Minnesota Poems [in English & Spanish] By Dennis L. Siluk

Minnesota Siluk History

2008-08-30T21:53:00.000-07:00

Minnesota Siluk History
(8-20-2008)

1) Anton Siluk: came to America in 1916, from Russia, his brother went to South America, his father died falling off roof, and mother moved to Warsaw. His wife, Ella, died at 33-years old, in 1933. Anton was Born 1891, died 1974, a painter and restaurant owner; participated in WWI; Children: Ann (living, 90-years old), Elsie (1920 to 2003) deceased, worked for Swifts Meats for 22-years, and was a seamstress thereafter; Rose (deceased) 2007; Betty, presently living, in St. Paul, 80-years old; Wally (POW, WWII, deceased, was 85-years old when he died 2007) and Caroline Siluk, lives in Wisconsin at present; Frank Siluk, died in 1945, Italy, WWII, buried in Florence, Italy.

2) Mike E. Siluk (Freelance Photographer) and Dennis Lee Siluk (both brothers); Mike Edward Siluk, born October 8, 1945, still living in Minnesota, as does his daughter Sharla. Cheryl the younger of the two lives in Missouri. Attended Como Park Junior High School, and Washing High School, in St. Paul, Minnesota; along with his brother Dennis.

3) Dennis L. Siluk, Born October 7, 1947: attended several universities: The University of Maryland, in West Germany, Troy State University, in Alabama. The University of Minnesota, and others, receiving a License in Counselling, and a Doctorate in Education. Spent eight years active, and three reserves in the United States Army (at the rank of Staff Sergeant), and one tour in Vietnam, during the war, in 1971, receiving an Army Accommodation Medal (in total three). Dennis also received an Art award, as 2nd place, St. Paul, from the JC’s, in 1965. Wrote 38-books, reserving several awards in Peru for his Cultural Poetry. Has travelled to sixty-countries, and throughout the United States; lives in Minnesota and Peru at present. Have no children or grandchildren at present. Dennis was close friends with the renowned karate family, the Yamaguchi’s, whom he met and took instructions from in San Francisco, 1968-69.

Additional Information: Mr. Siluk is a recovering Alcoholic (23-years); married to Rosa Penaloza de Siluk for eight-years. In 1993, Mr. Siluk became an Ordained Minister in good standing. He worked on his Masters Degree at Liberty University for several months, in Theology, Eschatology, Old and New Testament studies. He wrote his first poems at the age of 12-years old.

The Reflection ((Vietnam War, 1971) (poetic prose))

2008-04-26T21:12:00.000-07:00

I walked into a bar on 1st Avenue in Minneapolis I remember, it was 1982, and I sat down at the bar, looked into the picture across from me, drank a beer down, asked for a second, smoked a cigarette, several of them, looked into the picture deeper, its glass reflected me.
“You ok, it looks like you’re trying to find yourself in that picture and it bothers you?” said the bartender to me, kindly.
There was a horrifying feature in that picture, it was me, and I replied to his question:
“Mister, according to the patriotic principles we are suppose to have had here in the United States—in war time, as in going to fight in the Vietnam War, I felt all men should have gone, consequently all men by law did not have to go, equality was measured differently, if you were in college, or married, or had money, you need not have gone—you were dispensable; therefore, I have a right to look deep into your glass that has a picture beyond it, with contentment or discontentment, for it concerns my sense of right and wrong.”
The picture was that of tranquil setting, with large stretched out bushy green trees, folks going on a picnic walking between them, children, wives, gentlemen dressed prim and proper. As a person with common sense, I undoubtedly felt, I did not bring home anything that had to do with that scene for my country, my point of view was, the battles I fought in 1971, killed people over, was it over nothing?

Poetic Prose #2361 4-26-2008 ((a Minnesota poem)(written about 11:00 PM, Lima, Peru, at home))

Five Complimentary Poems ((Selected by D.L. Siluk, Poet Laureate)(Minnesota to Peru))

2007-10-22T11:25:00.000-07:00

Five Complimentary Poems
Selected by Poet Laureate, Dennis L. Siluk, Dr.h.c.

Here are five poems Dennis Siluk calls “Complimentary Poems,” three from other writers he feels are very worthy poems, and two written him, for other people. These poems will be in Dennis’ forth coming book, “Silence over a Restless Valley,” due to be published in July of 2008.
The poem: "In the Nick of Time," by Cindy White, is a Minnesota Poem.

CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
By Apolinario Fermín Mayta Inga

CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni el eco de las montañas
Ni la luz que sale de tus lágrimas
Ni el río que en sus orillas herido va sólo.
CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni la sombra que el ala de los pájaros deja
Ni los vientos de los trigales
Ni la tristeza de las nubes.
CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni un cielo de palomas
Ni los sueños de la yerba
Ni las piedras con su angustia.
CUANDO LA ROSA MUERE
DEJA UN HUECO EN EL AIRE
QUE NADIE LO LLENA:
Ni el color de la mañana.

English Version

WHEN THE ROSE DIES

By Apolinario Fermin Mayta Inga
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
Edited by Dennis L. Siluk

WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not the echo of the mountains
Not the light that comes out of one’s tears
Neither the river with its banks, that goes alone

WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not the shade of the wings that the birds leave
Not the winds from the wheat fields
Neither the sadness of the clouds.

WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not the sky full of doves
Not the dreams from the grass
Neither the stones in its anguish.

WHEN THE ROSE DIES
IT LEAVES AN EMPTY HOLE IN THE AIR
THAT NO ONE FILLS:
Not even the color of the morning.

CIUDAD DE HUANCAYO
By Cesar Gamarra Berrocal

Qué hacer cuando el tiempo
se acumula en mis ojos.
Higuera e historias
y voy atravesando calles
sin ningún sentido:
perdí mi libreta de apuntes
y me viene cualquier nombre
y empiezo a escribir:
“Cuando viajo adquiero cierta capacidad de
comunicación
con mi mundo”
y no abro Udana.
Buda detrás del mostrador
y no sé qué es el tiempo
sólo hay
el viento / el polvo y una plaza.

English Version

CITY OF HUANCAYO

By Cesar Gamarra Berrocal
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
Edited by Dennis L. Siluk

What to do when the time
accumulates in my eyes.
Fig-tree and stories
and I go through the streets
without any direction:
I lost my note book
and it come to me any name
and I start writing:
“When I travel I acquire some capacity of
communication
with my world”
and I do not open Udana.
Buda behind the counter
and I do not know what is the time
there is only
the wind / the dust and a plaza.

Qué hacer cuando el tiempo
se acumula en mis ojos.
Higuera e historias
y voy atravesando calles
sin ningún sentido:
perdí mi libreta de apuntes
y me viene cualquier nombre
y empiezo a escribir:
“Cuando viajo adquiero cierta capacidad de
comunicación
con mi mundo”
y no abro Udana.
Buda detrás del mostrador
y no sé qué es el tiempo
sólo hay
el viento / el polvo y una plaza.

“In the Nick of Time”
By Cindy White (in Part and English Only)

I met Dennis at B&N
Café—a decent place towrite and draw. To
set one’s creative juices
among the crowd. Among
the roar of the blender that
would wind up words for
a poet—any poet.

Dennis is an inspiration,
for this lowly poet, as
I sit in the same B/N
café without him, thinking
of his new life in Peru.
Thinking I might catch
his spirit, his muse and
sprout my words.

It was an honor; still
Is an honor to sit
in this space, where
one poet met another poet
in the nick of time.

The Grand
Papa Oso Hamagsa of Huancayo

By Dennis L. Siluk

Now fill my hands with one…
deep walled is its shape.
Find a cloak to cover me:
so I can sink my teeth into the meat!
Restlessly I wait—
wait I say!
For the Grand Papa Oso-hamagsa
that will soon cover my plate!

Dedicated to…No: 2024 Written 10-20-2007 by Dennis L. Siluk,
in Huancayo, Peru

A day,
Along the River Mantaro

And so, down the River’s mouth
(weighed with rays of the morning’s sun)
until I reached its bridge, rustic red,
flat was the water before me,
a stillness, with boat rowing by
(a holiday weekend, with friends…).

The light from the sun, now shown
on the embankment, between me
and the river—boats drawn
without sound; I watched splashes
from their oars—; rocks green to gray
in the far!...
A cool breeze smooth across my face,
the boy leaps up through the brush
…a flower in hand for me.
It was all part of one day (revived)
along the River Mantaro,
in the Spring of 2006.

No. 2015, written in Huancayo, Peru, 10-11-2007, to be published in the forth coming book, “Silence over a Restless Valley,” in July, of 2008.

Dedicated to the boy and his father (Kike and Jose Arrieta)

Rock me to Sleep
(A poem on Suicide)

Suicide is an invitation for death, there are many reasons for it, a fatalistic attitude is good enough for suicide, or rejection of life per se, claiming death is nothing more than a charming quietness thereafter (therefore, a wishful desire; how foolish you may say. On the other hand fear of death can be an awful thing, death in this way of thinking, is a way for lives that are preoccupied with fear, and filled with attempts to win God’s favor and avoid His anger: this way of thinking paralyzes one with fear of death, just the opposite). In any case, many people lean towards the tendency to go to the opposite extreme and find death, wake it up. So I shall give you a poem, one with a poignant final word for, or on death, one that a suicide would use, called ‘Rock me to Sleep’.

We need not give heed to boldness, denial or fear, one need only find Christ, for death is certain, and will come sooner or later anyhow, but during the interim, we may simple remember as death is certain, so is heaven, and there we can bath in our victory, for there in heaven are no powers that can separate us from the love of Christ. And now here is the sad, but true thinking poem, a suicide might ponder on:

Death of death, please rock me to sleep
Where the quiet realm rests, for people like me.
No worries, no evils, no fear or to rise
Out of my breast!…
Lower the coffin, ring the Chapel Bells
Let them tell, of my sorry life
And my scornful quest.
And if death shall not come
I shall wake it up…to take my life.
For there is no other remedy,
There is no happy light.
So death, death, please rock me to sleep,
Where the quiet realm rests, for people like me.

Three Poems form:
Jauja (Peru)

Note (and small summery of the poems): For me these following three poems are interrelated simply because they are all from Jauja, although two are from a town-let called Chongos, the other one from the ancient hillside capital of the Wanka world (700 to 1450 AD), Tunanmarca (all within the Jauja area). Here is where the Inca Empire (from Cuzco) came and subdued the Wanka Capital in the half of the 15th Century. Some 15,000-inhabidents lived on this mountaintop city that is being renovated as I write these three poems, called Tunanmarca. Access to the city is a bit difficult; it is about 12,500- feet above sea level, and there are two defense walls to its summit, but it is worth the hike up the hill. The Cani Cruz (otherwise known as the ‘The Cross of Pain,’ is in the small town of Chongos, the cross dating back to 1601 AD, and the Old Shepard Lady of Chongos, I met by the oldest Church in the Mantaro Valley, 1556 AD with her heard of sheep, perhaps in her 80s, as often these old folks of the Valley are, and continue their daily chores as everyone else does.

The Old Shepard
Lady of Chongos

“It is late, quite late.
And I, I am one of few, awake!
What I love is by my side.
I spent all morning talking,
as I bend and rise
under the moving sun—!
They speak to me—, the sheep,
clear as the eyes of chickens!”

No: 2009 10-5-2007

Visiting Tunanmarca
(700 to 1450 AD)

Oh, on this early afternoon I think
I shall live forever!
I am bound in my carefree flesh;
wrapped in these old Wanka ruins.

Two Poems on Life

Surprised by Morning

There is an unknown dilemma that is by us…;
day has come, and evening has arrived on time.
As for the evening, shades of darkness fell,
so I noticed looking through the glass windows.

I sat quietly back in my white plastic chair
on the Platform, and wrote this poem,
thinking and looking:
“How did it all come about?”
“How will morning be?”

At last I found myself in bed,
the waters of my mind, rose and fell;
then I wakeup, surprised, somewhat,
morning had arrived (it was here).

Note: No: 2008, October 2, 2007, written on the Platform, in Huancayo, Peru, 2.55 PM

“Upon His Death”
(An Elegy, before Death)

Now close his eyes—please, for all his breath has gone.
For, they will not open up here, on Earth again!

For years, life has fed upon his ivory bones
That with his breath gave in (to death) all at once.

Deep inside our minds, we decay, suffer on…!
Until our minds, bodies and souls say: it’s enough.

Now let him be, and his body let us bless
That came to earth, at birth, and goes to heaven to rest.

Short Commentary: Death comes sometimes slowly, or so it seems— (or can be) for us folks watching this happen to our loved ones; perhaps it is harder on us doing the watching, than those doing the dying (?)
We often try to get the last photographs, our facts in order; tell and listen to the last jokes, stories and simple conversations we will forever share, and preserve them deep into our memories. Yes, all these gathered images we truly loved of that individual—and we wait; and until we die like them we simply endure. It’s all called life!... No: 2004 (9-28-2007)

A Chapter in Life and Death
The Mystery of Tomorrow!

Old Dog Ways
(The ways of an old Peruvian Chow Chow)

When dogs grow old—(like Jason)
they seem to want to be left alone
(not completely, but some).
They want to chew their bones
alone…in peace—; they want
to lay down with a gentle-warm wind
(and fall to sleep).
They want to get patted on the head,
now and then; drift along
in a grassy backyard—, check out
the food bin! And like many
people, prefer to be left alone,
with a few—select, good friends!

No: 1998 (9-21-2007); written in Huancayo, Peru on the platform. “Today, Friday, watching old Jason (perhaps seventy), he paces in the back yard, chews his bone, goes to the food bin, by all appearances he has a pretty good life, and he knows it.”

Silence in War (Iraq)

No one sees the bombs and bullets come
anymore, pieces of metal fly by, —
yet voices are crying in silence, as things
fall (bombs, debris and bodies).
One arm left behind, along the roadside,
as the body keeps walking; some
eyes part the face, what direction, the
soldier can’t see. Smells of death,
death that seep out everywhere.
The medic nails a list of the dead,
onto the back of a chair (this is war
at its best, in Iraq).

No: 1992 (9-19-2007). Written in Huancayo, Peru, on the Platform.

“Hill Burning…!”

“The hill is burning!
The hill is burning!”
It frightened all the ants
and bugs…in the
underbrush— (I suppose);
and the butterflies hurled back
their manes, it seemed.
As six-years old, life is simply
watching everything!

Note: when I was six-years old, I vaguely remember, but I do recall lightly, the hill or embankment we had in our backyard, in St. Paul, Minnesota, I let on fire; let me explain: I was somehow captivated with a book of matches I had in hand, playing on that steep hillside, can’t remember how I got them, and I lit the dry yellow tall weeds and grass on fire, thinking I could contain it in a little circle, but of course I could not, and when it got out of control—and it’s blaze grew hot and high I ran a hundred-yards to the back of our house went inside the screened door and told my mother (my mother, aunts, brother, grandfather and neighbors came running out towards the hill, after someone started yelling ‘fire,’ after I had mentioned it of course): thus, I had said only twice, almost exhausted to my mother: “The Hill is burning…” then my mother and brother, two years older than I, and the several other people (in the summer of 1953) grabbed buckets of water, running back and forth, throwing it on the fire. After all was under control, my mother asked me, “Did you light the fire?” I hesitated, but said “…yes.” And for the life of me, I can’t remember what happened afterwards, but I never played with matches again. No: 1995 (9-20-2007). Written on the Platform, Thursday, 4:00 PM, the rain clouds just covered up the sun).

Poems on Death
Part II (9-2007)

Ode to Age

The old man, I watched him
trying in vain—to get into his apartment,
to open the door with his hands and key—which
summoned his brain, in vain;
not working with his eyes, at eighty-seven.

And there, there, in the yard next to him
a boy of ten, his grandson, playing with his dog:
two lives changing, like summer and winter,
rain and snow; one watching the other grow old,
ready to die; the other, youthful, hip to thigh,
loosed hair, waiting for another year to pass
so he can grow up fast.

Note: No. 1994, Daniel and Papa Augusto, and the dog Jason, in the backyard, while the author sits on the platform watching. The clouds in the sky, darkening, it is Wednesday, about 4:30 PM, 9-19-2007, Huancayo, Peru.

Death by Suicide
(…and a long needle)

Suicide is like a long needle in the heart—;
one trying to escape the slum of earth’s dark.
Not seeing the high elm above their heads
(and spring being not far off);
thus, they think to conquer life and death
in just one breath!
So many ways to die, so many coffins under
the sky;
dark shadows everywhere…so many pits
and flash floods in a normal life—
but after winter, there’s always spring:
too bad they can’t see it, from where they stand.

