Poetry Information |
Article on Poetry and Two Poems
Writing Poetry for Tomorrow What does a man need to be a poet, or tomorrow's literary giant? Questions many a student has asked, from Harvard all the way to the community college in one's hometown. What is the answer? Well, I can give you mine, and I'm sure if you asked a hundred writers, or a hundred scholars, you'd get two hundred different answers. I'm sure some would say: hard work, while others might say, the right college, or a break, or it is who you know. Money can play a part in it others would say, and timing, I mean, given the opportunity. And it may very well be all of these, but let me iron out what I think might lay underneath the cellar, for its been cleaned out pretty well above it. What is genius to you? Well, to me it is when something comes natural, easy. And so it should be in the premise we are now talking about. How about experiences in isolation, seclusion (be it in a willing environment or not: like engulfed in drugs or alcohol or prison, war, or some melancholy hole, or illness. How about exquisiteness or beauties per se; let's try a good sense of humor when the chips are down especially-wit might fit better; and how about strong, if not strange empathy and passion. All the schools and brains in the world cannot replace these requirements. Should you have these, and the money, time and schooling all the better; should you not, your possibly going to get tired of writing anyhow, you have nothing to say; rather report, it would be better. Hollow-eyed girl Little hollow-eyed girl Sleeping parents unaware "You do look kind of like a The mother reaches out to gather "Poor little thing," she thinks The child stands back- "Mommy?" "But aren't you cold?" "Come, take my hand!" The child stern-: now stares With pathetic eagerness "I don't know the way?and #585 [3/24/05] 3rd Day of Spring Birds shit while in flight #586 [3/24/05] Mr. Siluk is a poet, and short story writer for the most part. Althogh he has done many political articles, and received a personal letter from President Bush for his contributions in support of may of his policies. He lives in Minnesota, and Peru, and recently has finished a new book called: "Cold Kindness," which will be out soon. Website: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
MORE RESOURCES: Unable to open RSS Feed $XMLfilename with error HTTP ERROR: 404, exiting |
RELATED ARTICLES
The Man Who Could Not Say Sorry For His Sins Sorry would be a start.Though you cant take back your mistakes, and you cant unravel time,you'd think there would be remorse, for such a self serving crime,to send others out to die, to pay the blood price you have decreed,when its purely posturing and posing, all about vanity and greed,to secure a perceived niche in history, glowing down the years,is the extent of your ambition, is the puny limit of your fears,when those you have sent to die, believing implicitly in you,leave relatives behind who see, that nothing you said was true,there is no thought now for those, whose number you dont count,they are yesterdays forgotten, though daily they still mount,no thought of resignation, no apology to those left behind,just onward with the ego, fast forward from those times,as if nothing ever happened, as if your lies are quite ok,as if now is what to focus on, and then was another day,lost back in the mists of time, obscured by clouds half seen,not an affront to the living, not impeachable and obscene,you may want to move on now, and ignore your past infamy,but you should be tried for treason, and jailed for blasphemy. A Different Place... I wish we had met 20 years ago.. The Dead God of Copan (in English and Spanish) English VersionAnd the Death God said: "Let it rise to its glory in the Rio Valley-for a season; then let it be gone, we shall call it Copan?"Prologue: Empires come and go, liken to cosmic events, or the storms around the world: Atlantis, Mu, Greece, Persia, Rome, the Inca Nation, and even the great Maya heroic times of Copan, in Central America. All came and all left, one way or another; now just dust and artifacts in the spiral of time. In The Midst Of All In the midst of darkness, there is light. In the midst of evil, there is virtue. A Hundred and Fifty Dead [Korean War--l952] There I sat, ninety-five degree weatherOutside; the bookstore café, was cool.An Old Timer stood by me, explaining:"There were two-hundred of us on the Island,Near North Korea, back in '52-We guarded 16,000-prisners?"All of a sudden, all hell broke looseThree-hundred North Koreans cameOver the bob-wired fence, in pursuit"It all happened in a matter of secondsThe machineguns killed 150-of themThat's all I saw in the war of '52. Rocks Take some time to stop and look at nature. Pick up a rock or two and think about where it might have started out and what it might have gone through to end up where you found it. Three Poems: The Monkey Man of Lima, Plus Two More What Hides behind the Minute?What hides behind the minute?It seems, no one really knows;How many times will we wakeup,To count the minutes gone?The rose was dead when I arrived;The sword, was rusty and dull;The window curtain was open,And there was music in the hall.Oh lovely minute, where art thou?One, is not like the other-:Whirling in an earthly orbit,As the boundless world discovers. Im Sorry Mom! A Mothers Day Poem Mother's Day Poetry,I'm Sorry Mom!I'm sorry for the troubles And the worries I brought you.I'm sorry for my mistakes, I didn't mean to make you blue. Publishing Your Poetry If you are serious about seeing your work published by reputable publishers, there are a few points you should