denny, both liked each other immortally. He said he loved her more than she loved him. She said ‘…nonsense! I love you more than you love me!’
He combed her hair, he shared his pear, he washed her feet, he never let go of her, even to sleep, and that was why Denny was Diane.
Diane walked by his side—side to side, like to like, like two peas in a pod. Why, nobody knew, but take my word, it is true, they did everything from there to there, not a hair’s breath away and that was why Diane was Denny.
So was it Denny or was it Diane or was Denny just Diane? Or was Diane just Denny? It is better to leave this alone, the more you think of this the more you wonder, and let’s say Denny is just Diane and Diane is just Denny and they both are through being the other.
Ballad of the Big
and Little Pigs
(Poem Eight)
A big pig running low
In the fields of snow
Watching little pigs sitting by
Learning that soon they could die.
It was in the fields and it was daylight,
And cows mooed,
But the little pigs could care less.
The Big pig saw everywhere
(and the little pigs knew)
He could see right down through the fields
And even see other animals hidden
elsewhere…
And so the cows and all did not dare
To hurt the little pigs
Seeing the big pig stare.
And so.
As you know.
And as you have read
When a big pig running low
Loose in a field of snow
The little pigs know they will not die soon
(as long as the big pig is watching)
And so they know, and knew.
And yes, to be true
They wondered too:
“What’s all the bother?”
Then appeared a man
And he hit the big pig on the head
Hoping he was dead
And he tried to get away
But there was no way.
The little pigs watching—said,
“If he gets away, we’re safe today!”
But quickly, the big pig sunk
Lower to the ground,
And the little pigs frowned
And they began to know
The big pig was no more.
And all the little pigs runaway to tell the other big pigs of the danger (but the big pigs had learned what the little pigs were learning; there was no way to fight man, to protect them, but to run if one can…) and this is life, and it happens just like that.
Do we need?
(Poem Nine)
We need what we need which is air. You know it is more than a habit, to do this thing we call ‘breath’ and it only works one way, no matter what anyone may say. You do it in public; you will do it in private. You do it, whether you like or do not like to do it. Believe it or not, it is true: we all need what one another needs, which is blue air, from the atmosphere. Even if the wind blows it away, it stays. Thank God!
Note on the Poems: During the afternoon, of October 6, of 2009, the author sat down in his sofa chair, high up in the Andes of Peru, and these are the poems he wrote that afternoon… (all to be under one blanket) Poems 1 thru 7, are poems 2637 through 2645. On October 13, in the morning the author wrote “The Ballad of the Big and Little Pigs” being poem, 8 of this sequence, or 2645 in sum total. Also, poem 9 “Do we need?” was written on the October 13, number 2646, for the record, by the author.
“A Wild Piece of Paper!”
((A Poetic Tale for the classroom) (1955, St. Paul, Minnesota))
(Poem Ten)
“What is a wild piece of paper?” asked one of the second graders in the classroom, at Ecole St. Louis, Catholic Elementary School, to a visiting professor… “And how wild can it get?”
“You see,” said the professor, “a wild piece of paper is different from a tranquil one, and it is even more different than one with blots, or dots, or spots on it.
“A wild pieced of paper floats, like a boat—once in the air. That is what a wild piece of paper is.
“A wild piece of paper—is although, just that, a piece of paper, yet it can get wilder and wilder…and when it does get wilder, and wilder, it says:
‘Try and catch me—if you can!’
“A wild piece of paper will do most anything, and I mean anything (it will float, it will fly, if given the chance. It even will rip its way—around and about: furniture, or buildings and even a house—just to play, and have its own way).
“You may have to learn the hard way, that a wild piece of paper is like, or can be like, a wild bat, wilder than a rat, nobody really knows, how wild a wild piece of paper can be, or get.
“That is why, when you put a piece of paper down to write on—make sure it is solid and unsoiled, always be bold, sit up right, hold the paper down—tight; for a child to have a wild piece of paper can be just awful.
Written at the Mia Mamma, Café, in Huancayo, Peru, after lunch, in the garden café area; October, 13, 2009. Poem: 13/or 2647.
The Old Jew of Jerusalem (and commentary on Poetic Prose)
29
The Old Jew of Jerusalem
((An Old Man’s Reality; a Short Poetic Prose Piece) (Ecc. 1:11))
The Old Jew of Jerusalem
((An Old Man’s Reality; a Short Poetic Prose Piece) (Ecc. 1:11))
By Dennis L. Siluk Ed.D.
Part One
This poem is a poem of reality, perhaps Jewish as much as gentile.
He, the old Jew, knew whatever men talked about was where the heart was in man, is what they spent their money on: that they think they want, and after they get what they think they want, is only what they thought they wanted until they got it, because after they got it, the rush to get it faded like melting ice-cream. Perhaps this reality is as much Jewish as it is as much gentile, he said. Although he claimed he didn’t know much about anything, but he wrote about everything, as if everything was worth something and this something is what we all should care about, because it was reality—no matter which way you looked at it: end-up, upside-down, sideways, closed-eyed, wide-eyed, or puffed-eyed, it was all reality, one’s reality, which is more important than things that are not reality. And somewhere along the line, along man’s lifeline, man has to face the ultimate reality, and before he faces this ultimate reality he wants to leave something to be remembered by, some piece of reality you might say, like the fat turtle, who leaves his eggs covered in the sand. The fat turtle wants at least to have one of those baby turtles hatched from those many eggs to wonder one day, someday—any day will do, or one night or one afternoon—wonder if not realize to the fullest, and question out loud: “How did I get here?” instead of witlessly walking around thinking he fell out of the sky, or popped out of the ocean one day from nothing. Like it or not, this is reality—beckoning the: unforeseen, the uncertain, beckoning, the rusty silence, the horse’s gallop.
Part Two
No this isn’t a road intersected by anything other than you, in this reality poem, you are the one free to look, to branch out, find your paradise, softly or loud, but I’ve something else in mind: we are fragile, fearful, creatures, creatures that pretend; yes indeed, we spend more time pretending than living in reality; oh yes, reality, we forget to measure the weight of the moment, and then it expires on a lonely key, or on the palm of some dead hand now living in eternity. You see this old man also knew, that he knew, pride came before destruction, he learned that at first hand, the hard way, the so called, old fashion way, not necessary the Hebrew way, or the gentile way, but everyman’s way that came into this world from dust. And this is also a poem about that, how man’s way in life is sometimes wrapped in twilights and at other times in sunsets and sometimes in the dark abyss of the earth. He doesn’t live on lilac horizons—they are fairytales, although at times he thinks he does. He just keeps searching for it, never realizing it isn’t here or there, it’s up yonder in dream land, in our imaginations, or in our heavenly abode, but to make him realize this, we need to shoot a large cannonball blast alongside his…! Anyhow, remember that fat turtle—the mamma turtle, well, now do you remember the one little lone turtle—perhaps the only one that survived, the little turtle that survived, well the fat turtle is now saying “I hope you will be thinking about when I was here,” the problem is, the fat turtle is dead of course, and she was thinking that before death overtook her. And so, a live turtle is better than a dead shark. That’s the philosophy of the turtle species anyhow—or the reality of the situation.