Note: No: 1994 (9-19-2007)

Human-trees

We are human-trees, born from the roots of others—;
with branches for legs and arms…,
we lose days in our lives like trees lose leaves
off their branches.
Water is born within us—.
Like bark from trees, we shed our skin—
and watch the weeds grow around us,
I call them bad-seeds—yet like trees
we must all live our lives out…!

No: 1993 (9-19-2007)

War Poem
No Three

Gnits
((A poem on the Times, and war) (21st Century doom))

Step down please
and love somebody—,
so much to possess…;
so many signs in the world:
like the ripples in the sea
(who can withstand the waves).
Like the leaves falling off the trees,
the armies of the world
are getting ready.
Where are the beams of yellow
and white lights—
that bellows freedom? (such a plight!)
No more walking the streets in
the afternoons.
We should always be together, we
never know how close is doom!

No: 1988 (9-16-2007) Written in the morning,
and rewritten in the evening.

Ice, Ice, Ice (A Minnesota, Mississippi Poem)

2007-08-21T13:27:00.000-07:00

Ice, Ice, Ice

(A Minnesota, Mississippi Poem)

(Diary notes in Poetic Prose) In the late 1950s it was not uncommon to see the Mississippi freeze over with ice, ice, ice—along the banks of the city I lived in (St. Paul, Minnesota). During the spring thaw (or just prior to it), the sun breaking forth, winter to spring can be a marvelous thing, a dangerous sight; the water seems to drop a foot, as the ice, ice, ice—creates jams along the river. We have a few islands along the river’s center and on and around these and down the river around the bends, little ice mounds build up; everything melting, freezing and melting again. As it tries to warm up, the ice, ice, ice—floats down powered along by pushing ice, ice, ice—and hitting ice, ice, ice—barriers, thus creating ice, ice, ice—heavy days. The ice slows the movement of the river from a swift rush, that will develop soon, that will create a great water rush, in nearby waterfalls. The cakes of ice, on top of ice, ice, ice—will rub against the banks of the river (during this time it is best to stay at high ground). The banks and crust along the river becomes all sludge, muck a watery mess, thereafter it will mark the way downriver, around the many bends (to St. Louis and New Orleans). The levee (by the High Bridge)—with its houses—will be a foot in mud and water, the streets up to West Seventy (up a score, from the river) where the street cars are, will hear the cracking, the ice, upon ice, ice, ice—rattle, see the rising water frame the ice against the banks, until it looks like the thick walls of troy, and the jams will break and the flood will be created in its place, swift, swift, and swifter, at night this will take place (start), while the city snoozes, doses and sleeps, thus, the temperatures peaks.

#1942 (8-18-2007) part of the story “No Road Back Home”

Note.- The picture is of the Author at Minnehaha Fall in winter in Minnesota.

Frosty Minnesota March

2007-03-17T09:02:00.000-07:00

Frosty Minnesota March

Dennis

“Mother, you look so cold?”

(She’s gazing out the window, she loves winter time, its frightful cold this evening, though, and winters turn into a lion.)

Dennis

“Mother, I’m going south for the rest of March—come along, the winters too long for me!”

(She simply looks into my eyes says :) “The South, go on, let me be!”

Dennis

“Sweet mother dear—tomorrow they say, comes another storm!”

(Here cold eyes now look at me, says with a gleaming eye and smile :) “Then take me to Las Vegas or let me just freeze!”

#1735

Minnesota Winter Crows[A Minnesota Poem] in Haiku form

2007-03-17T08:09:00.000-07:00

Minnesota Winter Crows
[A Minnesota Poem] in Haiku form

The long, long wave of winter
Creeps, slowly creeps back
From where it came from

It had burst around us, this
This Merry spell—died
It has not, not yet…

But lifted its gray, bleak clouds—
It most surely has!
Less lovely…yes, perhaps;

Then comes early spring: crows
In their bleak, black—flight
Looking feverish…!

#1732 3-13-2007

Notes: here is a four stanza Haiku, on the ending of winter in Minnesota, in 2007. Minnesota is known for its winters going out like a lion, and so it has proven so in the month of March, of 2007, when this poem was written. It would seem winter would simply stop, and spring would come in, but it never happens that way. Even the crows have a period of time to readjust to the new season, for the winter has helped them grow thin and lean, and has helped the humans in Minnesota to grow fat, because they hibernate in the house somewhat. Then in spring the crows grow fat, and the humans start growing lean, they get out of the house as soon as possible—and then there is no end to their activities.
Commentary on Winter Storms: Winter storms are simply a part of the culture, a fact of life, or so it would seem in Minnesota; I was born there, in St. Paul, and have witnessed many of them. Severe winter storms go back as far as weather reporting goes, to perhaps, Nov 10, 1835, when a severe storm caused 19shipwrecks on Great Lakes, 254 sailor’s died´. And then on Nov 8, 1870 the first winter storm warning was issued by the U.S. Army Signal Corps. On March 14-15, 1941 terrible blizzard in western counties, 85-mph winds at Grand Forks, 75 mph winds at Duluth. In 1996, we had three blizzards, and in 1997, we had five blizzards. The total seasonal snow fall, is between 90 and 120 inches.

Angel or White Shadow (Surr'el))Minnesota, Poetry))

2007-02-23T20:14:00.000-08:00

Angel or White Shadow (Surr’el)

My guardian Angel—
I’ve named you—Surr’el
I hope you don’t mind

I’ve never heard your voice
But I’ve seen you—
At least one time.

I’m the one you’ve protected
For so many years,
You stood, beside my bed once…

(when I was dying, almost gone…
and I got a glimpse of you—
tall and white and broad:)

You are my white shadow
Who I wish to meet someday,
I have thought of you often…!

#1696 2-18-2007

Note: the poem speaks for its self I suppose, but I did want to point out, the happening, where I had a stroke, and heart attack, and was not suppose to make it, and fooled everyone, was at the VA Hospital, in St. Paul/Minneopoles, Minneosta, in 1993, May 5. And every morning I'd wake up and see the doctor there, and when I had asked his name, they said "Which one," and said he does not come around until noon with two other doctors, and a nurse (I saw him about 5 AM each morning just standing there, solid as stone, white jacket, big and broad). I asked: "Then who was at the end of my bed these past tree days?" They said, "No one." Well, you can say what you want, but when you see it for yourself, no one can tell you different. Especially when they said I was at one point, like a Fruitcake, dead in the brain. So I think I owe my angel one poem, for those were three trying days. I remember slightly, trying to use the phone, and I couldn´t figure out the numbers for the life of me; even forgot how to play the guitar, and I had been playing it for 30-years at the time. I relearned quickly, and was the miricale of the ward. My brother Mike was there for me, and my mother was having every church in the City pray for me, bless her soul. And I have written poems for both of them, but now for the angel.

Night Song (confessional poetry))Minnesota))

2007-02-23T20:13:00.001-08:00

Night Song (confessional poetry)

Anger set in her going, like an over would watch
As the hospital tried to hide me
From my unwed mother’s arms
(in 1947)—
And then I took my place among
The corrupt world.

There were no bands or relatives
Upon my arrive, I
Was just simple, and naked
Looking blindly at the walls;
Now in my mothers arms
Held tightly as the nurses frowned.

Note: #1610 (1-15-2007). One child had died that night in the hospital, on October 7, 1947, at St. Josephs Hospital, in St. Paul, Minnesota; hence, I was almost fed to a new family, had my mother fallen to sleep up a few minutes more.

Non-Virtue (A Minnesota sketch from a summers day)

2007-02-23T20:10:00.000-08:00

Non-Virtue
(A sketch—From the summer of 1960))
Dedicated to Mike Siluk))

“Hurry up, come here!” He said.
My brother, Mike, was smoking in the backyard underneath some bushes afraid mother would see him, thus hiding somewhat, and he spotted me, or I him, I can’t remember fully who got the first glance, but we were seeing eye to eye now, so I leaned down and got closer to those bushes, and sure enough it was Mike, smoking a cigarette, if I had any doubts before, I had none now.
He was shifting that cigarette like car gears, between his mouth and hand, and back again. Perhaps that is where he got his name later, “Gunner,”
I couldn’t say for sure, but I think he used to gun his cars, you know, accelerate it like puffing on a cigarette to get more juice out of it, before the big bang, before the car took off. I suppose it made it all that much more pleasurable.
The pantry was part of the kitchen, connecting anyhow, to one another, and mother would walk back and forth, she could see through the pantry window, the whole backyard, and that is why Mike singled with his hands, motioned that is (to me), to join him in his little crime scene. Ah, I was not wise back then, as you will see in a moment.
“All right,” he said, “take it quick,” as if that those were my initial intentions. I was not there to start a smoking habit, that would last twenty-years, but he slid the cigarette into my right hand, as if it belonged there. Teenager to teenager, a mutual crime was now born. At this point I was already saying to myself, ‘What am I doing,’ but I kept it in my hand, and slowly brought it to my mouth.
“All right,” he said smiling. He really didn’t need to say another word, I got the picture but he said something on this order: we are equally involved. And so I perhaps learned my first lesson in self-survival, or was it self-interest. If he was evil, it was I now, because my innocence was really simply waiting to be tested under fire, so it would have happened down the road of life I suppose, somewhere, had he not triggered my so called evil side. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame him, under the circumstances, as Mark Twain once said, and I learned that phrase of his, way too late in life, “A virtue is not a virtue until tested under fire.” I didn’t do very well, did I?

So what did I learn, and what is the premise of this little sketch? Perhaps, we can call it a virtue, or a good quality one has is really a non-virtue, until tested under fire, and usually we don’t even know it.

(Humor) 1/16/2007

Grandpa: the Ole Russian Bear (Minnesota Poetry)

2007-02-23T19:46:00.000-08:00

Grandpa: the Ole Russian Bear (Minnesota Poetry)
(Back in the mid-‘60s; St. Paul, Minnesota)

Who was he? I kind of misplaced him when I was young, his rustic voice, broken English, but now and then it comes back to me (the Ole Russian Bear, grandpa). He was kind in his own rude way…funny, but that’s how I remember him; my brother, mother and I, all together on Cayuga Street, in the late 50s and 60s…!

Who was he? I kind of miss him now, the Ole Russian Bear; he cursed a lot, I recall, to whom ever got in his way, in those old, far off days—but now, now that I think of it, he was what he was, the sole voice that stood above the house, perhaps feeling un-thanked, who knows.

Yes indeed, the catalyst of over lives he was, perhaps a tinge of destiny he planted here and there: he counted his money, like honey, and paid the taxes, tradesmen, and utilities, I guess I didn’t notice or care.

A man of a few words, little style, but his presence was huge, manners sedate, faithful as I look back, more so than that old black wooden mantel clock, that sat on top of the dresser, more faithful than most wives.

1/21/2007 (#1628)

An Old Error! (Confessional Poetry)

2007-02-23T19:43:00.000-08:00

An Old Error!

This afternoon, I was thinking,
An old friend—had asked me once!—
“…you’ve never—missed an opportunity?”
And I thought hard on this
And it came to mind ‘one,’ once
I let opportunity slip through
My fingers, once, just once!
And it took me ten-years
To fix the error!—

#1677 (2-5-2007)) written while eating at El Parquettos Café, in Lima, Peru (Miraflores)

Note: This is not a complaint in life, rather an observation, if not a confessional poem, one that reminds me in the 1980s; while in Minnesota, failure can become an image for future success, as it did for me, or it can indeed make one feel like a loser. For me it was a driving force that helped me make over a million dollars, at one time.
Error, in a collapsed career…do not reduce your expectations, simply because of errors, we all make them, a slip is only a wrong note hit on a string of a guitar (I’ve often hit a wrong string, and no one was the wiser, they never noticed)) but we do don’t we)). And now that I look back, perhaps it was good for me to have made the error, life was boring for me at that certain time and job, deadening me you could say, thus, it made a big difference in my future decision making, and I monitored myself closer.

Poetic Profile (D.L. Siluk)

2007-02-23T19:39:00.000-08:00

Profile

My childhood—was in St. Paul, a neighborhood
where sunlit lilacs were growing—
pink and crimson red. My youth at seventeen
(on this planet earth, of asphalt and cement)
I say only a fragment of my life, forgive me…not sure
where it went.

I was found by many women, to be a home for them
cupid of the neighborhood , back then.

I am calm and live in a deep drum
a dream of a drum (some say):
I love beauty in all forms, even black roses—
and blue jays and yellow soup with chicken floating
on top.

I dislike lazy or unpolished brass. In my silence I listen
for echoes, from the outside of the world.

Today at the café, the man across from me—
staring and writing, black hair, dark glasses,
under an umbrella, (perhaps gay)
is howling inside his skin, for a friend, to look
mysterious for him—, he had a message to give, and
I didn’t take it…!

Men by themselves hope
to talk as gods someday, perhaps to be one, or
looked upon as, so it seems at the end
they leave the world with little or nothing,
but a change of cloths and hat, perhaps a
mattress and bed….

And when comes the day, our ship comes in, to take
us away…never to return, we’re all naked again!

Comments: The whole elaborate business of living and our bodies and minds collapsing after time, is written, and memorized deep within us, there is time for everything it has been said, under the sun, but walking will not get it done, we must run with the wind to fill all the gaps in our soul and minds. Thus, a quick examination, a profile, if you please, is needed today, or so I feel, and now you got it.

#1680 2-6-2007

Three Minnesota Poems: Haiku for MN Winter; MN's Winer Rose & Waiting for Autumn

2007-02-23T19:33:00.000-08:00

Haiku for Minnesota Winter

Its mid winter
I wonder how they’re doing
In Minnesota.

#1649

Minnesota’s Winter Rose

There is frost on the Rose
Shadows sway with whistling winds,
Soundless is the snow…

#1676 2-5-2006

Waiting for Autumn

I was born in Autumn, and will perhaps die in Autumn
(Born in autumn I say, born in autumn, autumn
in Minnesota; thus, come forth with me,
O autumn—a peasant’s fondness, the hour is near).
Why do I long for you ((autumn)), become lost in your leaves?
I can see the rain on your roses, O thou inexorable time
Who passes the soul, the soundless soul—like snow?
I love your shadows bony thin, as the winds gather appearance,
It is autumn of the next year, and I stand alone—waiting
I love thee! I weep; embrace her, her chilled face,
Her sweet breath, known only to the air, crystal at the mouth.
She has a veil, mystery goddess, hast thou seen me!
Promise’s to come again she does, with her thine eyes
but I understand, you must leave for paradise!
To return in another year; yet my unhappy soul, drifts into
a darker world—Thou lovest me? But cannot stay!
With fringing flames, ye are fled! Holy whispers die, fade
Yet murmurs to my heart remain, I did not wish it!
but they remain,--ah! Far beyond these hours! She
Remains captive for a time, time and circumstance, will
I see you again?
Perhaps, if doom does not become my destiny! —come
forth with me, our far adventure waits…!
Should I not somewhat slay thee? If I could I would, then
you hath not me, or need of me to wait for thee!
It little matters which way I go, I drowest in gratification
That I have met you with a peaceful heart.
I was born in Autumn, for autumn, and will perhaps
die in Autumn;
Sorrow or joy, it little matters which comes, as long as
Autumn remains, her fiery-colored wings, to laugh
With me, as we hear the trumpets of God in the wind.

#1691 2-17-2007

The Old Camera (A Minnesota Poem))Cayuga Street Gang))

2007-02-23T19:31:00.000-08:00

The Old Camera
(A tribute to old times)

Sometimes I feel
(looking at that old picture
from that old camera—back in ‘58)
feel I’m still that eleven-year old boy
in Como Park (St. Paul, Minnesota)
standing in the sun
with my pal, Mike Rossert
(like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer)
smiling—proud as can be
(over nothing)) just life))
arm around his shoulder
(his around mine)) now 59)).
I suppose there wasn’t a care in the world
(just loose time, romping time—).
That old camera (1840s)
caught it all:
life was so simple
it was a ball…!

#1632 1-29-2007

Note: Dedicated to Mike Rossert. Mike and I roamed St. Paul as kids, between 1956, perhaps to 1959; but we remained friends until I was perhaps 15-years old, then we both lost track of each other. He was perhaps my first real friend, I mean, one I spent any quality time with. We’d roam the banks of the Mississippi River, and wake up the bombs in the caves thereabouts. We run and explore the tunnels under the streets of St. Paul, Minnesota, that went from the Capitol to the Historical Society, and to other such places. And to the top of the hill where the museum used to be, and of course out to Como Park; we’d also run in and out of the elevators downtown, like clowns. I think he was more daring than I but it was—nonetheless, unforgettable times, times that are worth looking to back; thus, it is prudent I do believe, to let ones kids explore the wonders of youth, it is only around for a clap of an eye, than lost to oblivion, unless you can capture it, in a poem.