consider. Firstly and most obviously, you need to determine if you have poetry worth publishing. Asha of Darfur [A poem with a commentary by the author] Asha of DarfurCry, cry-oh little Darfur womanFor your sister Janjaweed-[in Sudan's merciless region-who was raped to death);Where rape and death run ramped;And Asha prays the Arabs don't' hearHere sobbing little black tears??in fear she will be chained to a bedIn Darfur, by the insidious justiceOf the Arabs, who run ramped?Ah, yes! In Darfur you've guessed,It is not a crime to raped and arrested;By the very one who raped, and terrorizedYou; it is the conquest?Satan's ribs!.. The King and Delka & Moiromma: the Cold Planet [Parts 25 and 26] #25The King and Delka[Split Mawkishness-on Moiromma /Part V]Sickly SentimentalityI have sought out friendsOnly to find rawnessOf their passion;And the uniformity Of their vision.Who out there can knowMy cerebral verve?(Only the long dead)By King Moir I[Of Moiromma]Ah! the aimless cosmos come back to his mind as he stands on his balcony looking up into he eerie dark. Lamenting Poetic Moods [six Poems] Advance: in Mr. Siluk's poetry one finds symbolist values, sensuous impressions; verbal magic and even childish jingles; at times the popular 8-syllable verse (ballad metre). Ole Bulky Jeeps & Paper, Ink and Rain [two Peoms] Ole Bulky JeepsThrough late summer's heatThese bulky shaped jeepsRide by house and farmCity and barn-Hungry for Spring-again, hoping to avoidThe Slipping and slidingOf winter's ice and wind?[s]Their weighty legs are dirtyFrom moving dust and rain(Here and there, everywhere)Through all kinds of terrainLike moving clouds caughtIn the foliage of the woods?They never slow down a tingThey have a duty, and give.It's part of how they live-In military-, bulky ole jeeps!. Two Poems: Boyhood, and Old Age [with a note on style] BoyhoodOh me! Thy glorious days have flown!I mealy noticed, now they're gone,How quickly passed the flowers!Time does not stop youth's bells;It was like I was in a spell,And my face now shows the hours!Ah yes! My youthful past days,Still lively in my golden age,When all was quick and newNow wrapped in pictures and books,And friends and family were all I knewAnd love was shown by friendly looks!#741 6/26/05Old AgeThey stop by to see me nowTo find what's old and new,They peer into my-everything, And criticize my views;They tell me what I should like,And that I should be grieved-These are my fragile friends That takes the strongest liberties?I mean to take the buzzer off;And put the phone outside the door;In vain I speak to tell them why-I shan't live here anymore!#742 6/26/05A note on Style: some people ask, "What style of poetry to you like the best?" I can never answer that question; it is open-ended to me. If I feel like breaking free from tradition as in the poem of: "Old Age," so be it; and if I feel traditional verse, a stricter formal pattern should be used, as in "Boyhood," and can contribute richly to the poem, so it is. In Poetry: Meaning of Words [And ...Rocket-belt] In Poetry: Meaning of WordsWhen I write poetry, I check out the meaning of words for too often they sound the same, but once written, and if spelled wrong, in consequence, give a complete different meaning of what I had intended; this I call a moment of damage control. If my rhyme is flat, and my cadence is off, so what, I can survive, as long as the meaning of my words are not; and are as I meant them to be. Breathing-in, Minnesota [a poem: now in Spanish and English] In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets-: dropsLikened to music from its many streams-landOf ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravelEverywhere?Grandpa sits on the porch-daydreaming of, ofSomething, perhaps winter around the corner-;As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes?Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come earlyMaybe he's thinking about summer: miles and milesAnd miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood nowLong gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at theMetal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on theEmbankment, leading up the steps to the porch;It's worn-out like him.The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from allThe foliage, there's a lot of it. Man Unbowed [A poem] Man UnbowedUnbowed by sin, the world of man, standsUpon his feet he gapes into the sky,The indifference of centuries within his eyes,And in his heart the curse of the old world.Who made him dead to love and God?A thing that breathes only for wants and needs,With a lack of emotion, a brother to the fox?Who tightened and pushed up his jagged brow?(To make him look so grand, so proud-so tall. Choices You can do and you can bewhatever you want.You have the power,and the right,to make the changes. Kafka Re-Trial Kafka lands resurrected in Crewedeposited by a silvery alien craft,And whilst he is wondering what to doHe is asked to show his passOr pay an instant one off fineAt a cash dispenser of his choiceAnd they are checking all the timeOn his irises face and voice.And of course they find that he is not,They discover he just cannot be there,Although he seems as if he is visible,And has hands and toes and hair,If he is not on the Great Data Bank,He plainly and simply cannot be,He is not listed and he is not rankedHe is surely not like you and me. Rhymes of an Ordnance Man [Vietnam War: 1971] Rhymes of an Ordnance Man[Vietnam War: 1971]An eleven part poemBy Dennis L. SilukI had went to Vietnam at the age of 23 [1971], and it was most interesting, there were 205,000 troops there when I arrived. |
home | site map | contact us |