You see the turtles are different than humans, they do not sit at home for days on end reading the newspaper, having coffee, or watching television, the football games, having a beer, they do what they really like to do, they don’t have all those many problems we humans have. They don’t have to worry about dressing warm or anything, they just pucker up and hide in their shells. Actually I would think summers are not very pleasant either for them—so they don’t have fairytale lives either. If we look a bit closer, they are the captains of their own ships—destinies, they got rid of their kids, who most likely, when they got old would pay them no attention anyhow, and just sit around waiting for them to die, and get what they can get for nothing, so a turtles reality, is perhaps on one hand, much better than a human being’s, they get out of the hot water before they get thrown into the frying pan, and they sail away, back out to sea. Wheeze by those big huge whales, and, I’m sorry to say, die after a hundred years or so, like a dog—childless, but happy. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.
Part Three
So he knew that also—the old man—and he said the more pride you have, the more you like to talk about it. Mistaken for something good—more often than not, when in essence, there is much stained blood in this sort of prideful reality, if not shame and insecurity—which has caused many of wars—, put fangs on desert rats, made man thirsty from Jerusalem to Persia, to Damascus, and put thorns on this poem. And in his convoy of thoughts on threads of reality, the more you endured, he said, the less you talked about it—and what you prized the most is what you protected the hardest—and what is taken from you, will be given back, and those who do the taking, will be taken from, and those who are the most thin-skinned, will be hurt the most in life. He said most people live in ghost cities, dream like ravens, sleep like bitter smoke, and have hardened dung when they go to the bathroom. This was his reality the old man proclaimed, and as much Jewish as it was gentile: this old man, this Jew who walked the streets of Jerusalem who walked the streets day and night, and I who walked beside him for a number of days, for many days, even I didn’t know his mystery. I even said to myself: sometimes he thinks he’s God, and at other times, a peasant and I said, nothing scares him, not even death, the only thing he didn’t like was someone sticking a needle in his … (you know what)!
Part Four
He liked prose, and he liked poetry, and as a result, he liked prose poetry, in reality he liked reading, so he wrote this as a prose poem for you, in poetic prose, for me to narrate for you, and said: like to like, they are like flags to flags—literature: windows to reality, although blinded sometimes are the writers of literature, but when we are made out of dust and dirt and clay, what do you expect. Not everybody knows how to love and to care; it is not suited for them, for they have a different reality. The Muslim doesn’t think like the Jew, and the Jew doesn’t think like the gentile, or European, as the European doesn’t think like the American, or Chinese, that is reality. But we all live in the same valley, “In my opinion,” he said “we are all like music though, all in a similar manner like music, in that, we all move about, crossing space and time, waiting for a face to see—a note, waiting for someone to come and stay awhile, empty for human contact—notes with notes, wanting more. And when we die, an age is ended as the heavenly kingdom rises, or the pits of hell open up for one, but before all this takes place there is stillness in the road.” Now don’t get me wrong I’m just narrating this. And finally he said, “The more money you make, the less people you want to know about it, liked to the more lust and folly you did, the more secretive you become—why?, because of it, because of its nature. That we know what is right and what is wrong, we just want to make the wrong right in the sight of those looking at us doing whatever we are doing—that’s reality: these are all threads of reality,” so he called them. Furthermore, He had figured the coward and the bravado had about the same amount of vanity, pride to shame. The more you lived the less you wanted to remember, so he claimed. This is what he said, told me. But death was behind a lot of this, otherwise I do believe, He never would have said what he said, or as much as he said, had he not known death was close by, and he knew after he was gone, I’d be left alone with this poem.
Some poems are my own, others belong to those others like the old Jew from Jerusalem, and I prefer either one. Poems are nice, but this one was too long to put on a wall and frame, so I told him, and he said, “Narcissus,” and “only a fool thinks of sunsets at midnight,” and I said, “I was in Alaska, in the Artic, and sun set was at midnight, it was called, ‘The Midnight Sun,’” and he said “Oh!” But he had all these sayings, and added, “You might be right, but don’t expect to get the goat and the rope,” and I said, “I don’t.” It was all really pretty silly I thought. He even found it laughable, and he had to have the last word and said, “For a bird that can’t fly, there are still lots of things he can do.” And that was that, and that was the last time we talked, but I’ll now give you some dialogue of what took place thereafter.
Part Five
Death came to him, early one morning, like a disintegrating seed, those pent-up forces of life, let loose, and it didn’t seem like reality to him (I’m guessing at this of course, as you might have figured out by now), he wasn’t quite ready to go, to meet his Maker, I do believe his intellectual activating forces of good and evil were in some kind of process of discrimination, but death is no respecter of men, man, woman, child or beast, he comes when he comes, and he separates one’s biology right on the spot, ties his soul, from physical life outside the body, and brings it into a new identity “Come with me,” says the angel of death, there is no more pretending, tears like rain might come, but that is reality, absolute and quiet efficient—he comes, like it or not, for the happy person who is complete as well as for the suffering person who is incomplete, he is not partial—he comes for the wise as well as for the stupid person, the insane as well as the mentally stable person, or well minded person; and there are more possibilities. Now there is also, an angel of soothing that may take over, and the dark angel disappears, in-between all this, you are most likely saying “How do things really look?” at this point. This is your new, reality: the angel of death picks you up and hands you over to the demon of the abyss or the angel of hope. And so death did come to the old Jew early one morning, and there was no more ideology to be reviewed for mankind to be eaten up by, and the end to shock was over right quick, he knew where he was, for some I suppose neurosis had just begun.
The Room
They came there only to find him dead, the second day, of the rotation of the earth—of this dying period; “What did he do?” questioned the first voice, a young man’s voice, full of life and spoil. I stood in the corner of his house and listened. I knew the old man was somewhere in this room and he was also listening, and he was free as when he was born, and perhaps now remembering. He never died when he was alive, inside himself he never died, and to me he was in that room listening. And remembering the moment of dying: putting it all together. I can’t prove this, but I felt this. And he is remembering the moment of his resurrection, which had already taken place, perhaps similar for a Jew as for a Christian—I’m not sure how a Muslim would fair in this situation, but I suppose it all depends—under the circumstances, I’m sure God will do his best under current conditions, but I don’t think, He’ll do any favors.
“I can’t remember,” I said, afar off in that same corner of the house, I just walked with him a few days in Jerusalem, and tried to learn a few of his dynamism, dealing with the principles of spiritual life.
“I don’t know what he did,” said the second voice, a neighbor, “I don’t really think he did anything, other than read those books laying all about here.”
I didn’t say a word; I just listened, figured the old man was still in the room, but would disappear into oblivion soon, memory loves light and kindness, and senses dark and dust, and ridicule, and no longer has time for such pity stuff.
“He must have done something when he was younger,” said a middle aged female voice.
“He wrote poetry,” I said listening to everyone.
“Maybe so,” said the neighbor standing and looking over at the dead body resting comfortable in his easy chair, the Bible opened to Ecc 1:11.
“Who’s going to bury him?” asked the young man.
“A decade or so ago, his wife passed on,” I said, because the old man had told me so.
“Folks never knew if he knew what day it was or season, thus until today, most of us in the neighborhood, never saw him… or much of him…” said the neighbor, “he was just an old man who walked about Jerusalem, or hid in his house harboring those old, very old books, reading them I suppose, over and over, and writing those poems, stupid poems of his.”