The Shameless Summer (Cayuga Street, St. Paul, MN)

2007-02-23T19:30:00.000-08:00

The Shameless Summer
(And the old mud hole of Cayuga Street)

The street-road was being torn up, to be a highway,
A number of men worked at the end of the street
Where there reside two dead ends, South to Indians
Mound (and ahead)
We all stooped over and under and around the bridge
they were building
The mud hole, where we swam, seem to wait for us
this year of my life
From mud too mud, lumped and cool, we swam in it slowly
Waved our muddy hands over the top of it, feeling the
cool wind
Above our heads of this mud swamp, the highway to be
Here we were all wavering under the shameless sun
I was but twelve years of age, restless like everyone
And as the darkness fell upon us all, a starry darkness
Roger, and me, Mike and Doug, and a number of girls
lay face upward, on this stale mud water
Laughing and playing childlike, unreal, unimaginable
On the blanket of mud on shore, Roger and she lay
floating away, in some starry unnatural way
To me it was just play, play in dishwater broth, I was
Only twelve you see…

1/21/2007 #1629 (Dedicated to the Old Gang of the 60s, of Cayuga Street)) St. Paul, Minnesota))

Note: The mud hole was not there the following year, but we must have gone to it a dozen times that summer. There is nothing like a little swimming pool, half mud or not, that can make the summer more interesting than normal, and it did. I think for Roger, it was a playground for him to seduce his new girlfriends, for me it was play, but then Roger was a number of years older than I, perhaps four or five. Mike, my brother was now fifteen, and I think drinking and a few other things was on his mind, and we did that there likewise, and a few joy rides there after. All in all, it was a brazen summer.

Rats without a Roof (A Minnesota poem))and Three Epigrams))

2007-02-23T19:26:00.000-08:00

Three Poetic Epigrams

Empty

I have been one of those folks that can pick up and move an irrevocable distance at a moment s notice; forgetting the trauma on the body, the problem is, now at 59-years old, I’m running on empty.

#1698
Dry Horse

People see what they
Think they saw, and expect you to
Believe what they think they believe.

#1697

Luck

Those that don’t know their won luck
Are prone to get bitten
By the imperious dog.

#1699 2-23-2007

Rats without a Roof
[Dedicated to My Brother Mike Siluk—l958]
…the rats would emerge from under the fire-barrel
in late fall (where the garbage was burnt year round),
before the season faded into winter;
this is when the stone-cold stillness
freezes the ground:
this is when my brother and I emptied
the old burnt garbage and all—
buried it deep, while the ground was still soft.
Shadows lurked when we moved that fifty-gallon barrel,
moved it on its rim—then came the fat hairy rats
who lived underneath…
we both knew they’d soon appear,
just when, not where; scat, they did:
to ‘nd fro; it was their roof to their home
you know— …sniffing us, they’d run here and there,
right behind the garage, the trees, bushes
and towering weeds, to our side—they’d
turn around squeaking insanely squeaking,
at our disturbance—as we took the roof
off their home, and they watch:
quivering in the icy wind: as we kept
digging…still digging the hole!...
to put the trash in…!

#1700 2-23-2007 (Revised) (Originally written, Mar. 24, 2005)) St. Paul, Minnesota, USA))

2006-07-30T12:20:00.000-07:00

The Meat Packers Son [A poetic Lament: in Prose]

2006-07-29T22:19:00.000-07:00

The Meat Packers Son
[A poetic Lament: in prose]

You are like a sparrow that is not here:

The fat guy with the white mustache—The Asian lady nearby, smiling, listening to a bronze skinned guy –(next table over) under the umbrella of the café, next to mine: We’re all just people going to die, under the naked sky, some stuck in beehives. —We’re all thinking it’s far off, thinking it will never come to that, but death comes, we see it all around, it just isn’t our time, and I’m just a meat packer’s son, making a rhyme.

‘Old man,’ they call me now, capped with a receding hairline, a few white hairs, here and there, a drought, rising inside my brain, knotted muscles everywhere; once unimaginable, like vapor clouds in my eyes. I see my Mother in that old sofa chair, she’s saying, “I never expected to live so long,” how strange it seemed back then, now, I got one upstairs.

My saga is hammering, I live in a labyrinthine circle, with root deep bones, knuckles, shoulder, chromosomes, breaking down; dreams not worth much anymore: they come during darkness and vanish before dawn. I have a grimace on my face, like the cool breeze from the ocean, which moistens my eyes; winter in Lima is always too unruffled, upon the topsoil of my face.

The old fat man’s gone to the can; to my left, the new breed, he sits at the table, computer above his knees, a cup of coffee, by his elbow, nothing else, he’s got the world by the tail, but it looks to me like a lonely table.

The fat man now is standing, looking for change; I’ll never see him again! He got his camera in hand; I wonder if he’ll live to see the pictures, I hope he so. But I suppose I really don’t care, out of sight, out of mind, I’m just a meat packers son, one with a soft face, crab-claws who fought in Vietnam.

Mother, Mother, what ill-bred son have you so wisely kept, if you could see me again? I’m mouth less, eyeless, bald and fat, it would have killed you instead. Mother, you praised my poetry once, un-teachable I was, but I learned, I learned dear mother—and now you are somewhere floating above me, listening. Like bluebirds that never were, life has come and left her. And left me in the kingdom you bore me to, you even had to help me tie my shoes, so helpless I must have been, way back when. My eyes nowadays, seem as if they are in milk-covered glasses; I was proud to be a meat packer’s son, I still am, I told everyone, under this now, flat dull sun.

I wonder where the old fat man went—? Like life to death, he came and diminished—; wonder if he was a hell of an old warrior, like my mother and I: lifting the delicate hammers in life, catgut stitches on our hearts. Peaceable she died, with the Lord, Jesus Christ by her side.

I wander if they have bald angels up above, insane world down here: like entering a nightmare; waiting for death, for the wood and stones over our heads.

[End]

Images of light are flimsy, I have leaf-size veins, that seem to have a lack of action, filled with something; I used to call my mother “The Queen bee,” she used to smile when I said that, like sugar roses; I’m on my second cup of coffee, a heat lamp over my head, the night market of Miraflores, is being set up, over in the park, everyone’s looking to me, to be, camouflaged, conspicuous.

I’m looking about, tables, tables, heads and bodies, I think a meat packers son, how she’d love to come home and tell me of all the gossip going on, down at the stockyards, like snowflakes, in Minnesota, falling down over head, and we laughed; I wonder how many boxes of bacon, she had to pack?

#1405 7/29/2006; written at El Parquetito, Miraflores, Lima, Peru

Eight Poems: Two on Minnesota [one: Beer on a Cockroach, etc.]

2006-07-29T17:57:00.000-07:00

1) Winter in Minnesota

In the chilled—evenings, of December,
Inside my warm home, warm night,
I hear the winds and trees chatter;
The day has come and gone—complete.
Northern-lights are over head:
I say my prayers and go to bed.

The bustling hours of fall is gone
Feasts, festivals, birds and songs:
All going, going, —gone;
Gone, the enchanted colors of leaves:
Pleading, pleading for early spring.

#382/11/04

2) Minnesota’s Late Autumn

The golden grass of autumn
was waiting for this day
when snowflakes would start to fall again,
in their solicitude, to falls anxiety—
hugging the warmth left in the air, as they fall,
fall: down, down, down—
with a disregarded voice;
down lushly to its parlor,
on Minnesota ground.

The golden grass of autumn
leaves, sailing in the breeze,
laughing all the way down,
laughing like a thief:
laughing, as if they embezzle
autumn, for another week.

#397/12-4-04

3) A Thousand Years

A thousand years from now
By men who ne’er saw us:

Till the ground,

Walk the streets,

Will walk by our graves:—
Thinking: who were they [?]
(my grave will say)
We were simply before you.

#378 10/2004

4) Death to Passion

Passions parish upon death;
Where birth was given—
But love never fades.

#377 10/2004

5) Voices in the Dark

Ephemeral, repudiate spirits
With Arm-thick roots that mesh
Lost within their own stillness
Hell’s henchmen wait in silence
Like ghostly unbroken shadows
Lost in skeletons maimed in death.

#373 11/3/04

6) Approaching the Tower

In the little German village
Around the bend
The path leads to a Tower
It’s back against a battlement.

The Tower rears above the trees
Scorched by drab realities;
An iron staircase leads to its top,
Open Front—eldritch dark.

(Its decay tells me much)

Its aging timbers, like bony fingers
Its open front, like lipless jaws
Vainly guarded, feasting on old visions—
As I, a visitors walk on by…

Aye! it whispers to me, to me:
“I am the awkwardness of time
I shall out live you—by and by
With your hideous little rhyme.”

I walked away, away, away,
Down the lane, down the lane
It was laughing—laughing
I dare not look back, back…

#370 10/18/04

7) Beer on a Cockroach

i was a seasoned drinker
i was not stupid
i am not a cockroach. yet
like a lump of iron by a magnet,
i was to drink.

i was a professional drunk
staggered little
made it to bed
and was normal among men
this is my point
i did the common tasks.

unimaginative as so many are
i was not;
nor was my brain
numb with
cockroaches in it. I had
not fallen into the gutter;
ecstasy’s, DT’s never got me
like my brothers.

I never staggered, never fell
it was my brain that was
drunk
not yet my body, like dying
cockroach’s—
my phantoms were in
comic books;
syllogisms: reality i had yet
as was my pent-up silences and
suspense’s.

i wore an iron collar
around my naked neck;
a bracing smile that choked.
with drinking
there is no freedom
only
anticipation of death!

i once saw a man pour beer
on top of a cockroach
drowning him drunk;
the man was dying of
alcoholism
thinning of his membranes
and die he did (an early death)
“after the first death there is
no more” he said.

he lived in a confused world
like the lies of a servant
answering the door—
he only knew people as an
acquaintance
separate in the
present.

he saw his path to the grave
as I have seen mine; yet
like many
lack the will to die
when the time
arrives.

but we all find out
we do not out smart fate
we just trick and outwit
ourselves.

everything under the sun
is old (even suicide)
the feeble bubbles in the
drug induced soul, now
so frail
from drinking slow.

it is the penalty man must pay
for intoxicated unconsciousness;
he sleep’s an un-lucid life:
like a reptile chewing meat;
like in the devouring day of
of Pompeii—
the only thing different between
you and him is
he can anticipate his
death.

Inspired by V. Murthy #394/12/4/04

8) A Soldier From The
Sydney Coast [l971]

Sumer waves in Australian waters.
The Waters ascend, climbs stories high.
Leaping waves, slapping rocks—
Creating a moment of stillness…

I am a soldier on leave, Vietnam [1971];
Walking along this Sydney coast
A mermaid statue is right ahead
Painted gold, looking out for the bold…

Note: the author was in Sidney, in l971, on leave from Vietnam, Rest and recuperation. #490/12-11-04

The House of Blue [Poems out of Minnesota: In Spanish & English]

2006-07-28T19:25:00.000-07:00

Picking Lilacs

When I was a youth, I picked my grandfather’s lilacs, --smelling them as if—they were golden apples of cinnamon—, golden apples of chance. I didn’t know why I picked them, at the time, I just did: saw beauty in the simplicity of it; they were perhaps much like me, simple.

‘Where would life lead me?’ I asked myself: while picking those purple lilacs, as if they were yellow and white dandelions, in the backyard; where indeed, would it lead? There I planted my seeds— I guess [unknowingly].

When I was young, becoming a young man, I wanted to become—grow up to be many things. Things people laughed at: said, ‘Impossible,’—said: ‘you’re from there: nowhere.’ They’d say: ‘…you’re too much of this,’ and ‘not enough of that, so don’t expect to live your dreams…’ I was the jest of it.

I was silent in most all this kidding and ribbing: I recall: most all of this did make me think though: think I was better than that: their ill advice, that free-flung dogmatic wisdom: negativisms.

And so with books, adventures in mind, energy and chances, I traveled, got debt-free, I became, little by little the man I dreamed, planned, schemed, wanted to be: expectations of a dry dead voice, active mind, always haunting me. Little by little the man I planned was coming, and they would see.

Jumping every hurdle in my way, burying pride in a watery grave; burning all those negative reminders off my back [who I was and where I came from, where I should be]: I planted new seeds.

And became the person I wanted to see: little by little wanted to be, it became me, simply by picking those lilacs so many years ago and thinking: learning, taking time: planting seeds, watering my needs; cultivation, watching it grow, that was part of my goal, working a plan, like my grandfather did so many years ago when he came over from Russia, to America. Yes, simply by picking and thinking.

He yelled at me for many things (Grandpa: back in those far off days), in our extended family ways: but never, never for picking those silly purple and white lilacs off those bushes in the backyard, while I was thinking; and now I know why: Harvest Time.

#1344 [10/2005] A Minnesota Coffee House Poem

Spanish Version
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Poema Introductorio

Cogiendo Lilas

Cuando era joven, cogía las lilas de mi abuelo, —oliendo ellas como si—fueran manzanas de oro de canela—, manzanas de oro de posibilidades. No sabía por qué las cogía, en ese entonces, solamente lo hice: vi la belleza en la simplicidad de ello; ellas se parecían quizás mucho a mí, simples.

‘¿Dónde me conduciría la vida?’ Me pregunté: mientras cogía aquellas lilas púrpuras, en el patio trasero, como si ellas fueran dientes de león amarillos y blancos; ¿dónde de verdad, conduciría esto? Allí planté mis semillas—pienso [inconscientemente].

Cuando era joven, convirtiéndome en un joven, quise ser—crecer para ser muchas cosas. Cosas del que la gente se reía: decían, ‘Imposible’, —decían: ‘tú eres de allí: de ninguna parte’. Ellos dirían: ‘…tú eres demasiado de esto, y no suficiente de aquello, por eso no esperes vivir tus sueños…' yo era la broma de ellos.

Yo estaba silencioso la mayor parte de todas estas bromas y burlas: Recuerdo: la mayor parte de todo esto me hizo pensar sin embargo: pensar que yo era mejor que esto: su consejo enfermo, aquella sabiduría dogmática libre-tirada: negativismos.

Y entonces con libros, aventuras en mente, energía y posibilidades, viajé, me libre de deudas, me convertí poco a poco en el hombre que soñé, planifique, proyecte, el hombre que quise ser: expectaciones de una seca voz muerta, mente activa, siempre persistente. Poco a poco el hombre que planifiqué venía, y ellos verían.

Saltando cada barrera en mi camino, enterrando orgullo en una tumba acuosa; quemando todos aquellos recuerdos negativos de mi pasado [quién era y de dónde vine, dónde debería estar]: Planté nuevas semillas.

Y me hice la persona que quise ver: que poco a poco quería ser, me hice simplemente cogiendo aquellas lilas hace tantos años atrás y pensando: estudiando, tomando tiempo: plantando semillas, regando mis necesidades; cultivándolas, mirándolas crecer, eso era parte de mi objetivo, trabajando un plan, como lo hizo mi abuelo hace muchos años atrás cuando él vino de Rusia a América. Sí, simplemente cogiendo lilas y pensando.

Él me gritaba por muchas cosas (mi abuelo: allá en aquellos días lejanos), en nuestra forma de clan familiar: pero nunca, nunca por coger aquellas ridículas lilas púrpuras y blancas de aquellos arbustos en el patio de atrás, mientras yo pensaba; y ahora sé por qué: Tiempo de Cosecha.

