Sense or Nonsense

30

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.