“He was once a great poet, well known worldwide,” I said still in that corner. And they all looked strange and odd at me, all had forgotten he was in the media more often than not, it was after his wife died he let go of life some, and today he had proven his point, that being: how fast would it be, before he was forgotten, before envy, and jealous, and scorn set in, before his poems were made fun of. Perhaps it was even faster than he had figured, or predicted, because the world had already been in the process of forgetting who he was—that was part of his reality. The essence of it was this: they forgot him and he forgot them in equal amounts of time, I do believe. As he would have said: like to like.
“He’s more than dead!” chuckled the young man, “he’s gone, all done and gone, forgotten. And after today, we’ll never see him again; I wonder what kind of poetry he wrote?”
I told the young man: “Someday you’ll remember this man, this day, and you will say, ‘I was one of the few that saw him last!’ and be proud in that fact alone, and be a little ashamed to have said what you have said today, and most likely, you will delete that part of the new conversation, to whom you are speaking to, in those far-off days yet to be.”’ And he laughed as a silly kid would laugh, you know what I mean, one of those laughs that says (and his subconscious puts into a vault for safekeeping), says: he’s more right than wrong: but I got to be strong in the moment and pretend, and youthful arrogance of the day comes out, rises like old dirty smoke, that if you stand in one place too long will choke you to death..
It would be only a few years after this day, there’d be no trace of him, other than in the few books of poetry he wrote, gone, gone, gone, he would be—just like the young man said, just like the poet predicted—but his poems would be quoted, his face that he grew and formed for so many years would be faded, only the words remembered, a few of phrases perhaps.
Speechless, everybody was to have found out they had a neighbor who was at one time so very famous, but more like a stranger, actually, less than a stranger, less than a human, here was a man who knew many poets, like: David Avidan, Abba Kovner, Yona Wollach and Ory Bernstein, Robert Bly, Donald Hall, James Wright. They had seen the dogs and cats and birds in the neighborhood more than they had seen him, and now he simple up and left earth, with no trace of his existence, other than leaving behind a few books filled with poems. Books he wrote he could not even remember the names of, and felt all the better for not remembering them. But loving the fact he had written something reasonable for man to read, feeling somewhat like that fat turtle, leaving something, perhaps worthwhile behind, after consuming so much of Mother Earth.
As the days went by and he was buried by the state, no one asked what had become of this old man in the neighborhood, no one remembered him in the first place, to have even asked, I mean no one—other than perhaps some scholars who read about his death in the newspapers, poets and teachers and philosophers.
When I looked out the window the day he died, it was to my great comfort, I saw the clouds parting, as a twirl of two shadows, wheezed by them, the angelic being put out his hands and the clouds bursts forth, spreading over like in the days when God parted the Red Sea way back when. I said to myself: boy! That’s a tinge frightful. And then at the end of that day, I was quite tiresome, and found a soft leather armchair and laid back into its nest, and my mind and body obeyed the laws of creation, and I fell to sleep.
Afterward: The poem you have just read, the old man wrote—for the most part—that I have narrated, as—he has, and named prose poetry, or poetic prose, that the old man told me not to question assigning it to such a category, “Just do it, because it is art…because it has some of the attributes of poetry, not because it is poetry per se, because it isn’t,” fair enough I said, I’ll do as you ask, and he simply continued with his flow of words, “because it gives the relations of man and nature, and man with his nature, to fate, with his imagination and dreams; because of its closeness and complexity of life. In so doing the mind clasps the beast of prose, its freedom and flexibility, as the mind clasps the living thing of poetry in a different way: its charm and humbleness of its art, thus, poetic prose is born, and poetic prose, or prose poetry has a glutinous tongue, that can silently lock doors behind you which never reopen but is to be heard, forevermore heard, with only a murmur, with only a whisper…whereas poetry or prose alone, sometimes have too much fact or mass, too much of a labyrinth to searched out. Consequently, this art I am talking about, has not been pressed by the weight of research…it has near mystical powers though—because it stands by the bull to express it impressions, like radium, glowing forevermore within our minds—likened to fragments of light. And this light, is as much Jewish as it is gentile, I do believe, or can be. We cannot ask prose to do what poetry does, if you wish to say more in a deeper way, it would upset the whole balance of the novel, moreover, this is why I preferred prose poetry not a direct opposite, but neither do I live under the rules of the novelists—all prose is prose fiction, like it or not, and many have a tendency against prose poetry, and the novelists do not want to take risks, which I cannot avoid. They trust the egg more than the chicken…I prefer a touch of rhapsody, therefore allowing energy on both sides. Those who prefer to not move with the flow, is perhaps out of popularity, and it is too eccentric to be satisfying. Here you have extreme vividness, surely not dull in comparison. Hence, you must remember, no single note will ruin my poem. So what you get from me, in simple terms, are impressions, a state of mind, one who has experienced them, not particularizing.”
No: 619 (6-4-2010/revised 6-7-2010) •
Sailing Away
28
Sailing Away
(A Poet’s luck)
A prolific poet, perhaps knows too much
a scholar, philosopher, and perhaps a crook!
As if life and its normal journey are not enough
could never be enough; not even with all its
travels, towers, troubles, and tenderness—
nor with all its adventures, its vast universe, and its ghosts:
nor with all its wars, and higher learning universities,
nor with all its lovers, friends, and so many
of life’s confrontations; used and unused furniture.
He brings to his home, along with: the wives
and children he had, with all their Christmas’
and toys, troubles and pains and insane days—
his country’s songs, but he never sings along.
He reads and writes, from early evening to
the break of dawn, that’s a poet’s life.
He really wants to sail away, merrily, merrily,
far away, because nothing is quite enough!
Thus, in-between, he gets drunk a lot, not enough!
And then, somewhere along the line, he thinks:
when the time comes to stack it all into one big bag
that’s going to be is rough! How precious life was,
and is to a poet, and yet it is never enough,
it is never ever enough, and sometimes
it’s all way too much…way too much:
he wants to sail away!... far away, way far away!
His emotions are like a rollercoaster; his heart
in the hospital, half the time; his soul wondering
from church to mosque to synagogue, then home
again, wherever that may be. He finds God
everywhere, and rest assure, the devil follows him too.
Neither the most restless angles are as busy as he,
but he never protests: in fear the poet may die
suddenly, and alone, where forth, he wants to
to be in the good graces of God, to write his last poem.
Hence, a poet who writes perhaps feels too much
never able to love himself as he loves, and wants
to loved; hushed, he looks on, and on and on,
at simple things, like: hats, rats, cats, and plants,
little birds, and the stars, and marvels—
and souls: eyes, feet and confessions, so many things,
and then his children leave home, gone, complaining,
rearranging, and saying: “We never got enough,”
they got a bone of contention, full of terrible hate,
they live in disgust, way, way, way too much…
they want, and want and there’s never a abundance;
but that’s a Poet’s luck. And somehow, someway,
the Poet just sails away…!
Note: (The word ‘he’ is implied a lot in the poem, but he in this poem means s-he, or me. 6-18-2007.)