# 1344 [Octubre/2005]

∆

Section One: Anvil
Autobiographical Group

One Drunken Day and Night
(In San Francisco)) May, l968))

That’s all that matters, getting drunk, that way I don’t need to endure the looks and manners, behavior of the many; the brows, eyebrows, the crap. A little with beer, some poetry, and looking at the pictures on the wall: I can jump into those pictures to no end, become part of them; die inside of them, zone off and when I wake up, I got a hundred cigarette putts in my ash, damn ashtray: ‘…who they from,’ I say: ‘me, me,’ my mind says, my second-self repeats: the oil paintings the old man painted, he lived in Alaska, got hurt, he’s up there drunk now, Harvey the barkeep tells me each night that’s what he’s doing, painting away, learned it in Alaska: snow and ocean scenes, great art it is, got hurt by a bear, mauled, as if he was a sea-lion for the bear to eat, and when the bear noticed it was human meat, he stopped, hesitated, and let him be; I want to see him, not sure why, he’s a survivor; he’d say to me: “Twenty-year old punk, fuck off, let me get drunk, get your ass out of my sight!” that’s what he’d say; he lives up in a hole above the bar; get drunk old fool, that’s what I say, just like me, in your dreary muted room
I do it each night. I don’t hear clocks, I’m too drunk too, can’t see stars, I never look up that high: waking up from drunkenness is a real decline, You hear the shadows groan, you roll here and there (I sleep on a sofa in a dojo; up the block, Castro area) and swear your heart is going to pound out of its socket—flip flop, on the floor, and probably roll down those damn steps off onto Collins Street. The wind inside your head: shifts, it’s drunk too, the way I’m getting now. Never break to rest; you’ll hear your heart pound in your chest! That’s the time you write poetry, or pass out. That’s what’s fun about getting drunk, you don’t care, don’t know, and solitude.
Yes, solitude. Is it bad or good he says: that is what I always read: he says, she says. Ghosts think it’s good, the priests think it’s good, and they do enough of it both of them. The dead have no choice so I suppose its part of the cycle of life: so it’s good. It is kind of like murdering the spirit: solitude, or wakening it up: whatever you need. Solitude mixed with drunkenness is like a voyage, drowned in the fumes of fermenting decay: enthusiastic decay. A true drunk will not get sick: it’s pleasure or passing out, a lot of work, a lot of time, and mirrors in your mind, webbed poetic mind; drunkenness will stimulate the rich imagination, molest it, make it pure, make the dream world breath-in more sensations; create a crude atmosphere.
Let me live and die in the deep odors of my drink: into it, I shall plunge the whole of my life; like a thirsty hog drinking from a mud puddle; floats the mind, quivering into an impermeable endless jug of sparkling beer: drink with foam and poetry.
It is not given to everyone to take a shower in the pleasures of spirits; cradled by living demon. Oh no, confronts the demon, restrict him before he sobers up: orgy time, find him a prostitute, one that has a feeble soul, good, he says, no—bring him to me, happy are the people that get fed in this world, with poisoned drunkenness.
At last! I say it is time to go home, undescript is my behavior. First of all, I get off my stool, turn about, look, look any old place, who gives a shit, you just look: get my balance, and twist about again, increase my focus to the door instead of the damn wall. Horrible life I say. But I will recapitulate this day, tomorrow. The TV on the wall goes off. A few handshakes, some one says, “Three minutes, to get out, it’s the law!” The asshole wants to go home with his buddy and get screwed. Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, “Three minutes, it’s the Law.” I wonder how the old coot is doing upstairs, committing suicide maybe. I am not the lowest of men; grant me that grace, whoever reads this.

[May 8, 1968, San Francisco: from notes] #1166/ modified: 2/3/2006 (at the Coffee House in Minnesota)

Spanish Version
Translated by Nancy Peñaloza
Edited by: Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Una Borrachera Día y Noche
(En San Francisco)) Mayo, 1968))

Esto es todo lo que importa, emborracharse, de esa manera no necesito aguantar las miradas y las maneras, comportamiento de muchos; la frente, las cejas, las tonterías. Un poco con cerveza, alguna poesía, y mirando las fotos en la pared: Puedo saltar en esas fotos hacia ningún final, convertirme en parte de ellas; morir dentro de ellas, zona apagada y cuando despierto, tengo cientos de colillas de cigarrillos en mi cenicero, maldito cenicero …”de quién son” digo: “mío, mío”, mi mente dice, mi conciencia repite: Las pinturas de óleo que el anciano pintó, él vivió en Alaska, se lastimó, él está encima allí ahora borracho, Harvey el camarero me dice cada noche que eso es lo que él está haciendo, pintando lejos, aprendió esto en Alaska: escenas de nieve y océano, gran arte éste es, fue herido por un oso, maltratado, como si él fuera un león marino para que el oso comiera, y cuando el oso notó que era carne humana, se detuvo, vacilando, y lo dejo ir; quiero verlo a él, no estoy seguro porqué, él es un sobreviviente; él me diría : “¡Veinte años de edad grosero, jódete, déjame emborracharme, saca tu trasero de mi vista!” eso es lo que él diría; él vive arriba en un agujero en el bar emborrachándose viejo tonto, eso es lo que yo digo, justo como yo, en su lúgubre cuarto apagado.

Lo hago cada noche. No oigo los relojes, estoy demasiado borracho también, no puedo ver las estrellas, nunca miro para arriba tan alto: despertar de una borrachera es un deterioro verdadero, Tu oyes el gemido de las sombras, ruedas aquí y allá ( yo duermo en un sofá en la academia de artes marciales; arriba de la cuadra, en el área Castro) y juro que tu corazón va a golpear fuera de su fosa–saltar de aquí para allá, en el piso, y probablemente rodar debajo de esas escaleras malditas sobre la calle Collins. El viento dentro de tu cabeza: se desplaza, está borracho también, la forma que estoy consiguiendo ahora. Nunca interrupción para descansar; ¡tu oirás tu corazón latir dentro de tu pecho! Ese es el tiempo en que escribes poesías, o te desmayas. Eso es lo que es divertido en emborracharse, no te importa, no sabes, y soledad.

Si, soledad. Esto es bueno o malo él dice: eso es lo que siempre leo: él dice, ella dice. Los fantasmas piensan que es bueno, los sacerdotes piensan que es bueno, y ellos hacen suficiente de ambos. La muerte no tiene ninguna opción así que supongo que es parte del ciclo de la vida: entonces eso es bueno. Es algo así como asesinar el espíritu: soledad, o despertando de esto: lo que necesites. Soledad mezclada con embriaguez es como un viaje, ahogado en los humos de la conmoción de la decadencia: decadencia entusiasta. Un borracho verdadero no conseguirá enfermarse: es placer o desmayarse, mucho trabajo, mucho tiempo, y espejos en tu mente, mente poética enmarañada; embriaguez estimulará la rica imaginación, acóselo, hágalo puro, haga el mundo ideal respirando más sensaciones; crea una atmósfera cruda.

Déjame vivir y morir en los olores profundos de mi bebida: en él hundiré el conjunto de mi vida; como un cerdo sediento bebiendo de un charco del fango; flota la mente, temblando dentro de una interminable jarra de cerveza espumosa: bebida con espuma y poesía.
Esto no está dado a cualquiera de tomar una ducha en los placeres del espíritu; acunado por el demonio viviente. Oh no, se enfrenta el demonio, restrínjalo antes de que se le pase la borrachera: tiempo de orgía, encuéntrale una prostituta, una que tenga un alma débil, bueno, dice él, no—tráigamelo, feliz es la gente que consigue alimento en este mundo, con embriaguez envenenada

¡Al fin! digo que es hora de ir a casa, inexplicable es mi comportamiento. Primero que nada, me paro de mi banquillo, me volteo, miro, miro cualquier viejo lugar, a quién le importa, sólo mira: consigo mi equilibrio, y giro alrededor otra vez, aumento mi atención hacia la puerta en vez de la maldita pared. Horrible vida digo. Pero yo recordaré este día, mañana. El televisor sobre la pared está apagado. Algunos apretones de mano, alguien dice, “Tres minutos para salir, está es la ley” El pendejo quiere ir a casa con su compinche y conseguir hacer el amor. La mas estúpida cosa que jamás he oído, “Tres minutos, está es la ley”. Me pregunto que estará haciendo arriba el anciano excéntrico, cometiendo suicidio talvez. No soy el hombre más inferior, concédeme esta gracia, cualquiera que lea esto.

[Mayo 8, 1968, San Francisco: de las notas] # 1166/modificado: Marzo 2, 2006 (en la Casa de Café en Minnesota)

2.

The Beauty of Natures Grief

The days in winter are piercing, insightful to the point of gloom!
Ah! There is amazement in the spell of this moment (produced by the sky), putting one’s self into a trance almost—, earnestly, drawing one’s fleeting look into the passion and imagination of the dim winter sky. Quietness, aloneness; branches from trees afar, reach into my view of the horizon (its sun bent redness, is putting on its chastity-belt, for soon twilight will dominate, will bend her into dusk. Only the littleness of it all do I see, its remoteness, from where I am in this here café looking out—, thus, the colors in the evening sky seem to have a melody to its dim rainbow. They say, as I think, “Reflect!” for in the grandeur of it all, the moment is soon lost, yes indeed, lost without dedication: twilight will pass.
All the same, these images in me somehow found this poem: projected from the birth of this here evening—to this intensity.
My nerves were tense today, now as I write, transmit (the evening away), the calls and ripples of the evening have calmed me.
The sky now yellow, red, tints of blue—, that skeleton of a tree still in my view; the sky confuses me somewhat. Yet it’s just one sunset out of many melting down. Perhaps the insensitiveness of it all, of the sky: for the sky irritates me tonight! I don’t want it to flee, eternally; even though I may see a new one tomorrow, “Let it be!” I say (but that’s desire, control, pride speaking).
The examining of beauty, if it sees you (and you it), will disappear if you do not grab its grief! (And so I have.)

Ps. As I read my handwriting of this poem I just looked up—the gloom has taken over the sky…! The moment passed so quickly. (2/5/06: 5:43 PM ((Sunday))

Notes by the Author: “I do not feel I am trying to produce a moral insight, as brief as this poem is—it would be impossible, but with a little fantasy, suggestiveness, scope, it is all required to produce beauty, or the elements to see beauty. And in this prose poem, that is what I am trying to do, produce one evening sky, as it comes and goes, perhaps like us.” Dennis

#1282 2/5/06 (reedited: 3/23/2006)) Written in Minnesota at the Coffee House [Rating: #121]

Spanish Version
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

La Belleza del Dolor de la Naturaleza

¡Los días en invierno son penetrantes, profundos al punto de penumbra!
¡Ah! Hay asombro en el encanto de este momento (producido por el cielo), poniendo a uno mismo casi en un trance—, con gran seriedad, dibujando la mirada breve de uno en la pasión y la imaginación del cielo débil de invierno. Tranquilidad, soledad; ramas de árboles lejanos, alcance dentro de mi vista del horizonte (su sol rojizo, se está poniendo su cinturón de castidad, porque pronto el crepúsculo dominará, lo doblará dentro del atardecer. Sólo un poco de todo lo que hago veo, su alejamiento, de donde estoy aquí en este café mirando afuera—, así, los colores en el cielo de la noche parecen tener una melodía a su arco iris débil. ¡Ellos dicen, mientras pienso, “Refleja!” porque en el esplendor de todo ello, el momento pronto se perderá, sí de verdad, se perderá sin dedicación: el crepúsculo pasará.
En todo caso, estas imágenes en mí de algún modo encontraron este poema: proyectado del nacimiento de esta tarde—a esta intensidad.
Mis nervios estaban tensos hoy día, ahora mientras escribo, transmito (la tarde se va), las llamadas y murmullos de la tarde me han calmado.
El cielo ahora amarillo, rojo, tintes de azules—, ese esqueleto de árbol todavía en mi vista; el cielo me confunde algo. Sin embargo esto es sólo una puesta del sol fuera de muchas. Quizás la insensibilidad de todo ello, del cielo: ¡porque el cielo me irrita esta noche! No quiero que esto se vaya, para siempre; aun cuando pueda ver un nuevo mañana. “¡Que así sea!” digo (pero esto es deseo, control, es orgullo hablando).
¡El examen de la belleza, si éste te ve (y tú lo ves), desaparecerá si no coges su dolor! (Y por eso lo hago.)

Post Data: Mientras leo este poema escrito a mano, justo mire arriba— ¡la penumbra está ocupando el cielo…! El momento ha pasado tan rápidamente. (5/Febrero/2006: 5:43 de la tarde (domingo))

Apuntes por el Autor: “Siento que no trato de producir un entendimiento moral, tan breve como es este poema—esto sería imposible, pero con un poco de fantasía, atrevimiento, oportunidad, todos se requieren para producir belleza, o los elementos para ver belleza. Y en este poema en prosa, eso es lo que trato de hacer, producir un tarde del cielo, como éste viene y va, quizás como nosotros”. Dennis

# 1282 5/Febrero/2006 (Corregido de nuevo: 23/Marzo/2006) Escrito en Minnesota en el Café.

3.

Here is a story in poetic prose, of future biblical times. It is not only foretold in the Bible, but also envisioned (/visualized) by the author in 1984, not put into form until now. Perhaps this is the right time for it also.

Two Old Jews
[Maggots on a tree]

(Advance: The two old Jews came from the sea, just walked right out from the sea one day, just like that; did miracles all around, for the world to see, and the Devil saw this and his demon, said: ‘This is not good…!)) And like maggots on a tree they fell upon the Jews…!))

“How shall we kill these two old Jews?” said the devil, “these long nosed fools, with silo-caps and all.” (He was talking to the assembly at the United Nations.)
Said Agaliarept [Satan’s Henchman], the General Secretary in disguise, “Is this a situation, or should I call it a problem—if so, how do we abscond them.”
“How shall we kill these two old Jews?” said the Devil, the ancient foe, now discreetly ruthless: give them what kind of pain: for they had done many miracles and slandered his name.
“Drug them; make their souls drowsy, like a sunken ship in a still canal,” said the General Secretary, pale and warm.
“Anyone can tell they have guts!” said the Devil in despair, but to touch their souls I do not dare...!
—Ah! They were desperate men, with broken teeth, trying to chew on something they could not eat. They were hungry to put them into tombs, save God would not prevent them, too.

The two old Jews, just looked at the Devil as if he had a straw hand-wrought crown upon his head—said the Devil with bleeding, suffering a palpitating mind, venomous—hate, eyebrows raised: scented animal like skin, a groan for death, enchantments: “I’m going to kill them!”
Then one of the old Jews, over hearing this, said, “I don’t revive the dead,” and with His finger, the Devil turned his flesh to fire, punishing him.
Charity mingled within his irises, (watching the camera crew), his flaming heart took pity on the two old Jews: walked like an angel in front of the multitude, and like a snake capturing the ecstasy of the kill to be, he knotted himself around them, as if on a tree.
Breathlessly the old men, drenched with sweat, now with reverberating hearts, heard the echoes from the Devil: “You, whom I once worshiped, beautiful and silent, because you turned from me, here is our corpse-worms! — Now your boredom is brutalized, wake-up Almighty God!” he screamed and screamed this up to the heavens. And then the Devil tightened his thighs, and the two Jews died….

—And they all danced in a waving cadence, from the Middle East, to Europe, to the United Nations, saying: “The Jewish infection is dead, we have stopped the Messiah from coming, and we now are the kings of the land.” Then the earth trembled and cracked, likened to a swift sword, a sharp slice into her side; the whole earth shook in demise.
Said a voice far-off in the sky, “Be Thou! Damned to Hell!” And for the Jew, “Thou art worthy of our aid!” (And the clouds were filled with angelic beings.)
Henceforward, the Vampires of Hell (with scorpion tails, iron wings, and long she-phantom hair, drenched in the blood of hells-torment) filled the earth –a billion corpses lay side by side, stretched from Gog to Magog, in the Valley: there the blood reached seven feet high; reeked high in the sky.
And the Lord of Lords saw all this, standing on high, saw the claws of Satan, pacing, like a lion, with metal and agate eyes (in full fledged passion), and the two old Jews likened to a-fire, crept under the sun, appeared to everyone, and then the Lord of Lords raised his hands, as all the Demon in all the lands, in fathomless despair, disappeared! (For a thousand years.)

#1172 2/6/2006 (Written in Minnesota))at the Minnesota Coffee House))

Spanish Version
Translated by Nancy Peñaloza

Aquí está una historia en prosa poética, de futuros tiempos bíblicos. Esto no sólo es pronosticado en la Biblia, sino también visualizado por el autor en 1984, sin haberlo puesto en un formato hasta ahora. Quizás esta es la hora exacta para ello también.

Dos Ancianos Judíos
(Gusanos sobre el árbol)

(Avance: Los dos ancianos judíos vinieron desde el mar, solamente caminaron directo desde el mar un día, sólo así, haciendo milagros por doquier, para que el mundo los vea, y el Diablo vio esto y su demonio, dijeron: “¡Esto no es bueno...!” (¡y como gusanos sobre el árbol, ellos cayeron sobre los Judíos…!))

“¿Cómo mataremos a estos dos viejos Judíos?” dijo el diablo, “estos narizones tontos, con cabezas de silo y todo”. (El estaba hablando a la Asamblea en las Naciones Unidas).
Dijo Agaliarept (El cómplice de Satán), el Secretario General disfrazado “¿Es esta una situación, o debería llamarlo un problema?—de ser así, ¿Cómo podemos apartarlos?
“¿Cómo mataremos a estos dos viejos Judíos?”, dijo el demonio, el viejo enemigo, ahora discretamente despiadado: darles a ellos que clase de dolor: por que ellos habían hecho muchos milagros y habían difamado su nombre.
“Drógalos; haz adormecer sus almas, como un barco hundido en un canal tranquilo”, dijo el Secretario General, pálido y acalorado.
“¡Cualquiera puede decir que ellos tienen coraje! Dijo el demonio en desesperación, pero tocar sus almas ¡yo no me atrevo…!
—Ah! Ellos eran hombres desesperados, con dientes rotos, tratando de masticar algo que ellos no podían comer. Estaban ávidos de ponerlos a ellos dentro de tumbas, salvo que Dios no los evitara, también.

Los dos viejos Judíos, sólo miraron al demonio como si éste tuviera una corona de paja hecha a mano sobre su cabeza—dijo el demonio con una sangrante, sufrida mente palpitante, venenosa—con odio, cejas levantadas: su piel olorosa como un animal, un gemido de muerte, hechicerías: “Voy a matarlos”.
Entonces uno de los viejos Judíos, habiendo oído esto, dijo, “yo no resucito a los muertos” y con su dedo, el diablo giró su carne para encenderlo, castigándolo.
Caridad mezclada dentro de su iris, (mirando al equipo de cámara), su corazón ardiente se compadeció de estos dos viejos judíos: caminando como un ángel delante de la multitud, y como una serpiente capturando al éxtasis de la matanza a ser, él se enrollo alrededor de ellos, como sobre un árbol.
Jadeando los ancianos, empapados con sudor, ahora con resonantes corazones, oyeron los ecos del Diablo: “¡Tú, a quien una vez venere, hermoso y silencioso, porque tú te apartaste de mi, aquí está nuestro cadáver-agusanado! — ¡Ahora tu aburrimiento es brutalizado, despierta Dios Todopoderoso!” él gritó y gritó esto hacia el cielo. Y entonces el Diablo apretó sus muslos, y los dos judíos murieron...

—Y todos ellos bailaron en una cadencia agitadora, desde el Oriente Medio, a Europa, a las Naciones Unidas, diciendo: “La infección judía está muerta, hemos detenido la llegada del Mesías, y ahora somos los reyes de la tierra”. Entonces la tierra tembló y se rajó, similar a un corte de espada, una rebanada aguda en su costado; la tierra entera tembló muriendo.
Dijo una voz lejana en el cielo, “¡Seas tú! ¡Condenado al infierno!” Y para el judío, “¡Tu arte es digno de nuestra ayuda!” (Y las nubes se llenaron de seres angelicales.)
De ahí en adelante, los Vampiros del Infierno (con colas de Escorpión, alas de hierro, y el pelo largo de fantasma, empapados en la sangre de los tormentos del infierno) llenaron la tierra—un billón de cadáveres tirados uno al lado del lado, desplegados desde Gog a Magog, en el Valle: allí la sangre alcanzó siete pies de alto, apestando alto en el cielo.
Y el Señor de los Señores vio todo esto, estando en lo alto, vio las garras de Satán, paseando, como un león, con ojos de metal y de ágata (en llena pasión), y los dos viejos judíos similares a un fuego, se arrastraron bajo el sol, apareciéndose a todos, y entonces el Señor de los Señores levantó sus manos, mientras todos los Demonios en todas las tierras, en desesperación incomprensible, desaparecieron (por mil años.)

# 1172 06/Febrero/2006

4.

Mother’s Bedroom

In my mother’s bedroom:
Thin bottles for perfume,
Powder on the little desk,
Colorful ribbons on her bed,
Snow-white curtains,
A pink nightgown,
Indian moccasins with colorful beads.
The wooden-varnished floor
Has a rustic neatness.

The ceiling light is bright,
A white glass shade:
Still it harbors some insects.
You can see the bible
Resting along side her bed,
Its warped in brown covered leather
Flyleaf’s hanging out.

#1375 6/24/2006 [written in my home in Lima, Peru]

Note: certain things trigger certain things, my mother’s bedroom, rather plain compared to some I suppose, had its peculiarity, it’s own personality, or was it my mother’s personality in that setup in her bedroom. But when I think of her, and her bedroom, which I had to cross through to get upstairs to the attic bedroom—my brother and I slept in—it is hard not to remember her personality intertwined into that house, that bedroom. Autobiographical sketches in poetry can be hard at times to depict, especially in poems, which call for them to be condensed, thus, one must create the imagery and construction, and insure the mood is nostalgic; with my mother’s death being three years come July 1, it is nostalgic indeed to write this new poem: to tell as much about the state of our exchangeable lives as I can.

Spanish Version

El Dormitorio de mi Madre

En el dormitorio de mi madre:
Botellas delgadas de perfume,
Polvo en el pequeño escritorio,
Cintas de colores sobre su cama,
Cortinas blancas como la nieve,
Un camisón rosado,
Mocasines indios con cuentas vistosas.
El piso de Madera barnizado
Tiene una pulcritud rústica.

La luz del techo es brillante,
Una lámpara blanca de cristal:
Todavía mantiene algunos insectos.
Puedes ver la Biblia
Apoyada a lo largo del lado de su cama,
Su cobertura envuelta en cuero marrón
Sus hojas dejándose ver

# 1375 24/Junio/2006 [escrito en mi casa en Lima, Perú]

Nota: Algunas cosas provocan ciertas cosas, el dormitorio de mi madre, bastante simple comparado a otros supongo, tenía su particularidad, su propia personalidad, o era la personalidad de mi madre en aquel montaje de su dormitorio. Pero cuando pienso en ella, y su dormitorio, por el cual tuve que pasar para ir al dormitorio del ático—en el que mi hermano y yo dormíamos—es difícil no recordar su personalidad entrelazada en aquella casa, aquel dormitorio. Bosquejos autobiográficos en poesías pueden ser difíciles en el momento de representar, especialmente en poemas, que piden ser condensados, así, uno debe crear las imágenes y la construcción, y asegurarse que el humor es nostálgico; con la muerte de mi madre que van a ser tres años el próximo 1ro. de julio, de verdad es muy nostálgico escribir este nuevo poema: contar tanto sobre el estado de nuestras vidas cambiables como puedo.

5.

The Root and the Stem

I don’t know if dogs love God, they don’t hate Him, I do believe; perhaps dogs have better sense than their masters—they don’t stare into the woods like so many humans do, trying to figure out the secret of existence. They simply live life, and for the most part, let live. Maybe us humans have too much, too deep an imagination. We want it all—the root and the stem (do we not)? And once we have it, it is still not enough. There is magic in evolution, there needs to be, it is simply a final cry into a black hole for empty souls to shovel something into. Devoid of God, one must put something other than silence into it; something, anything, lest they acknowledge God, and that would not do.

Uninfluenced by light, and logic, something is better than nothing, thus, making it transcendent and recognizing it as something, makes it something, for some folks, everything. He know has the stem and the root, and a filled hole that was once empty—; the pathway has been raked and cleared of all stones, what more can one ask for; indeed God is replaced with a prize, humble karma from the once pitied, who now rules the day. The dog, he watches all this; give him a mind to reason, he will give man good advise, perhaps suggest to bury righteousness, to shut up and stop playing the fool.

#1281 3/23/2006 [written in Lima, Peru]

Spanish Version
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

La Raíz y el Tallo

No sé si los perros aman a Dios, ellos no le odian, creo; quizás los perros tengan mejor sentido que sus amos—ellos no escudriñan en los bosques como tanta gente lo hace, tratando de encontrar el secreto de la existencia. Ellos simplemente viven la vida, y sobre todo, la dejan vivir. Tal vez nosotros los humanos tenemos demasiado, una imaginación demasiada profunda. Lo queremos todo—la raíz y el tallo (¿no?) Y una vez que lo tenemos, todavía no es suficiente. Hay magia en la evolución, tiene que haber, es simplemente un grito final en un agujero negro por almas vacías para meterles algo dentro. Desprovisto de Dios, uno debe poner algo otro que el silencio dentro de ello; algo, cualquier cosa, no sea que ellos reconozcan a Dios, y esto no lo haría.

Imparcial por la luz, y lógica, algo es mejor que nada, así, haciéndolo trascendente y reconociendo esto como algo, lo hace algo, para alguna gente, todo. Él ahora tiene el tallo y la raíz, y un agujero lleno que una vez estuvo vacío—; el sendero ha sido rastrillado y limpiado de todas piedras, que más puede uno pedir; es más Dios es substituido por un premio, el karma humilde del una vez compadecido, quien ahora gobierna el día. El perro, él todo lo mira; déle a él una mente para decidir, él le dará al hombre buen consejo, quizás le sugiera que entierre la rectitud, que se calle y deje de jugar al tonto.

# 1281 23/Marzo/2006 [escrito en Lima, Perú]

Our Time
[Written at the Chicago Airport]

It is 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 PM (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 I become and he 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), and we are all assigned to a process, to spend it, spend our time, like dollars or euros, soles and yen; if you are alert you will know it is called ‘time passing,’ and pass us, it will, it does. Thus, we are assigned to spend it around each other. 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 out time, and again I must say, short at best, long if you are adventurous. 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.

#1209 2/14/06 [written at the Chicago Airport, while my wife was sleeping]

Spanish Version
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Nuestro Tiempo
[Escrito en el Aeropuerto de Chicago]

Es divertido como el tiempo funciona, ya que éste funciona algo como esto: Estoy sentado en el Aeropuerto de Chicago (en este momento escribiendo esto) es alrededor de las 6:30 PM (14 de Febrero del 2006), cinco personas están sentadas cerca a mi—no las conozco, pero ellas están en mi tiempo, menos mal, como yo estoy en su tiempo; como Oprah está, en este momento en mi tiempo (en algún sitio, en cualquier parte donde ella esté); como Elvis estuvo en cierta época, en mi tiempo, pero no más, yo estoy, y él no está. Pero Elvis estuvo antes que yo (¿no? Sí desde luego). Y después me hice y él no, o nunca más. Entonces que podemos decir sobre todo esto. Uno de cinco personas se fue, solamente se levanto y se fue, se levanto y se marchó. Entonces nunca sabré si él permanecerá en mi tiempo o no (cuando este muerto y él está muerto, y si nos encontramos el uno al otro, podremos decir, vinimos del mismo tiempo, si tenemos memorias buenas, recordaremos el uno al otro, o él me recordará, yo tengo una memoria mala; si nos encontramos esto es).
Todos pensamos que esto es nuestro tiempo y sólo nuestro tiempo, cuando esto no es verdadero, otra vez lo mismo: éste pertenece a todos nosotros. Conseguimos 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, para pasarlo, gastar nuestro tiempo, como dólares o euros, soles y yen; si estás atento tú sabrás que esto se llama ‘tiempo pasando’, y nos pasa, lo hará, lo hace. Así, estamos asignados para gastarlo alrededor uno del otro. Como lo tratamos es lo que importa, aun cuando nosotros queramos cortar sus piernas para que así no pueda ir más lejos, alejarse de nosotros, pero esto lo hace (es por eso que obtenemos estiramientos faciales); esto importa a pesar de que nosotros queremos que más de esto nos pertenezca, yo, usted, pero éste es nuestro tiempo, y de nuevo debo decir, breve a lo más, largo si eres aventurero. Si esto fuera sólo tu tiempo, tú estarías solo sobre la tierra, por eso cuando te saludo, es sólo porque fuimos asignados al mismo huso horario, es tan simple como esto.

# 1209 14/Febrero/2006 [escrito en el Aeropuerto de Chicago, mientras mi esposa dormía].

7.

The Panama Canal—2006
[The Big Ditch]

[May 2006: Advance]: After visiting the Panama Canal, to see its worth, on the world stage, seeing it four times in four days, from the locks to the Bridge of Americas, to the lakes, etc; spending hours each day at the locks, and islands thereabouts, and talking to the Panamanians; I wrote the following poem below, at the canal.

I was told this was the eighth wonder of the world, but then when I was in Haiti, in 1986, likewise I was told, their Citadel was the 8th Wonder of the world. I have traveled the world over, and perhaps we have nine wonders of the world, the Panama being perhaps number 1 to 3, and the Citadel number nine, and we’d have to take one other wonder and put it into the missing category; the Panama Canal is really in a class of its own.

A wonder of the world it is
Equal to 6000-plus, war ships,
Six pyramids by the Gaza strip.
With all its tunnels, and locks,
Dams, lakes, fifty-one miles of it;
Buildings, mess halls, bridges—
Structures and more structures;
Spillways and much cartage;
Bulldozers, trains—ten-years of it,

Building:

Excavations, constructions—:
Like digging a big ditch, through
Mountains, valleys, lakes—all
All I say, all immense, immense
With tons of cement and steel,
Between silt and mud; and two
Oceans between: obstacles
One after another—yellow fever.
The Suez Canal is but a glimpse
Of this immense task, in Panama;
Unequal in every way, to its grandeur.

Afterwards: In building the canal, it took, ten years (by the Americans; the French, several); and cost $675-million dollars between France and America; 62,000-workers worked at any one time on the site (42,000 world die from disease, accidents, etc.); the site being 51-miles long, and ten miles wide. There were three locks to build, a few dams, a lake or two, a mountain to blow up, and create a passageway through. The French sold the rights to build the canal to America for $40-million dollars, after they had failed in its completion, at a cost of $300-million. Today that price tag would be over 14-billion dollars. It took 1600-hundred pounds of gold to pay the workers each month; or 24-tons of Silver. They had to produce five million loafs of bread, 100,000 pounds of cheese, 9-million pounds of meat, and 300,000 chickens each year to feed the hungry works. In addition, they had to use 150,000-gallons of mosquito oil. Its construction matter is equal to five Suez Canals. The material taken out of the Panama Canal would be equal to six large –pyramids in Egypt. It was an immense task, perhaps the most perplexed since the landing on the moon: in all the history of mankind.

Note: Written in Panama, at the Canal, 5/24/06, #1360.

Spanish Version

El Canal de Panamá- 2006
[La Zanja Grande]

[Mayo 2006: Avance]: Después de visitar el Canal de Panamá, para ver su valor, en el escenario del mundo, y viéndolo éste cuatro veces en cuatro días, desde las esclusas (cerraduras), al Puente de las Américas, a los lagos, etc. permaneciendo horas en las esclusas, y las islas de por allí, y hablando a los panameños; escribí el siguiente poema, en el canal.

Me dijeron que éste era la octava maravilla del mundo, pero cuando estuve en Haití, en 1986, de la misma forma me dijeron entonces, que su Ciudadela era la octava Maravilla del mundo. He viajado el mundo entero, y quizás tenemos nueve maravillas del mundo, siendo el Canal de Panamá talvez el número 1 o 3, y la Ciudadela de Haití el número nueve, y tendríamos que tomar otra maravilla y ponerla en la categoría que falta; el Canal de Panamá es realmente de una clase especial propia de ella.

Una maravilla del mundo esta es
Igual a 6000—o más, barcos de guerra,
Seis pirámides de la Faja Gaza.
Con todos sus túneles, y esclusas,
Presas, lagos, cincuenta y un millas de ello;
Edificios, pasillos de comedores, puentes—
Estructuras y más estructuras;
Vertederos y mucho acarreo;
Excavadoras, trenes—diez años de ello,

Construyendo:

Excavaciones, construcciones—-:
Como cavando una zanja grande, a través de
Montañas, valles, lagos—todo
Todo digo, todo inmenso, inmenso
con toneladas de cemento y acero,
Entre el légamo y fango; y dos
Océanos entre éste: obstáculos
Uno después de otro—fiebre amarilla.
El Canal Suez es sólo un vislumbre
De esta inmensa tarea, en Panamá;
Incomparable en todo sentido, a su esplendor.