Sailing Away
(A Poet’s luck)
A prolific poet, perhaps knows too much
a scholar, philosopher, and perhaps a crook!
As if life and its normal journey are not enough
could never be enough; not even with all its
travels, towers, troubles, and tenderness—
nor with all its adventures, its vast universe, and its ghosts:
nor with all its wars, and higher learning universities,
nor with all its lovers, friends, and so many
of life’s confrontations; used and unused furniture.
He brings to his home, along with: the wives
and children he had, with all their Christmas’
and toys, troubles and pains and insane days—
his country’s songs, but he never sings along.
He reads and writes, from early evening to
the break of dawn, that’s a poet’s life.
He really wants to sail away, merrily, merrily,
far away, because nothing is quite enough!
Thus, in-between, he gets drunk a lot, not enough!
And then, somewhere along the line, he thinks:
when the time comes to stack it all into one big bag
that’s going to be is rough! How precious life was,
and is to a poet, and yet it is never enough,
it is never ever enough, and sometimes
it’s all way too much…way too much:
he wants to sail away!... far away, way far away!
His emotions are like a rollercoaster; his heart
in the hospital, half the time; his soul wondering
from church to mosque to synagogue, then home
again, wherever that may be. He finds God
everywhere, and rest assure, the devil follows him too.
Neither the most restless angles are as busy as he,
but he never protests: in fear the poet may die
suddenly, and alone, where forth, he wants to
to be in the good graces of God, to write his last poem.
Hence, a poet who writes perhaps feels too much
never able to love himself as he loves, and wants
to loved; hushed, he looks on, and on and on,
at simple things, like: hats, rats, cats, and plants,
little birds, and the stars, and marvels—
and souls: eyes, feet and confessions, so many things,
and then his children leave home, gone, complaining,
rearranging, and saying: “We never got enough,”
they got a bone of contention, full of terrible hate,
they live in disgust, way, way, way too much…
they want, and want and there’s never a abundance;
but that’s a Poet’s luck. And somehow, someway,
the Poet just sails away…!
Note: (The word ‘he’ is implied a lot in the poem, but he in this poem means s-he, or me. 6-18-2007.)
Nightshade (poem)
27
In the stir-less night
Of nights that have no seams
Rooted in death, it seems
Down a narrow spiral path
They rattle like rattlesnakes—
Buzz like dozens of blundering flies
Monstrous weeds upon their heads:
They crawl and howl like:
Snakes, dogs, rats and cats:
And sore like hawks and eagles
Half-ignorant vial and rival ghouls!
Splashing and dancing,
In their world of grotesqueness
Gnawing and pawing one another
While prancing in the nightshade
As if on parade, until dawn…!
No: 2672/ 4-13-2010 by Dlsiluk
In the stir-less night
Of nights that have no seams
Rooted in death, it seems
Down a narrow spiral path
They rattle like rattlesnakes—
Buzz like dozens of blundering flies
Monstrous weeds upon their heads:
They crawl and howl like:
Snakes, dogs, rats and cats:
And sore like hawks and eagles
Half-ignorant vial and rival ghouls!
Splashing and dancing,
In their world of grotesqueness
Gnawing and pawing one another
While prancing in the nightshade
As if on parade, until dawn…!
No: 2672/ 4-13-2010 by Dlsiluk
In the Valley of the Beast
26
English Version
In the Valley of the Beast
[Armageddon]
(In my time :) They were assembled for the feast, the banquet of victory, in the Valley of the Beast, the Valley of Armageddon!
The vaults of Hell now were opened, to assault the nations of the earth: hence, Hell spoke:
‘Cursed is to those who do not heed these words: join us in the Valley of the Beast, for war!’
And so the world sat waiting on war, with blood soaked knees, in the Valley of Beast. And they came from far and near: from bog, valley and woodlands, mountains and the sea; from the north, east; and far-west—brother against brother (to fight for the Beast, in the Valley of Armageddon).
They came from Hell’s abyss, commanded by none other than, Agaliarept, Lucifer’s henchman: with hissing, clutching at the feet of nations, until they cried: “War, war, war…!” And there they stood with flaming swords—and weapons galore, and many died caked with blood up to their thighs, as the fury roared—two billion, two billion died; and thus, the Prince of Darkness was shackled for a season, but he will be back— as it is written!
Note: written at the Café “Tarata” Lima Peru, 5/1/2006 [afternoon, during lunch). No: 1510
Spanish Version
En el Valle de la Bestia
[Armagedón]
(En mi tiempo:) ¡Ellos estaban reunidos para el festín, el festín de la victoria, en el Valle de la Bestia, el Valle de Armagedón!
Ahora, las bóvedas del Infierno estaban abiertas, para atacar a las naciones de la tierra: por lo tanto, el Infierno habló:
“¡Malditos sean aquellos que no presten atención a estas palabras: únanse a nosotros en el valle de la bestia, para la guerra!”
Y así el mundo se sentó esperando por la guerra, con rodillas empapadas de sangre, en el Valle de la Bestia. Y ellos vinieron de lejos y cerca: de los pantanos, valles y bosques, sierras y mar; del norte, este; y del lejano oeste—hermano contra hermano (para luchar por la Bestia, en el Valle de Armagedón).
Ellos vinieron del abismo del Infierno, comandados por ninguno otro que, Agaliarept, el secuaz del Lucifer; con silbido, agarrándose de los pies de las naciones, hasta que ellos gritaron: “¡Guerra, guerra, guerra…!” Y allí ellos estuvieron con espadas llameantes—y armas en abundancia, y muchos murieron cubiertos con sangre hasta sus muslos, mientras que la furia rugió—dos billones, dos billones murieron; y así, el Príncipe de la Oscuridad, fue hecho prisionero por una temporada, pero él volverá— ¡como está escrito!
Nota: escrito en el Café “Tarata” Lima Perú, la tarde del 1ro de mayo del 2006 (durante el almuerzo) # 1510.
Siege of the Gaza Flotilla (a poem)
25
“Siege, of the Gaza Flotilla!”
Screams the world at large…
And the flies have gathered around the din
Around the dung in candle light at dusk
Hours pass and hours pass
What are the flies up to?
Ships, at sea, the Gaza-bound flotilla
has been under siege…
I hear voices mimicking the UN:
“It’s the Jews again!”
The Turks call it a bloody massacre
The flies quiver, will their mission success
(The Turks and Hamas’ Palestine).
What comes later can’t be rushed,
What comes now are lies and bluffs
Diggers and the daggers,
And the beckoning gestures of
The Muslim world for Jewish blood.
Uncertain smiles here and there
And everybody, everywhere, everywhere
Everyone has their own perfect story:
And they swear and cuss and swear
From Malaysia, to Turkey to the US
They torch Israeli flags,
“Cut U.S., dollars”!” signs read!
Nine lost their lives!
Palestine will sing loud tonight
Not for the dead—that’s a rusty silence,
But for revenge, for once
They got the world’s sympathy,
And attention!
No: 2713 (6-1-2010)
“Siege, of the Gaza Flotilla!”
Screams the world at large…
And the flies have gathered around the din
Around the dung in candle light at dusk
Hours pass and hours pass
What are the flies up to?
Ships, at sea, the Gaza-bound flotilla
has been under siege…
I hear voices mimicking the UN:
“It’s the Jews again!”