Nota: La construcción del canal, tomó, diez años (a los Americanos; a los franceses otros muchos); y costó 675 millones de dólares entre Francia y Norteamérica; 62,000 trabajadores trabajaron en un momento dado en el canal (42,000 trabajadores murieron por enfermedades, accidentes, etc.); teniendo el canal 51 millas de largo, y 10 millas de ancho. Hubo tres esclusas que construir, unas cuantas presas, un lago o dos, una montaña para explotar, y así crear un paso a través. Los franceses vendieron a América los derechos de construir el canal por 40 millones de dólares, después de haber fallado en su intento de construir, a un costo de 300 millones de dólares. Hoy en día aquella etiqueta de precio sería más de 14 billones de dólares. Tomó 1600 centenas de libras de oro para pagar a los trabajadores cada mes; o 24 toneladas de plata. Tuvieron que producir cinco millones de piezas de panes, 100,000 libras de queso, 9 millones de libras de carne, y 300,000 pollos cada año para alimentar a los trabajadores hambrientos. Además, ellos tuvieron que usar 150,000-galones de aceite repelente. El material de construcción del canal de Panamá es igual a cinco veces lo usado en el Canal Suez. El material extraído del Canal de Panamá sería igual a la contenida en seis grande pirámides de Egipto. Fue una tarea inmensa, quizás lo más perpleja desde el aterrizaje sobre la luna: en toda la historia de humanidad.

Note: Escrito en Panamá, en Canal de Panamá, 24/Mayo/2006, # 1360.

Other Poems

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s House in St. Paul, Minnesota

8.

Winter Birds in Minnesota

High above winter’s frosted trees
Above the Mississippi,
Clouds thaw,
In the afternoon sun—
Fly! Fly low winter birds of Minnesota
Fly low: chipper on, wave
Those rusted wings waiting for spring
Fly low: fly low, play your
Games of ‘Hide an’ go seek,’ defying
The frail soul in this land of cold
Of arctic winds—and bleak snows…!

Happy the birds—despite their frets, —
Despite the woes and dim fields of
Corn now froze, now full of snow
Where they fly over in a silent pose,
Waiting for Minnesota’s spring thaw!
Fly! Fly low winter birds of Minnesota.

#1091 1/22/06 (written at my home in St. Paul, Minnesota)

Spanish Version
Translated by Rosa Peñaloza

Pájaros de Invierno en Minnesota

Por encima de los árboles helados de invierno
Encima del Mississippi,
Nubes derretidas,
En el sol de la tarde—
¡Vuelan! Vuelan bajo los pájaros de invierno de Minnesota
Vuelan bajo: contentos sobre, olas
Aquellas alas oxidadas esperando por la primavera
Vuelan bajo: vuelan bajo, juegan sus
Juegos de “La Escondida”, desafiando
al alma frágil en esta tierra de frío
de vientos árticos—y nieve deprimente…

Felices los pájaros—a pesar de sus trastes,-
A pesar de los infortunios y los campos débiles de
Maíz ahora congelado, ahora lleno de nieve
Dónde ellos vuelan en una postura silenciosa,
¡Esperando por el deshielo de primavera de Minnesota!
¡Vuelan! Vuelan bajo los pájaros de invierno de Minnesota.

# 1091 22/Enero/2006 (escrito en mi casa en San Pablo, Minnesota)

9.

Smirking Cucumbers
(Alabama)

I planted my vegetables, for a few
years exactly where I wanted ‘em
to be planted. Said to myself: if I
had to make a living and nothing
grows, no one needs to point
fingers, or be anonymous; so,
it’s my hoe, my garden—, I’ll clean
the scraps up, I’ve been at that so
long I can’t possibly wear my hands
down (so I told myself). All my life
I’ve been at it: they lay it down, I
pick it up; weedin’ with a hoe-blade
isn’t easy. You try it—see!

I loaned my land out to a retired
farmer one year, who had little land
to mention, but wanted to grow
something: better than me with a
hoe he was—made whatever he
planted grow (I never could). He
even used his own water (he lived
across from me, in Alabama back in
’77).

As I stood—day after day—looking
out my kitchen window, watching
him plant, and hoe, and water, and
the cucumbers grow, (God knows
what for) —He said those vegetables,
cucumbers he done planted would
grow fat, and huge—, and they did.
He could have shown me a few
things about planting, hoeing and
growing (back then); things I never
thought of, but I just wanted some
of those cucumbers. Funny, when
we’re young. Now looking back I
can still see that old farmer looking
over his shoulder at me: smirking.

Notes by the author: reflections of my youth, when I lived in Alabama, back in 1977-1979. #1010 1/28/2006 (Written at the Coffee House in Minnesota). During this time of my life I was in the military, served 11-years, 8-active, 3-reserves; owned a home outside the military compound, in a little nearby city, and like so many times in my life tried to grow a garden. I have given it up after a half century of trying; it is not my gig in life.

Spanish Version

Pepinos Sonrientes
(Alabama)

Planté mis verduras, durante unos pocos
años exactamente donde quise que ellos
fueran plantados. Me dije a mi mismo: si me
tengo que ganar el pan y nada
crece, nadie necesita ser señalado,
o ser anónimo; entonces,
esta es mi azada, mi jardín—, limpiaré
los restos de encima, he estado en esto tanto
tiempo posiblemente no puedo gastar mis manos
(eso me dije). Toda mi vida
estuve en esto: ellos lo dejan, yo
los recojo; sacar mala hierba con una azada
no es fácil. ¡Tú lo intentas—ves!

Presté mi tierra a un agricultor jubilado
un año, quien tenía poca tierra,
para mencionar, pero quería cultivar
algo: mejor que yo con la
azada él era—hizo que cualquier cosa que
plantara creciera (yo nunca pude). Él
incluso usó su propia agua (él vivía
en frente de mí, en Alabama allá por los años
'77).

Mientras estuve—día a día—mirando afuera de
la ventana de mi cocina, mirándolo
a él plantar, y cavar, y regar, y
los pepinos crecer, (sólo Dios sabe
para que) —él dijo que aquellos
pepinos que él acabó plantando se
pondrían gordos, y enormes—, y ellos lo hicieron.
Él pudo haberme mostrado algunas cosas
sobre plantación, cavada y
crecimiento (en ese entonces); cosas en las que nunca
pensé, pero sólo quería algunos
de aquellos pepinos. Gracioso, cuando
somos jóvenes. Ahora que miro atrás
todavía puedo ver al viejo agricultor mirándome
sobre sus hombros: sonriendo con satisfacción.

Apuntes por el autor: Reflexiones de mi juventud, cuando vivía en Alabama, allá por los años 1977-1979. # 1010 28/Enero/2006 (Escrito en la Cafetería en Minnesota). Durante este tiempo de mi vida estuve en el Ejercito, serví por 11 años, 8 de actividad, y 3 de reserva; poseía una casa afuera del recinto militar, en una pequeña ciudad cercana, y como tantas veces en mi vida trate de cultivar un jardín. Lo he dejado después de medio siglo de tentativa; esto no es mi falúa en la vida.

10.

The Potato Patch

One day—oh, I suppose I was, say ten,
I asked my mother to ask my grandfather
For a garden plot—, somewhere in our
Backyard:
And somehow, she got him to agree—;
Twisted his knees, perhaps—I don’t
Know—but the Old Russian Bear
Was hard to please…!

It wasn’t a garden to plow or hoe,
Just a patch, a little plot in the backyard
By the fence: that’s all.
And there I planted my first garden—
Potatoes….

It was kind of neat (so I thought), hidden
From anyone passing by; until I found out
Potatoes grow underground—
(not on top), and yes, it was
A mess, thereafter: digging, weeding,
Watering.

It seemed the season would never end,
But I did stick with it; and then came the
Day, the great day, to pluck those
Potatoes from their abode, and to show
Them to my mother and grandpa:
I was quite proud.

And when I did, when I pulled those
(roots and all) potatoes—from
Under the earth, I was devastated to
To find out: the eyes were bigger
Than the potatoes.
Traumatic I took it at first, I think
I even cursed

Advice? I have none, but I’ll tell you,
I never tried to grow potatoes again.

Note: #1183 1/31/2005, the year this story took place was perhaps 1958, in St. Paul, Minnesota. We all lived together, in an extended family situation, my grandpa, mother, brother and me, on Cayuga Street. Written at the Coffee House in Minnesota.

Spanish Version

La Parcela de Patatas

Un día—ah, supongo yo tenía, por decir diez años,
Le pedí a mi madre que le pidiera a mi abuelo
Un terreno para jardín—, en algún lugar en nuestro
Patio trasero:
Y de algún modo, ella consiguió que él aceptara—;
¡Torció sus rodillas, quizás—no
lo sé—pero el Viejo Oso Ruso
Era difícil de complacer…!

No era un jardín para arar o cavar,
Sólo un pedazo, un poco de terreno en el patio trasero
Por el cerco: esto era todo.
Y allí planté mi primer jardín—
Patatas.

Estaba algo bien cuidado (eso pensé), ocultado
de cualquiera que pasara por allí; hasta que me entere
que las patatas crecen debajo de la tierra—
(no encima), y sí, esto era
Un lío, después: cavar, escardar,
Regar.

Pareció que la estación nunca terminaría,
Pero me mantuve en ello; y luego vino el
Día, el gran día, de arrancar aquellas
Patatas de su morada, y mostrarlos
A mi madre y a mi abuelo:
Yo estaba bastante orgulloso.

Y cuando lo hice, cuando arranqué aquellas
patatas (raíces y todo) —de
debajo de la tierra, estuve desolado de
encontrar: que los ojos eran más grandes
Que las patatas.
Traumático lo tomé al principio, pienso
que incluso maldije

¿Consejo? No tengo ninguno, pero te diré,
que nunca traté de cultivar patatas otra vez.

Note: # 1183 31/Enero/2005, el año en que ocurrió esta historia era quizás 1958, en San Pablo, Minnesota. Vivíamos todos juntos, en una clase de clan familiar, mi abuelo, mi madre, mi hermano y yo, en la Calle Cayuga. Escrito en la Cafetería en Minnesota.

11.

It Could Have Been Different

I kind of rolled out of
bed, on two wobbly
legs this chilled February
morning in Minnesota.
I bid my wife
farewell, as
she went to work at the Post Office.
I went to the bookstore
café, had brunch
(a cheese sandwich and coffee;
not unusual).
The afternoon faded
into evening quick.
It could have been different,
I know.

Around 6:00 PM, I had some
chicken soup. Read some
Faulkner (a chapter
or two).
Wrote a short story called:
“Long sided Cat eyes.”
Then met a friend,
Gene,
we talked about white-teeth
(on the Oprah Show
last night)
and a dog with one
leg,
and we laughed
whole heartedly.
It could have been different,
I know.

Now I’m sitting here
alone. In an hour I have
to pick up my wife,
take her and myself
home.
We have plans for
tomorrow,
next month! But
it could be different,
I know!

#1192 2/8/06 Dedicated to Eugene Monna (Written at the Coffee House in Roseville, Minnesota)

[Some thoughts on what Poetry is for Me]: I know more of what poetry is not, than what it is; having said that let me add, for me it is an expression, and one we use to affect, get affect, for affect. If the poem has no influence on you, it is not your cup of tea I suppose. There seems to be a spirit in a good poem: concentrated with its best of best words. My poems are not about what should be or should not be, rather what is; bleak at times like the dark side of the moon, and bright at times like the sun. Part intelligent but mostly heart; set in some kind of order (usually): which stretch from the graveyard to the gates of heaven. I do hope you enjoy them (in this book); I’ve enjoyed writing them [for 46-years]. Dennis

In Spanish
Translated by Nancy Peñaloza

Podría Haber Sido Diferente

Como que me estiré en la
cama, sobre dos temblorosas
piernas esta mañana fría de
febrero en Minnesota.
Me despedí de mi esposa, mientras
ella se fue a trabajar a la oficina postal.
Yo fui al café de la biblioteca
tuve un desayuno-almuerzo
(un sándwich de queso y café;
poco común).
La tarde se desvaneció
dentro del atardecer veloz.
Podría haber sido diferente,
Lo se.

Alrededor de las 6:00 PM, tuve algo de
sopa de pollo. Leyendo algo de
Faulkner (un capitulo o
dos).
Escribí una corta historia llamada:
“Grandes Ojos de Gato”
después me encontré con un amigo,
Gene,
hablamos acerca de dientes-blancos
(que se hablo en el programa de Oprah
anoche)
y de un perro con una
pierna,
y nos reímos
con todo el corazón
Podría haber sido diferente
Lo sé.

Ahora estoy sentado aquí
solo. En una hora tengo
que recoger a mi esposa,
llevarla conmigo
a casa.

¡Tenemos planes para
mañana,
el próximo mes! Pero
esto podría ser diferente,
¡Lo sé!

#1192 8/Febrero/2006 Dedicado a Eugene Monna (Escrito en le Café en Roseville, Minnesota)

(Algunos pensamientos sobre lo que la poesía es para mi): Yo se mas de lo que la poesía no es, que de lo que es; habiendo dicho esto déjame agregar, para mi es una expresión, y uno que usamos para conmover, obtener afecto, por afecto. Si el poema no tiene influencia en ti, no es su taza de te, creo. Parece haber un espíritu en un buen poema: concentrado con lo mejor de sus mejores palabras. Mis poemas no son acerca de lo podría ser o no ser, más bien de lo que es; inhóspito a veces como el lado oscuro de la luna, y brillante a veces como el sol. En parte inteligente pero mayormente corazón; ordenados en alguna forma (generalmente): que se extienden desde el cementerio a las puertas del cielo. Espero que lo disfruten (en este libro); yo he disfrutado escribiéndolos (por 46 años). Dennis

12.

The Crippled Bird

I

And Zaneta heard the wind shifting outside
the car window, then I parked the car
We stood outside the car and talked
as if it was a birdcage.
She was a crippled bird, slow she
was to learn, as many heard, — as if her mind
Was in a box— utterly locked
for her mind skipped, like lifting fog,
Slow to gradually, went her childhood
she,
In her fading voice: “O why has God
made me like this?”

(I listened carefully)

“They all laugh at me, Sue, Sarah, Billy too.”
“Zaneta, Zaneta!”
Said Zaneta, her hands shaking like a thin
paper-wall, next to a moving train
(kids can be cruel).

It was like an earthquake, inside my head
“Zaneta” I said…
She moaned to see what I would say,
I felt the earth had swallowed
My little girl up. “I don’t know why God
makes things the way He does,
(Zaneta was in a trance), perhaps it’s
according to His plan, His habit,”
I said, “perhaps He has greater visions
for you, but it was not by chance.
It will have to be you who will rise above
the melted candle.”

II

O swiftness was not her beauty,
But breath of air, and bravery was in her veins.
The doctors all said she’d never read
Quite opposite, she was like granite.
She was in the dark, and chose the light
And day after day, year after year
She read bible verse, syllable by syllable
Stanza by stanza, cradled in her hands
The scriptures (hard to understand)
But she read them, found hope, and
Slid on passion to learn, all because
Of one day of counsel.
From half-scornful pity to its burial.

III

She had rebuilt the bridges
The ones her shame, in silent secrecy, could
Never meet in the light of day
Now it slipped through the room of night
And wrecked everything in sight, like a storm
And somehow landed on the fifth-moon,
The one only in dreams.

IV

She kept secret her perplexed fear,
Of being backwards (slow) and no
I mean no one knew the difference.
No longer a prisoner with an inescapable fate
The root in her body was nourished:
Death had entered and left.

#1193 [2/9/2006] Written at the Coffee House in Minnesota

In Spanish

El Pajarillo Lisiado

I

Y Zaneta escuchó el cambio del viento afuera
de la ventana del coche, luego yo estacioné el coche
Nos paramos fuera del coche y hablamos
como si esta fuera una jaula.
Ella era como una pajarita lisiada, lenta para
aprender era ella, como muchos escucharon, —como si su mente
Estuviera en una caja—completamente bloqueada
porque su mente pasaba por alto, como niebla disipada,
Lenta poco a poco, fue a su niñez
ella,
En su voz atenuada; “Oh, ¿porqué Dios
me hizo así?”

(Yo escuche cuidadosamente)

“Todos ellos se ríen de mi, Sue, Sarah, Billy también”.
“¡Zaneta, Zaneta!”.
Dijo Zaneta, sacudiendo sus manos como un delgado
papel de pared, cerca de un tren en movimiento
(los muchachos pueden ser crueles).

Fue como un terremoto, dentro de mi cabeza
“Zaneta” dije...
Ella gemía para ver lo que yo diría,
yo sentí que la tierra se había tragado
A mi pequeña niña. “Yo no sé porqué Dios
hace las cosas de la forma que lo hace”,
(Zaneta estaba en un trance), “talvez esto es
de acuerdo a Su plan, Su costumbre”,
Dije, “Talvez él tiene visiones más grandes
para ti, pero no es por casualidad.
Tienes que ser tú quien se eleve sobre
la vela fundida”.