The Turks call it a bloody massacre
The flies quiver, will their mission success
(The Turks and Hamas’ Palestine).
What comes later can’t be rushed,
What comes now are lies and bluffs
Diggers and the daggers,
And the beckoning gestures of
The Muslim world for Jewish blood.
Uncertain smiles here and there
And everybody, everywhere, everywhere
Everyone has their own perfect story:
And they swear and cuss and swear
From Malaysia, to Turkey to the US
They torch Israeli flags,
“Cut U.S., dollars”!” signs read!
Nine lost their lives!
Palestine will sing loud tonight
Not for the dead—that’s a rusty silence,
But for revenge, for once
They got the world’s sympathy,
And attention!
No: 2713 (6-1-2010)
There is no Remembrance (a poem on war)
24
War, there is nothing to add to that that hasn’t been said or done before—
I’ve lost all knowledge of it; I’ve sweated it out, like the rain in the jungle—
Names once at the tip of my lips, I’ve long forgotten, they are like faded manikins
I have no more remembrance, and I’m sure when I’m dead, I’ll quickly be forgotten too, faster than one puts on his shoes
War, there is nothing to add to that that hasn’t been said before,
but I’ll say it once more: the dead are dead, and seldom remembered—
and I’d rather be a live dog now, than a boring dead lion then
The sun only revolves around the living, earth around the dead
Stones, bones, earth and sadness, and twisted halos are at funerals,
with the wings of angels, and horns of devils, all waiting, waiting
all waiting to see who will get to carry me, to carry you off with the dead
Wrapped in white linen, or wrapped in rages, who’s to say?
All I know is that I’ll fall to sleep some short day, into nothingness,
among all the dust and bones,
among the dead leaves and soil, and be placed in some lone cold graveyard,
waiting just waiting for my resurrection, wherever, whenever God points his finger to wake me up…
No consolation for the dead, no light no nothing
Just waiting with all the boring, lifeless forms, from all the wars, which could fill up all the valleys of the whole world, and more?
Thank God that the world isn’t flat
War, war, there is nothing to add to it, that hasn’t been said before…!
No: 2714 (6-1-2010)
War, there is nothing to add to that that hasn’t been said or done before—
I’ve lost all knowledge of it; I’ve sweated it out, like the rain in the jungle—
Names once at the tip of my lips, I’ve long forgotten, they are like faded manikins
I have no more remembrance, and I’m sure when I’m dead, I’ll quickly be forgotten too, faster than one puts on his shoes
War, there is nothing to add to that that hasn’t been said before,
but I’ll say it once more: the dead are dead, and seldom remembered—
and I’d rather be a live dog now, than a boring dead lion then
The sun only revolves around the living, earth around the dead
Stones, bones, earth and sadness, and twisted halos are at funerals,
with the wings of angels, and horns of devils, all waiting, waiting
all waiting to see who will get to carry me, to carry you off with the dead
Wrapped in white linen, or wrapped in rages, who’s to say?
All I know is that I’ll fall to sleep some short day, into nothingness,
among all the dust and bones,
among the dead leaves and soil, and be placed in some lone cold graveyard,
waiting just waiting for my resurrection, wherever, whenever God points his finger to wake me up…
No consolation for the dead, no light no nothing
Just waiting with all the boring, lifeless forms, from all the wars, which could fill up all the valleys of the whole world, and more?
Thank God that the world isn’t flat
War, war, there is nothing to add to it, that hasn’t been said before…!
No: 2714 (6-1-2010)
A Minnesota Autumn's Tale (a poem)
23
A Minnesota
Autumn’s Tale
It is a Minnesota autumn’s tale
That the leaves twist twilight over its many lakes,
And the guideless wind swept leaves lunge forward,
Like flags and flakes colourful veils and shawls,
And the Minnesota moon falls cold,
With the smell of burnt leaves, and the crouching
Cornfield crows flock with the owls, and cows,
In the autumn farm fields of Minnesota
It is a Minnesota autumn’s tale indeed.
Of fields, and burning leaves,
With crows with wide wings, and scarecrows
Stuffed with wilted weeds and woollen cloths
Coverings—as the crows comb the musty sky,
Waiting for morning— with bare white eyes,
Here only the wind sings,
As the leaves pass by, and the cries of the
Hunger of the birds—lost in the cold—drifts astray
Curled up within their wings, caught in the centre
Of a Minnesota autumn’s tale…!
No: 2697 (5-20-20109)
A Minnesota
Autumn’s Tale
It is a Minnesota autumn’s tale
That the leaves twist twilight over its many lakes,
And the guideless wind swept leaves lunge forward,
Like flags and flakes colourful veils and shawls,
And the Minnesota moon falls cold,
With the smell of burnt leaves, and the crouching
Cornfield crows flock with the owls, and cows,
In the autumn farm fields of Minnesota
It is a Minnesota autumn’s tale indeed.
Of fields, and burning leaves,
With crows with wide wings, and scarecrows
Stuffed with wilted weeds and woollen cloths
Coverings—as the crows comb the musty sky,
Waiting for morning— with bare white eyes,
Here only the wind sings,
As the leaves pass by, and the cries of the
Hunger of the birds—lost in the cold—drifts astray
Curled up within their wings, caught in the centre
Of a Minnesota autumn’s tale…!
No: 2697 (5-20-20109)
Nostalgia
22
Nostalgia
A Set of Poems on Grieving a Mother
Nostalgia
A Set of Poems on Grieving a Mother
Introductory Poem
English Version
Death Passed Me Once
(In the Valley of Days)
Death returns: it found no resting place,
I saw it in flight last night—(it passed me once,
overhead) beneath the last sparks of twilight—!
Death has wings, you know, I saw it descend,
it glides through the valley of days, in peacefulness…
yet—its tail leaves shadows of grief, and pain,
to return at dawn, blue-bellied full—,
as if it had swallowed a whale whole.
Death, is always hungry it seems, and has an
invisible web nearby, always waiting, waiting,
likened to a spider waiting for a fly!
Spanish Version
La Muerte me Sobrepasó una Vez
(En el Valle de la Vida)
¡La muerte vuelve: esta no encontró un lugar para descansar,
la vi en vuelo, anoche—(esta me sobrepasó una vez)
debajo de las últimas chispas del crepúsculo—!
La muerte tiene alas, tú sabes, la vi descender,
esta se desliza a través del valle de la vida, en sosiego…
aunque—su cola deja sombras de aflicción, y dolor,
para volver al amanecer, estómago azul lleno—,
como si se hubiera tragado una ballena entera.
¡La muerte, parece que siempre tiene hambre, y tiene
una telaraña invisible cerca, siempre esperando, esperando,
similar a una araña y una mosca!
†
English Version
Lost Days
(The dying of a beloved Mother)
She was getting weaker
the last months of her life;
her blue-eyes lost their
rapture, their chase.
A congestive heart helped take
her vigour away…!
And then, then came, those
long lost days.
12-15-2007 No: 2104
Spanish Version
Días Perdidos
(La agonía de una madre querida)
Ella se estaba debilitando
los últimos meses de su vida;
sus ojos azules perdieron su
alegría, su asechanza.
¡Un corazón congestionado la ayudó a perder
su vigor…!
Y después, después vinieron, aquellos
días largos y perdidos
15-Diciembre-2007 No: 2104
English Version
Final Days
(The dying of a beloved Mother)
I sat by my mother’s bedside
as death drew near,
and saw her white skin,
turn pale (while in the Hospital).
I wrote a poem a few days
after she passed on….
The first twenty-seven days
of her hospitalization
she talked a lot,
the last words to come,
before the coma.
Out of a window, near her bed
was a July summer blooming…!
In those last days—so honest
she was, she saw angels
in her room.
Each day
(almost everyday)
we talked together—
I, in my droopy melancholy despair;
her, with smiles and laughter,
which filled the room…(with)
butterflies, as she dwindled away.
No: 2101 (12-15-2007)
Spanish Version
Días Finales
(La Agonía de una Madre Querida)
Me senté por el lado de la cama de mi madre
mientras la muerte se dibujaba cerca
y vi que su piel blanca.
se volvía pálida (mientras estaba en el hospital).
Escribí un poema pocos días
después que ella murió…
Los primeros veintisiete días
de su hospitalización
ella habló bastante,
las últimas palabras que vinieron
antes del coma.
¡Fuera de una ventana, cerca a su cama
estaba un verano de Julio floreciendo…!
En aquellos días finales—tan sincera
ella fue, ella vio ángeles
en su cuarto.
Cada día (casi cada día)
hablamos juntos—
yo, en mi exhausta desesperación melancólica;
ella, con sonrisas y risas,
que llenaron el cuarto… (con)
mariposas, mientras ella se acababa.
No: 2101 (15-Diciembre-2007)
Final Days
(The dying of a beloved Mother)
I sat by my mother’s bedside
as death drew near,
and saw her white skin,
turn pale (while in the Hospital).
I wrote a poem a few days
after she passed on….
The first twenty-seven days
of her hospitalization
she talked a lot,
the last words to come,
before the coma.
Out of a window, near her bed
was a July summer blooming…!
In those last days—so honest
she was, she saw angels
in her room.
Each day
(almost everyday)
we talked together—
I, in my droopy melancholy despair;
her, with smiles and laughter,
which filled the room…(with)
butterflies, as she dwindled away.
No: 2101 (12-15-2007)
Spanish Version
Días Finales
(La Agonía de una Madre Querida)
Me senté por el lado de la cama de mi madre
mientras la muerte se dibujaba cerca
y vi que su piel blanca.
se volvía pálida (mientras estaba en el hospital).
Escribí un poema pocos días
después que ella murió…
Los primeros veintisiete días
de su hospitalización
ella habló bastante,
las últimas palabras que vinieron
antes del coma.
¡Fuera de una ventana, cerca a su cama
estaba un verano de Julio floreciendo…!
En aquellos días finales—tan sincera
ella fue, ella vio ángeles
en su cuarto.
Cada día (casi cada día)
hablamos juntos—
yo, en mi exhausta desesperación melancólica;
ella, con sonrisas y risas,
que llenaron el cuarto… (con)
mariposas, mientras ella se acababa.
No: 2101 (15-Diciembre-2007)
English Version
Forty-Two days
After my mother’s death
I looked back at the calendar,
it was forty-two days—forty-two days had passed
since we ate cake and ice-cream at the restaurant,
along the banks of the St. Croix River.
Stood out by its fence,
waved our hands at the camera;
my mother seemed to stagger a bit.
I wonder now,
now, if
she knew
she only had
forty-two days left?
Notes_ 12-15-2007 No: 2102: In this poem, the author is referring to the St. Croix River, that flows through the town of Stillwater, in Minnesota, USA.
Spanish Version
Cuarenta y Dos Días
Después de la muerte de mi madre
volví a mirar el calendario,
eran cuarenta y dos días—cuarenta y dos días habían pasado
desde que comimos torta con helados en el restaurante,
a lo largo de la orilla del Río Saint Croix.
Parados por el cerco,
saludamos con nuestras manos a la cámara;
mi madre parecía tambalear un poco.
Me pregunto ahora,
ahora, si
¿ella sabía
que le quedaban
sólo cuarenta y dos días?
Nota.- 14-Diciembre-2007. En este poema el autor se refiere al Río Saint Croix, que fluye por la ciudad de Stillwater, en Minnesota, EE. UU.
English Version
Last Day
This morning Rosa woke me up
“What for?” I asked.
I put my cloths on, went to the bathroom,
took a pee, cleaned up (quickly).
I sensed something was wrong,
something, staring back at me…
my mother had died.
No: 2103 12-15-2007
Spanish Version
Ultimo Día
Esta mañana Rosa me despertó
“¿Para qué?”, pregunté
Me vestí, fui al baño
hice pis, me aseé (rápidamente).
Sentía que algo no iba bien,
algo, volvía a mirarme fijamente…
mi madre había muerto.
# 2103 15-Diciembre-2007
English Version
A Day of Recovery
After the surgery,
after they cut out half her insides,
she started to recover,
but she would relapse, after a day
(in the interim,
I checked on how much morphine
she was being given).
She wanted me to bring her home,
had a dream she was in a taxi,
and it wouldn’t stop at her house.
She was a breathing, scrutinizing coffin,
just waiting in the bed to die;
she didn’t worry though,
she said: she had lived longer
than she had expected.
Her ardent last awaking days
were full of power and praise.
Talking away on old passionate associations,
of what went before, now eight-three years
old: now brief, calm and bold.
No: 2105 12-16-2007
Spanish Version
Un Día de Recuperación
Después de la cirugía,
después que ellos le sacaron la mitad de sus intestinos,
ella empezó a recuperarse,
pero ella recaería, después de un día
(entretanto,
yo averigüé en cuánto de morfina
ella estaba recibiendo).
Ella quería que la lleve a casa,
tuvo un sueño en que ella estaba en un taxi,
y éste no se detendría en su casa.
Ella era un féretro respirando y observando
sólo esperando en la cama para morir;
aunque ella no se preocupaba,
ella decía: que había vivido mucho
más de lo que ella esperaba.
Sus ardientes y últimos días conscientes
fueron llenos de fuerza y elogio.
Hablando sobre las antiguas asociaciones fervorosas,
de los pasados ochenta y tres años:
cortos, tranquilos y gozosos.
# 2105 16-Diciembre-2007
English Version
Days Grew Heavy
Days grew heavy throughout June,
of 2003; after the 26th, I knew
I’d have to bear her death.
They bathed her and fed her,
as her trembling hands
signed the last checks
to pay her bills.
Yet she smiled, as
I watched her dying,
failing, of old age.
No: 2104 (12-17-2007)
Spanish Version
Los Días Se Volvieron Apretados
Los días se volvieron apretados durante Junio,
del 2003; después del 26, sabía
que tenía que soportar su muerte.
Ellos la bañaron y alimentaron,
mientras sus manos temblorosas
firmaron los últimos cheques
para pagar sus cuentas.
Sin embargo ella sonreía, mientras
yo la miraba agonizar,
empeorando por la vejez.
# 2104 (17-Diciembre-2007)
English Version
Days of Depression
There were days of depression
(for me) waiting for the light of life
to be blown out, after
my mother died…. I knew
I wouldn’t, or couldn’t
commit suicide, but my doctor
and wife, wasn’t so sure:
throwing medicine my way,
to stabilize my brain waves.