II

Oh, La rapidez no era su belleza,
Pero el aliento de aire, y el valor estaban en sus venas.
Todos los médicos dijeron que ella nunca leería
Todo lo contrario, ella era como el granito.
Ella estaba en la oscuridad, y escogió la luz
Y día tras día, año tras año
Ella leyó versos de la Biblia, sílaba por sílaba
Estanza por estanza, sosteniendo en sus manos
Las escrituras (difícil para entender)
Pero ella los leyó, encontró la esperanza, y
Deslizó en la pasión para aprender, todo a causa
De un día de consejo.
De piedad media desdeñosa a su entierro.

III

Ella había reedificado los puentes
Los unos que su vergüenza, en silencioso secreto,
Nunca podría encontrar en la luz del día
Ahora éste se deslizó a través del cuarto de noche
Y destruyó todo a la vista, como una tempestad
Y de alguna forma aterrizo en la quinta-luna,
La una sólo en sueños.

IV

Ella mantuvo secreto su temor perplejo,
De ser al revés (lenta) y nadie
Creo que nadie supo la diferencia.
Nunca más una prisionera con un destino ineludible,
La raíz en su cuerpo estaba curada:
Muerte había entrado y salido.

#1193 [9/Febrero/2006] Escrito en el Café en Minnesota

13.

Love, Youth and Envy: Poems

1) The Missing Song

An era in me embraces my youth
It seems but an autumn’s day,
When life and love, with jealous hast,
Went fast, and grabbed it all away!…
For then, no more a thoughtful breeze;
It somberly moves me now—
And haunts my breast, its absentness
The living grave of remembrance.

#1331

23 Envy’s Men

The smarter men despise me so,
I think we must disagree,
Alas, it is second envy
The only proof ‘twixt them and me,
I dream and they envy.

#1332

2) Past Loves

I buried love with hope
But it did not obey:
I said: it didn’t care
About my little pains—
And yes, I changed…!

#1333

3) Circles in Love

All my life,
I was a sacrifice
to love—
domineering it is!
If true gracious love
appeared,
I dare say,
her face was never clear,
and soon
she walked away.
I have gained some wisdom
with my pain;
and with all her pride,
she has none—.
Two tyrants now,
mostly vane:
lost in a world of one.

#334

Note: Written in the evening of: 4/30/2004 and the Morning of: 5/1/2006, at my house in Lima, Peru. Love, envy, pain, pride, youth, memories, they all revolve round in circles: small circles, then bigger ones; make us dizzy, especially if one is fickle. We live half our lives, if not most or all, fighting loves shadow. We want it to be (romantic love that it), to be the utmost, the high of highs. We have our first love, and we fall hard usually, we remember it all our lives. Then somehow we find our wives [or wife], raise our children, work hard, go to church, a few vacations, etcetera; and that even disappears sometimes: nowadays, most of the times. Then we go hunting again (or shopping), looking for our death partner: perhaps, the one we will be buried with, or by; then we get thinking of the ones we left behind; you see, the circle never ends. Perchance you never got caught in the circle, the better you are for it, for love was never meant to be a burden: like lust, or greed, or selfishness; we just kind of made it that way.

In Spanish

Amor, Juventud y Envidia: Poemas

1) La Canción Perdida

¡Una época en mí abraza mi juventud
Esta parece no más que un día de otoño,
Cuándo vida y amor, con celoso xxx,
Fue rápida, y todo la alejó...! …
Porque entonces, no más de una brisa pensativa;
Esta sombríamente me mueve ahora—
Y obsesiona mi pecho, su ausentismo
La tumba viva de recuerdo.

# 1331

Hombres Envidiosos

Los hombres más listos me desprecian así,
Pienso que debemos discrepar,
¡Ay de mi!, esto es segunda envidia
La única prueba 'twixt a ellos y a mí,
Yo sueño y ellos envidian.

# 1332

2) Amores Pasados

Enterré el amor con la esperanza
Pero éste no obedeció:
Dije: éste no se preocupa
Por mis pequeños dolores—
¡Y sí, cambié…!

*1333

3) Círculos enamorados

Toda mi vida,
fui un sacrificio
para amar—
¡dominante éste es!
Si el verdadero amor gracioso
apareció,
me atrevo a decir,
su cara nunca fue nítida,
y pronto
ella se alejó.
He ganado alguna sabiduría
con mi dolor;
y con todo su orgullo,
ella no tiene nada—.
Dos tiranos ahora,
sobre todo vanos:
perdidos en el mundo de uno.

# 334

Nota: Escrito en la tarde del 30 de Abril del 2004 y en la mañana del 1ro de mayo del 2006, en mi casa en Lima, Perú. El amor, la envidia, el dolor, el orgullo, la juventud, las memorias, todos ellos giran alrededor en círculos: pequeños círculos, después más grandes; nos vuelven mareados, especialmente si uno es voluble. Vivimos la mitad de nuestras vidas, si no es toda, enfrentando sombras de amores. Queremos que esto sea (amor romántico esto es), sea a lo sumo, al máximo. Tenemos nuestro primer amor, y nos caemos duro por lo general, lo recordamos toda nuestra vida. Entonces de algún modo encontramos a nuestras esposas (o a nuestra esposa), criamos a nuestros hijos, trabajamos duro, vamos a la iglesia, de vacaciones, etcétera; y hasta esto desaparece a veces: hoy día, la mayor parte de las veces. Entonces vamos cazando de nuevo (o haciendo compras), buscando a nuestro compañero de muerte: quizás, el uno con el que seremos enterrados, o cerca de el/ella; entonces seguimos pensando en los unos que dejamos atrás; ves, el círculo nunca termina. Talvez nunca seas cogido en el círculo, lo mejor que seas para ello, porque el amor nunca fue hecho para ser una carga: como lujuria, o avaricia, o egoísmo; nosotros solamente como que fuimos hecho de esta manera.

14.

Passing by the Cathedral

I often pass by the St. Paul Cathedral:
Passing by in a car,
Perhaps I’ve passed it a million times
I’ve never counted, it always swells
My heart.
I pass it so fast (nowadays, or so it seems)
It’s hard to make it out; but no need to, I
Know it by heart…,
I want to get out of the car and go up to it:
It rests on a summit (the highest point
in St. Paul, I do believe), to what, I’m not sure,
It seldom changes its composure.

A passing glimpse is all I get—my eyes are not
As quick, or swift as they used to be—
Getting old.

When I was young: to walk in those great halls
Of hers, under her great dome—walk
Around those monstrous pillars: often crossed
My mind—and one day I did, and I seemed
So very small, listening to my echo… return!

In autumn, its copper dome looks bluish, with
Autumn colors of: red, orange, green and blue
(around it): most beautiful. Leaves brushed across
its encircling streets and lawns, by the
Minnesota winds….

They put brown copper onto its dome, a new
Roof, they call it; about five years ago, that no one
On earth likes—heaven I doubt will even
Glance at it now.

It’s a shame, the young folks will only have
Pictures to look at how it used to be, until that is,
Until the copper molds with age again.

#1229 2/21/06. Note by the Author: I grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota, and the dome was always that bluish old copper; the cathedral was built around the turn of the century, and myself created in the middle of the century, thus as a kid it had turned its colors. So I’m sure at one time, the original time, it was brown copper to start out with. But I shall nonetheless cherish the memories of the blue copper, as I suppose the youth of today will adore the brown. Written at the Coffee House in Roseville, Minnesota (Har Mar Mall)

In Spanish
Translated by Nancy Peñaloza

De Paso por la Catedral

A menudo paso por la Catedral de San Pablo:
Paso en un carro;
Talvez he pasado esta un millón de veces,
Jamás lo conté, esto siempre hincha
Mi corazón.
Paso tan rápido (hoy en día, o así parece)
Es difícil de distinguir, pero no hace falta, yo
La conozco de memoria...,
Quiero bajarme del carro y acercarme a esta:
Esta descansa en una cumbre (el punto más alto
En San Pablo, creo), a lo que, no estoy seguro,
Esta raras veces cambia su compostura.

Un fugaz vistazo es todo lo que consigo—mi ojos no son
Tan rápidos, o veloces como solían ser—
Se están volviendo viejos.

Cuando era joven: caminar en aquellos grandes pasillos
De esta, o debajo de su gran cúpula–caminar
Alrededor de aquellos pilares monstruosos: a menudo cruzaban
Mi mente—y un día lo hice, y yo parecía
Tan pequeño, escuchando a mi eco... ¡regresa!

En otoño, su cúpula de cobre parece azulada, con
Colores otoñales de: rojo, naranja, verde y azul
(alrededor de esta); más hermosa. Hojas barridas a través
de sus calles rodeadas y céspedes, por los
Vientos de Minnesota...

Ellos pusieron cobre marrón en su cúpula, un nuevo
Techo, ellos lo llaman; casi cinco años atrás, que a nadie
Sobre la tierra le gusta—el cielo dudo le echará un
Vistazo ahora.

Esto es una vergüenza, la gente joven sólo tendrá
Fotos para mirar como solía ser, hasta que,
Hasta que el cobre se moldee con los años otra vez.

# 1229 21/Febrero/2006. Apuntes por el Autor: Crecí en San Pablo, Minnesota, y la cúpula de la catedral era siempre ese viejo cobre azulado; la catedral fue construida a comienzos del siglo, y yo creado a mediados del siglo, así cuando niño esta ya había cambiado sus colores. Entonces estoy seguro que en cierta época, el tiempo original, esta era de cobre marrón al empezar. Pero sin embargo abrigaré las memorias del cobre azul, como supongo la juventud de hoy adorará el marrón. Escrito en la Cafetería en Roseville, Minnesota (Har Mar Mall)

15.

Grandpa’s Cellar Ghosts

It was the ghosts. He knew them—well,
by now anyway, and with good reason.
My first impulse (when I heard his story)
was to shut it out of my mind: not listen,
but I couldn’t, he needed to talk.

The ghosts halted at the end of the tunnel,
so grandpa said, helplessly—to me…,
it was all in their favor, he put in his mind.
When I had last talked to him, the door to
the cellar was open, it now was shut, he
—standing in the kitchen by me, said:
“I’m waiting for things to happen,”
restlessly waiting he was; funny I thought,
to see him waiting for once
not complaining.

“They’ve dug this tunnel, you see…” he said—
(hesitantly); he stood there a moment longer,
as if in a trance, “in the cellar, they’re coming for me…”
so he did believe (the tunnel had taken six weeks
to dig, he told me).

Now leaning on the old stove in the kitchen,
balancing his physical being with his thinking
(his upper teeth grinding on his lower) whispered,
“Hand me my coffee…” he never said please,
his hands shaking (he had just eaten some
scrambled eggs; I made them). “I could hear
them digging down there, for weeks,” he said
with a—troubled face, “in the cellar….” He added.

The only fault my grandfather had besides being
moody: fault with me that is, I didn’t’ pay him
much attention. Perhaps today he had forgotten that
fault, as I was questioning where this cold fear of his
was coming from (surely he knew we all had to die
but I was only 26-years old, and death was some-
thing new, even being in war, does not prepare you).
He was 83-years old; perhaps death was the grave,
no such thing as ghosts, but here they were: waiting.

I thought, looking at grandpa, thought (not saying
a word) thought perchance he was wondering if
the ghosts were now going to chase him around the house?

Funny, was all this, so I thought at the time…,
not sure why. These ghosts had no reason to chase him
around the Cellar or try to find him in his house. Then I said,
“They’re harmless, grandpa,” as if they were real, I was
talking like him…and he said, “Come into my world,
and you’ll see…!” Of course that was not possible,
so I just leaned back on that old stove, against my back.

These cellar ghosts (I figured, would pass on, fade away,
after a good night’s sleep for him: or two or three; that would
do the trick); but no such thing, that wasn’t it. I really didn’t know
what to believe—like I said before, I was but twenty-six years old.
Now that I look back, being fifty-eight, things have changed
(they always do” don’t they?); those old familiar spirits are more than they seem, now—, more than what they were back then; for there is
another world, as real as ours, as perplexed as it may seem,
and I suppose, they are willing to wait for me; should they find
an opening (another world within our world that is).
He died two weeks later—after that last conversation:
back in ’74, a long time ago, of course. He died face down, on
his belly, flat on the floor in his house, trying to get from one
room to the next, as if someone, or thing was chasing him.

#1234 3/22/06; modified 3/18/06; this occurrence took place in our old home, in St. Paul, Minnesota, on Cayuga, Street, in 1974, perhaps a few weeks before my grandfather died. Written in Lima, Peru, at my home.

In Spanish

Los Fantasmas del Sótano del Abuelo

Eran los fantasmas. El los conocía—bien,
por ahora de todas formas, y con buena razón.
Mi primer impulso (cuando oí su historia)
fue aislarlo de mi mente: no escuchar,
pero no podía, él necesitaba hablar.

Los fantasmas se pararon al final del túnel,
eso decía el abuelo, inúltimente—para mí...,
estaba todo en su favor, él puso en su mente.
Cuando hablé últimamente con él, la puerta del
sótano estaba abierta, ahora estaba cerrada, él
—parado en la cocina cerca de mí, dijo:
“Estoy esperando que pasen cosas”,
esperando inquietamente él estaba; gracioso pensé,
verlo a él esperar por una vez
sin quejarse.

" Ellos han cavado este túnel, ves...” él dijo—
(vacilantemente); él estuvo allí un momento más,
como si en trance, “en el sótano, ellos vienen por mí…”
eso él pensaba (el túnel había tomado seis semanas
para cavar, él me dijo).

Ahora apoyándose en la estufa vieja de la cocina,
equilibrando su físico ser con su pensamiento
(su dientes superiores rechinando con sus inferiores) susurró,
“Alcánzame mi café… “él nunca decía por favor,
su manos temblando (él acababa de comer algunos
huevos revueltos; que los hice por él). “Pude oírlos
cavando allí, durante semanas”, dijo él
con una—cara preocupada, “en el sótano...” Él añadió.

El único defecto que mi abuelo tenía además de ser
malhumorado: defecto conmigo es decir, no le presté
mucha atención. Quizás ahora él se ha olvidado ese
defecto, mientras me preguntaba este miedo frío de él
de dónde venía (seguramente él sabía que todos tenemos que morir
pero yo sólo tenía 26 años, y la muerte era alguna-
cosa nueva, incluso estando en guerra, no te prepara).
Él tenía 83 años; quizás la muerte era la tumba,
no tal cosa como fantasmas, pero aquí estaban ellos: esperando.

Pensé, mirando al abuelo, pensé (no diciendo
una palabra) pensé talvez él estaba pensando si
¿los fantasmas iban ahora a perseguirlo alrededor de la casa?

Gracioso, era todo esto, eso pensé en ese momento…,
no estoy seguro por qué. Estos fantasmas no tenían razón para perseguirlo a él
alrededor del Sótano o tratar de encontrarlo en su casa. Entonces dije,
“Ellos son inofensivos, abuelo”, como si ellos fueran reales, estaba
hablando como él... y él dijo, “Entra en mi mundo,
y tú lo verás…! ”Desde luego eso no era posible,
entonces sólo me recliné en aquella estufa vieja, contra mi espalda.

Estos fantasmas del sótano (pensé, pasarían, se desvanecerían,
después de una noche buena de sueño para él: o dos o tres; esto haría
el truco); pero no tal cosa, esto no era. Yo realmente no sabía
que creer—como dije antes, sólo tenía veintiséis años.
Ahora que miro atrás, teniendo cincuenta y ocho, las cosas han cambiado
(ellos siempre lo hacen ¿no?); esos viejos espíritus familiares son más de
los que parecen, ahora—más de lo que eran en ese entonces; porque hay
otro mundo, tan real como el nuestro, tan perplejo como puede parecer,
y supongo, ellos están dispuestos a esperar por me; si ellos encuentran
una apertura (otro mundo dentro de nuestro mundo eso es).
Él murió dos semanas más tarde—después de esa última conversación:
allá en los '74, mucho tiempo atrás, por su puesto. Él murió boca abajo,
sobre su vientre, sin vida en el piso de su casa, tratando de ir de un
cuarto al siguiente, como si alguien, o algo lo perseguía.

# 1234 22/Marzo/2006; modificado 18/Marzo/2006; este acontecimiento ocurrió en nuestra vieja casa en la calle de Cayuga, en San Pablo, Minnesota, en 1974, quizás unas semanas antes de que mi abuelo muriera. Escrito en Lima, Perú, en mi casa.