No: 2111 (12-16-2007)
Spanish Version
Días de Depresión
Hubo días de depresión
(para mi) esperando por la luz de vida
que se apagara, después
que mi madre murió…yo sabía
que no debería, o no podría
cometer suicidio, pero mi doctora
y mi esposa, no estaban tan seguras:
poniendo medicinas en mi camino,
para estabilizar las ondas de mi cerebro.
# 2111 (16-Diciembre-2007)
English Version
A Pretty Good Day
She ate (or had):
soup, Jell-O, chocolate milk
(mostly, tasteless)
the last days of her life.
She was bored, but
comfortable in the hospital;
as she dehydrated—
She’d say,
“Bring me some good chocolate!”
And I did, once—
before the operation
(she hid it from the nurse).
That was a pretty good day.
No: 2112 (12-16-2007)
Spanish Version
Un Día Bastante Bueno
Ella comía (o había comido) —:
sopa, gelatina, leche con chocolate
(mayormente, sin sabor)
los últimos días de su vida.
Ella estaba aburrida, pero
cómoda en el hospital;
mientras ella se deshidrataba—.
Ella diría, “¡Tráeme algunos buenos
chocolates!” Y lo hice, una vez—
antes de la operación
(ella lo escondió de las enfermeras).
Este fue un día bastante bueno.
# 2112 (16-Diciembre-2007)
English Version
Trying Days
I tried, during those trying days
to remain dry-eyed and half-sane
—silent (pained and paralyzed).
I was trying to understand, --
She laid in a coma for three days
I told her to let go, and go home,
home to heaven, with the Lord,
and she did—; that brought me
into a horror.
No: 2114 (12-16-2007)
Spanish Version
Días Difíciles
Intenté, durante aquellos días difíciles
de permanecer sin llorar y medio cuerdo
—silencioso (mi dolor, paralizado).
Estaba tratando de entender, —
Ella entró en coma por tres días
le dije a ella que se liberara, y fuera a casa,
a casa al cielo, con el Señor,
y ella lo hizo—; lo que me llevó
a un horror.
# 2114 (16-Diciembre-2007)
Trying Days
I tried, during those trying days
to remain dry-eyed and half-sane
—silent (pained and paralyzed).
I was trying to understand, --
She laid in a coma for three days
I told her to let go, and go home,
home to heaven, with the Lord,
and she did—; that brought me
into a horror.
No: 2114 (12-16-2007)
Spanish Version
Días Difíciles
Intenté, durante aquellos días difíciles
de permanecer sin llorar y medio cuerdo
—silencioso (mi dolor, paralizado).
Estaba tratando de entender, —
Ella entró en coma por tres días
le dije a ella que se liberara, y fuera a casa,
a casa al cielo, con el Señor,
y ella lo hizo—; lo que me llevó
a un horror.
# 2114 (16-Diciembre-2007)
Lights, like Fires
21
English Version
Lights, like Fires
((In the Tunnels with the Miners) (in the Mines of Volcan))
Walls are all I seem to see, down here,
deep in the mines of Volcan.
They just seem to look at me, and stare,
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.
I do not know a thing, not one thing about them!
Wherein this deep, underworld maze is the key?
This world down here has a funny sun,
that is all I really know, and see
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.
The tunnel lights are burning bright,
the tunnel lights are a dazzling sight
—at each end, and in-between,
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.
They burn and burn, like fires…torching
the walls, of this once, eternal night, here
down here, within the mines of Volcan;
Shadows creep along these walls and floors
ceilings as well—reflections of dotted fires
here and there, everywhere, down here,
deep in the mines of Volcan.
No: 2094 12-7-2007
Spanish Version
Luces, como Fuegos
((En los Túneles de los Mineros) (en las Minas Volcan))
Paredes, es todo lo que parezco ver, acá abajo,
en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
Ellas sólo parecen mirarme, fijamente,
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
¡Yo no sé nada, nada acerca de estas!
¿Dónde en este profundo, laberinto subterráneo
está la llave?
Este mundo aquí abajo tiene un sol curioso
es todo lo que realmente sé, acá abajo,
en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
Las luces del túnel están ardiendo vivas,
las luces del túnel son una vista deslumbrante
—en cada final, y en el medio;
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
Ellas arden y arden, como fuegos…incendiando
las paredes, de esta una vez, noche eterna,
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan;
Así, las sombras se mueven a lo largo de estas paredes y pisos,
techos también, con destellos de fuegos esparcidos aquí y allá,
en todas partes, acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
# 2094 7-Dic-2007
English Version
Lights, like Fires
((In the Tunnels with the Miners) (in the Mines of Volcan))
Walls are all I seem to see, down here,
deep in the mines of Volcan.
They just seem to look at me, and stare,
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.
I do not know a thing, not one thing about them!
Wherein this deep, underworld maze is the key?
This world down here has a funny sun,
that is all I really know, and see
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.
The tunnel lights are burning bright,
the tunnel lights are a dazzling sight
—at each end, and in-between,
down here, deep in the mines of Volcan.
They burn and burn, like fires…torching
the walls, of this once, eternal night, here
down here, within the mines of Volcan;
Shadows creep along these walls and floors
ceilings as well—reflections of dotted fires
here and there, everywhere, down here,
deep in the mines of Volcan.
No: 2094 12-7-2007
Spanish Version
Luces, como Fuegos
((En los Túneles de los Mineros) (en las Minas Volcan))
Paredes, es todo lo que parezco ver, acá abajo,
en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
Ellas sólo parecen mirarme, fijamente,
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
¡Yo no sé nada, nada acerca de estas!
¿Dónde en este profundo, laberinto subterráneo
está la llave?
Este mundo aquí abajo tiene un sol curioso
es todo lo que realmente sé, acá abajo,
en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
Las luces del túnel están ardiendo vivas,
las luces del túnel son una vista deslumbrante
—en cada final, y en el medio;
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
Ellas arden y arden, como fuegos…incendiando
las paredes, de esta una vez, noche eterna,
acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan;
Así, las sombras se mueven a lo largo de estas paredes y pisos,
techos también, con destellos de fuegos esparcidos aquí y allá,
en todas partes, acá abajo, en la profundidad de las Minas Volcan.
# 2094 7-Dic-2007
The Lone Pillars
20
The Lone Pillars
(New World Depression)
We were once a temple complete
Beyond the meadows, on top of a hill
Now just lone pillars standing still,
No mind to mind, amongst our fellow men
Everyone’s taking, whatever they can;
Most taking what doesn’t belong to them!
Especially Bankers and Politicians…
In America, England, Europe, China
(across Asia, and the world as a whole)
All over the place, no blood in their face;
And you and I, just looking in, wondering
What happened, what took place?
We’re just lone pillars, displaced?
Waiting for a handout from the rich
As they hold onto everything, as if
They were God’s given gifts.
And I’m just a poet, heart to heart
With the people, wondering why
The temple we once built complete
(so long ago, out of marble and grief)
Has fallen to its feet, as if from the sky?
Too much self-interest, by and by…!
And some executives swear to hang onto it
With life and limb; and others swear:
Try it! It is not the Golden Fleece, nor
The content that will bring you peace:
It is something that was once complete,
Now lost and sadly, beyond anyone’s reach.
Note: 3-25-2009 (No: 2581)
Commentary: we are heading into a world crisis, of which economics is just part of it. The world powers are gearing up: Russia, the USA, China, North Korea, Iran, Israel, and all getting ready for the big battle, the showdown and guess who is coming to dinner? The Antichrist! And for those nonbelievers, the world is simple collapsing under its own greed. Pillars of greed, it is coming to the point, why simply should the rich be greedy, we’ll all be greedy, and the rich don’t like that. They want the poor to have Godly values, without God, so they can be the only greedy ones. But we are at a new state in the human race, it is called Darwin’s Dilemma, “Monkey see, monkey do!” The plan is old, the style, new. We are already on borrowed time, everyone knows it, feels it that is why they want to get the most out of everything they can while they can (don’t you?). The world is getting greedier by the hour. Have a happy greedy day.
The Lone Pillars
(New World Depression)
We were once a temple complete
Beyond the meadows, on top of a hill
Now just lone pillars standing still,
No mind to mind, amongst our fellow men
Everyone’s taking, whatever they can;
Most taking what doesn’t belong to them!
Especially Bankers and Politicians…
In America, England, Europe, China
(across Asia, and the world as a whole)
All over the place, no blood in their face;
And you and I, just looking in, wondering
What happened, what took place?
We’re just lone pillars, displaced?
Waiting for a handout from the rich
As they hold onto everything, as if
They were God’s given gifts.
And I’m just a poet, heart to heart
With the people, wondering why
The temple we once built complete
(so long ago, out of marble and grief)
Has fallen to its feet, as if from the sky?
Too much self-interest, by and by…!
And some executives swear to hang onto it
With life and limb; and others swear:
Try it! It is not the Golden Fleece, nor
The content that will bring you peace:
It is something that was once complete,
Now lost and sadly, beyond anyone’s reach.
Note: 3-25-2009 (No: 2581)
Commentary: we are heading into a world crisis, of which economics is just part of it. The world powers are gearing up: Russia, the USA, China, North Korea, Iran, Israel, and all getting ready for the big battle, the showdown and guess who is coming to dinner? The Antichrist! And for those nonbelievers, the world is simple collapsing under its own greed. Pillars of greed, it is coming to the point, why simply should the rich be greedy, we’ll all be greedy, and the rich don’t like that. They want the poor to have Godly values, without God, so they can be the only greedy ones. But we are at a new state in the human race, it is called Darwin’s Dilemma, “Monkey see, monkey do!” The plan is old, the style, new. We are already on borrowed time, everyone knows it, feels it that is why they want to get the most out of everything they can while they can (don’t you?). The world is getting greedier by the hour. Have a happy greedy day.
In My Time
19
English Version
In My Time
[Written at the Chicago Airport, in Poetic Prose]
It’s funny how time works, but it works sometimes like this: I’m in Chicago sitting at the airport (at this moment writing this) it is about 6:30 p.m., (February 14, 2006), five people are sitting by me—I don’t’ know them, but they are in my time, just as well, as I’m in their time; as Oprah is, at this moment in my time (somewhere, wherever she is); as Elvis was at one time, in my time, but no longer is, and I am, and he is not. But Elvis was before I was (was he not? Yes of course). And then he and I become, and then was not, or no more. So what can we say about all of this? One of the five people took off, just up and went, up and left. So I will never know if he will remain in my time or not (when I am dead and he is dead, and if we meet each other, we can say, we came from the same time zone, if we have good memories, we’ll remember each other, or he will remember me, I got a bad memory; if we meet that is). We all think it is our time and our time only, when this is not true, the same again: it belongs to all of us. We all get only a portion of it (some more, some less, not much, but enough, we were put here for a few reasons, one was to die—to experience it), and we are all assigned to a process, to spend it, spend our time, like dollars or euros, soles or yen; if you are alert you will know it is called ‘time passing,’ and time does pass us, it will, it has. Thus, we are assigned to spend it around each other; otherwise we’d not have been put here altogether. How we deal with it matters, even though we want to cut off its legs so it cannot walk any further, get away from us, but it does (that is why we get face lifts); it matters even though we want more of it to belong to us, me, you, but it is our time, and again I must say, short at best, long if you are adventurous (and don’t get thinking you deserve more: we all deserve to get less than what we got, so enough with this: why did God take him or her, we all deserve a short day, probable sooner than later). Why? Just because! If it was only your time, you would be on earth alone, so when I say hello to you, it is only because we were assigned to the same time zone, it is as simple as that, its all simply a gift, one we never knew we’d ever have until we got it.
#1209 2/14/06 [written at the Chicago Airport, while my wife was sleeping]
Spanish Version
Nuestro Tiempo
[Escrito en el Aeropuerto de Chicago]
Es divertido como el tiempo funciona, ya que éste funciona algo así: Estoy sentado en el Aeropuerto de Chicago (en este momento escribiendo) es alrededor de las 6:30 de la tarde (14 de Febrero del 2006), cinco personas están sentadas cerca a mi—no las conozco, pero ellas están en mi tiempo, como también yo estoy en su tiempo; como Oprah lo está, en este momento en mi tiempo (en algún lugar, en cualquier parte donde ella esté); como Elvis estuvo en cierta época en mi tiempo, pero ya no; yo estoy y él ya no está. Pero Elvis estuvo antes que yo (¿no? Sí, desde luego). Entonces qué podemos decir sobre todo esto. Una de las cinco personas sentadas cerca de mi se fue, solamente se levantó y se fue, se levantó y se marchó. Entonces nunca sabré si esta permanecerá en mi tiempo o no (cuando estemos muertos, si nos encontramos el uno al otro, podremos decir, vinimos del mismo tiempo, si tenemos buena memoria nos recordaremos el uno al otro, o ella me recordará, ya que yo tengo una mala memoria; esto es, si nos encontramos).
Todos pensamos que éste es nuestro tiempo y sólo nuestro, cuando esto no es verdad, otra vez lo mismo: éste pertenece a todos nosotros. Obtenemos sólo una parte de ello (algunos más otros un poco menos, no mucho, pero suficiente, fuimos puestos aquí por algunos motivos, uno de ellos es morir) y todos estamos asignados a un proceso, a pasarlo, a gastar nuestro tiempo, como dólares o euros, soles o yenes; si estás atento tú sabrás que esto se llama ‘tiempo pasajero’, y nos pasa, lo hará, lo hace. Así, estamos asignados para pasarlo alrededor de cada uno. Cómo lo tratamos es lo que importa, aun cuando queramos cortar sus piernas para que así no pueda ir más lejos, escaparse de nosotros, pero este lo hace (es por eso que nos hacemos estiramientos faciales); esto importa a pesar de que nosotros queremos que más de esto nos pertenezca, yo, tú, pero éste es nuestro tiempo, y de nuevo debo decir, corto en el mejor de los casos, largo si eres aventurero. Si esto fuera sólo tu tiempo, tú estarías solo en la tierra, por eso cuando te saludo, es sólo porque fuimos asignados al mismo huso horario, es tan simple como esto.
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