16.

Train to Newport [1962
And Homeless in 68

Train to Newport (1962)

I was but fifteen-years old, when
Tom and I snuck into the freight yard,
To catch a train going to Chicago.
I was surprised at my stupidity—!
It stopped in Newport, Minnesota,
Seven-miles from home, and we
And we both (Tom and I) kicked stones,
Walking those dark miles back home.

Note: The author did many things when he was young, but he never hopped a train again, it was his first and last time. #1241 2/23/06 Written at the Coffee House in Minnesota.

Homeless in ‘68

The homeless man has naught—
For I was, when I was in San Francisco
Back in ‘68—
Everything is pointed against him
You want to cry a little, but I held it in.
It gets dark quick when you’re homeless.
No matter what side of the street you’re
On, a homeless man is in hot water!

In 1968, Dennis traveled from Minnesota to San Francisco by train, he had a streak of bad luck and had to eat at the mission house, and ended up sleeping on a sofa in a dojo, for several weeks, and then on someone porch on a couch for $5-dollars a week (a Spanish family). Then finally he found a job, and got a real room to roost in, and was very happy. #1240 2/23/06; written at the Coffee House in Minnesota.

In Spanish
Translated by Nancy Peñaloza

El Tren Hacia Newport (1962)
Y Sin Hogar en 1968

El Tren Hacia Newport (1962)

No tenía más que 15 años de edad, cuando
Tom y yo nos escondimos dentro del depósito de carga,
para coger un tren yendo a Chicago.
¡Estuve sorprendido de mi estupidez—!
Este paró en Newport, Minnesota,
Siete millas de la casa, y nosotros
Y nosotros dos (Tom y yo) pateamos piedras,
Caminando esas millas oscuras de regreso a casa.

Nota: El autor hizo muchas cosas cuando era joven, pero nunca cogió un tren nuevamente, esta fue su primera y ultima vez. # 1241 23/Febrero/2006 Escrito en el Café en Minnesota.

Sin Hogar en el 1968

El hombre sin hogar tiene cero—
Porque yo fuí, cuando estuve en San Francisco
Allá en los ´68
Todo es señalado contra él.
Tú quieres llorar un poco, pero me lo aguanté.
Anochece rápido cuanto tú estás sin hogar.
¡No importa en que lado de la calle estás,
un hombre sin hogar está en agua caliente!

En 1968, Dennis viajó desde Minnesota hacia San Francisco por tren, el tenia una racha de mala suerte y tuvo que comer en la casa de caridad, y termino durmiendo sobre un sofá en una academia de artes marciales, por muchas semanas, y después en el pórtico de alguien sobre un sillón por 5 dólares a la semana (una familia española). Luego finalmente encontró un trabajo, y consiguió un cuarto verdadero para establecerse, y fue muy feliz. # 1240 23/Febrero/2006; escrito en el Café en Minnesota.

17.

The Big House in Erie (1973)

I was invited to my boss’ house
I was young so young back then,
Perhaps twenty-five; l lived in Erie,
Pennsylvania, 1973
I hung around with his nephews
And when I saw his big house, it
Somewhat startled me: made of:
Red-brick, smoothly mortared
In-between: a few chimneys on
Each side of the house, Victorian.
It was a big, a huge house—windows
Everywhere: all around, up, down:
To a poor kid like me, my eyes
Were mortified, they were shaken
(hands fidgeting, legs weakening)—
I had to catch my breath.

When I walked inside, my boss was
Surprised, yet greeted me well, cheerful:
I think he noticed I felt a bit
Uncomfortable (I was brought up
In an extended family where two bedrooms
Fitted four families); so, I smiled the best
I could, looking about the house
It was to me: Buckingham Palace.

When I was fifty-five
Years old, yes, a quarter century plus, had
Passed, I owned several big houses, one
Bigger than his;
And never did I once forget that big house,
In Erie—never.

Note from the Author: While locked out of my house today, sitting in my car, in my garage, having two hours to throw to the wind until I had to pick up my wife, this big old house in Erie come to mind ((9:10 PM)) 2/23/2006. #1244 Written at my home in St. Paul, Minnesota.

In Spanish

La Casa Grande en Erie (1973)

Fui invitado a la casa de mi jefe
Era joven bastante joven entonces,
Quizás veinticinco; yo vivía en Erie,
Pensilvania, 1973
Paraba con sus sobrinos
Y cuando vi su gran casa, esto
Un tanto me asustó: hecha de:
Ladrillo-Rojo, suavemente enfoscado
Entre: algunas chimeneas en
Cada lado de la casa, Victoriana;
Esta era una grande, una enorme casa—ventanas
Por todas partes: todo alrededor, arriba, abajo;
Para un pobre muchacho como yo, mis ojos
Estaban avergonzados, ellos estaban conmocionados:
(Manos moviéndose nerviosamente, piernas debilitadas) –
Tuve que coger mi respiración.

Cuando caminé adentro, mi jefe estaba
Sorprendido, sin embargo me saludó bien, alegre
Pienso que él notó que me sentía un poquito
Incómodo (fui educado
En un clan familiar amplio donde dos dormitorios
Encajaban a cuatro familias); así pues, sonreí lo mejor
Que pude, mirando alrededor de la casa
Esto era para mí: el Palacio Buckingham.

Cuando tuve cincuenta y cinco
Años de edad, sí, un cuarto de siglo más, había
Pasado, fui dueño de varias casas enormes, una
Más grande que la de él;
Y nunca jamás olvidé esa casa grande,
En Erie—nunca.

Nota del autor: Mientras estaba fuera de mi casa hoy, sentado en mi coche, en mi garaje, teniendo dos horas para tirarlas al viento hasta que tenga que recoger a mi esposa, esta vieja casa grande en Erie viene a mi mente ((9:10 PM.)) de23/Febrero/2006. # 1244. Escrito en mi casa en San Pablo, Minnesota

18.

San Francisco Loneliness
(1968-1969)

In San Francisco my only friend was the bottle, everyone else had let me down (or so it seemed)…

I’d buy cheese-spread for crackers and sandwiches, wash it down with a coke or a beer…

I’d walk around Castro Valley, half drunk, looking at queers; out to North Beach and even Golden Gate Park, play some ball, watch the hippies build fires.

I’d dare not drink during the week (after one test run) I’d get too thirsty and never make it home.

On Saturdays I went to the movies, they cost $1.25 for three… and it seemed I’d always bring back home to my apartment (afterwards) those damn flees….

But expensive movies I couldn’t’ afford, so there I’d stay, watching the movie, in the dark, as unforeseen noises came; I was not (at first) used to: the hard breathing all around me: groans, moans, people masturbating, young and old (it was a new and weird world for me, at twenty-one).

Some winos had bottles in their hands, whores trying to make them pay for a climax; and there I was in the middle of all this, watching a flick for kicks—boredom: eating chicken legs, wings, and breasts: watching the show as it all digested…!

Note: A true account of some of the author’s days in San Francisco in 1968-69. 2/25/06 #1249.
Written at the Coffee House in Roseville, Minnesota, at Har Mar Mall.

In Spanish

La Soledad en San Francisco
(1968-1969)

En San Francisco mi única amiga fue la botella, todos los demás
me habían fallado (o así parecía)-

Yo compraría queso-fundido para galleta salada y bocadillos, pasándolos
con una coca o una cerveza……….

Pasearía por el Valle de Castro, medio ebrio, mirando maricones; afuera de la
playa norte e incluso del parque Golden Gate, jugar algo de pelota, ver a los
hippies prender fuego.

No me atrevía a beber durante la semana (después de un ensayo) tendría demasiada sed
y jamás regresaría a casa.

Los Sábados iba al cine, ello costaba 1.25 dólar por tres… y esto
significaba que siempre regresaría a mi apartamento (después)
de esas malditas huidas...

Pero películas caras no podía pagar, por eso allí estaría, viendo
el cine, en la oscuridad, mientras imprevistos ruidos venían, no estaba (primero)
acostumbrado: la respiración fuerte alrededor mío: gemidos, quejas, gente
masturbándose, jóvenes y viejos (éste era un nuevo y extraño mundo para mi, a
mis 21 años).

Algunos alcohólicos de vino tenían botellas en sus manos, prostitutas tratando de hacerles
pagar por orgasmos; y allí estaba en el medio de todo esto, mirando una
película para retroceder—aburrimiento: comiendo piernas de pollo, alas, y pechos:
viendo las películas como todo asimilado…

Nota: Un relato real de algunos días del autor en San Francisco en 1968-69. 25/Febrero/2006 # 1249. Escrito en el café en Roseville, Minnesota, en Har Mar Mall.

19.

The Cat Poem

Note by the author: I am not sure what got into me about wanting to write a cat poem (as you can see I selected a great name for the poem); I just did it, out of the blue. I must have been triggered somehow because I do not care for cats. To be honest, if God gave me a choice between cats and cockroaches, I’d take the latter: and I’m sure I might have been a happier person. I do think cats are good for something, not sure what, perhaps for rats. It all stems back to when I was a Boy Scout, or at least that is what a psychologist would say: flashbacks, the white rabbit syndrome. When I was out camping at the St. Croix Camp Grounds (Minnesota), back when I was thirteen, or so, I was in a big tent with kids, and guess who wakes me up? Yup, a cat purring down my mouth—: paws on my throat, and it scared the crap out of me when I opened my eyes and saw those marble eyes staring into mine.
Now that I think of it, perhaps this poem is long overdue. In any case, I dedicate it to all the cat lovers out there, to include my wife:

The Cat Poem

Cats, I never did care for them,
My wife had—before we wed—
Fifteen of them—.
They’re too lordly in the household
For me—:
Too aristocrat-able to please.
They are everything but what they
Seem, and
They seem surreal; and endlessly
Dreaming—or perhaps it’s scheming
(I can’t tell the difference)—but,
One thing I do know: they have mystic
Marble-eye-balls—: gives me the chills.

#1065 1/6/06 Written at my home in St. Paul, Minnesota, on Albemarle Street.

IN SPANISH
Translated by Nancy Peñaloza

El Poema del Gato

Nota por el autor: No estoy seguro que me llevó a escribir un Poema del Gato (como puedes ver seleccione un gran nombre para el poema); sólo lo hice, cuando menos lo esperaba. Debo haber sido provocado de alguna forma porque no me interesan los gatos. Para ser honesto, si Dios me da a escoger entre gatos y cucarachas, yo escogería a la última: y estoy seguro seria una persona más feliz. Pienso que los gatos son buenos para algo, no estoy seguro para que, talvez para las ratas. Todo esto proviene de antes cuando yo era un Boy Scout, o al menos eso es lo que diría un Psicólogo: escenas retrospectivas, el síndrome del conejo blanco. Cuando estuve de campamento en St. Croix (Minnesota), antes cuando yo tenía 13 o algo así, estaba en una tienda grande con niños, y adivina quien me despertó. Si. Un gato ronroneando debajo de mi boca—: patas sobre mi garganta, y esto me sacó fuera de juicio cuando abrí mis ojos y vi esos ojos de mármol mirando fijamente dentro del mío.

Ahora que pienso en eso, talvez este poema esta demasiado atrasado. De cualquier modo, lo dedico a todos los amantes de gatos allí afuera, incluyendo a mi esposa:

El poema del gato

Gatos, jamás me importaron ellos;
Mi esposa tuvo—antes de nuestra boda—
Quince de ellos—
Ellos eran demasiado arrogantes en la casa
Para mí—:
Muy aristocráticos para complacerlos.
Ellos son todo pero no lo que ellos
Parecen, y
Ellos parecen surreal; y sueño
Sin final—o talvez esto es intriga
(No puedo decir la diferencia)—pero,
Una cosa yo sé: ellos poseen misticismo
Bolas de Ojos de Mármol—: me dan escalofríos.

# 1065 6/Enero/2006. Escrito en mi casa en la Calle Albemarle, en San Pablo, Minnesota

20.

Coffee House Poet
(Written at the Coffee House)

Here is where I meet my friends,
have long conversations; glances,
can’t remember all their names—
(all the time) my coffee cup often jumps,
when they come by, breaking up the
moment of my concentration….

Women want to borrow chairs—often
around my table; I’m a regular here—;
everyday until-night, from three to almost
midnight… writing, reading, drawing,
it’s what I do, I’m a poet.

There’s the professor, from the U of M,
and Johannes, a poet and friend; and
then, there is Papa Bear, he works at
the Airlines, worried if, ‘Northwest, will
be going out of business;

And then there is Gene, he likes erotica;
and Kathy, she’s a Faulkner fan; and
Royce, a lawyer, he has no real choice;
and Mathew, he’s a writer of songs, and
music (his day will come);
And then there is Janet, she loves the
word of God; and Michelle, she likes the
law also; and there’s Cindy W., a poet
who loves ‘Plath,’ and Gary and Sue, book
lovers too, and me, a plain poet.

I have learned much from all my friends,
at the Coffee House, at the B & N, in
Roseville—and that we all love to inhale
the odor of Coffee, books and conversation;
I think fate has brought us here—Amen!

Dedicated to my friends at the Coffee House; #1257 3/2/06 revised 2/5/06; written at the Coffee House in Roseville, Minnesota, at the Har Mar Mall (B&N, Café).

IN SPANISH

Poeta de Cafetería
(Escrito en la Cafetería)

Aquí es donde encuentro a mis amigos,
tengo conversaciones largas; vistazos,
no puedo recordar todos sus nombres—
(todo el tiempo) mi taza de café a menudo brinca,
cuando ellos vienen, rompiendo el
momento de mi concentración...

Mujeres que quieren prestarse sillas—a menudo
alrededor de mi mesa; soy regular aquí—;
todos los días hasta-la noche, desde las tres a casi
la medianoche…escribiendo, leyendo, dibujando,
esto es lo que hago, soy un poeta.

Esta el profesor, de la Universidad de Minnesota,
y Johannes, un poeta y amigo; y
luego, esta Papá Oso, él trabaja en
las Aerolíneas, preocupado si, ‘Northwest, cerrará
el negocio;

Y luego esta Gene, a el le gusta el arte erótico;
y Kathy, ella es un admiradora de Faulkner; y
Royce, un abogado, él no tiene ninguna verdadera opción;
y Mathew, él es un escritor de canciones, y
música (su día vendrá);
Y luego esta Janet, a ella le gusta
la palabra de Dios; y Michelle, a ella le gusta la
ley también; y esta Cindy W., una poeta
a quien le gusta 'Plath', y Gary y Susan, amantes de
libros también, y yo, un poeta simple.

He aprendido mucho de todos mis amigos,
en la Cafetería, en Barnes and Noble, en
Roseville—y que todos gustamos inhalar
el olor del Café, libros y conversación;
pienso que el destino nos ha traído aquí— ¡Amén!

Dedicado a mis amigos en la Cafetería; # 1257 2/Marzo/2006; escrito en la Cafetería en Roseville, Minnesota, en Har Mar Mall (Café en Barnes and Noble)

21.

Minnesota Spring Thaw

It’s the way it is, it’s the way it has always been
Spring thaw, brings spring mud, ripples, birds
It’s the way it is, the way it’s always been,
Ever since: who knows when, when I was a kid.

Strange, my blood runs wild in me today
That I should dream of faces so far away
I’m sitting dimly far from Minnesota’s horizon
And hear voices, echoes, rivers, from afar.

The clouds are clear on high, endless blue
The spring sounds awaken memories, renewed
Winter stars are gone with winter snows
Birds begin to nest in trees and meadows.

Spring winds will bring some spring storms
Enough to tease Minnesota’s willow trees
With many ripples on its 10,000-lakes
Around its millions of Pines and Evergreens.

It’s the way it is, the way it has always been
Spring thaw, brings spring mud, ripples, birds
It’s the way it is, the way it’s always been,
Ever since: who knows when, when I was a kid.

I arrived in Peru, 3/10/2006, as spring opens up in my home city of St. Paul, Minnesota; I know its every breath and light, when its character becomes boyish; when mother–nature bends her knees. My friends tell me the winter snows are almost gone now, they were heavy just a month ago, when I was there. I can feel the doting weather gain, romping winds, emerald green woods blossoming with life, ripe for horsing around, trekking its pathways. The fish jumping up and down, breast first diving deep into the clear lakes. I must give it a tragic kiss, for I will miss her spring, but I remember so many of them, it is like Minnesota is present, alive within my dreams, it’s the way it has always been. [#1311 4/11/06]

Published on the ‘Minnesota Trails and Parks,’ website by the Administrator, May, 2006

IN SPANISH

Deshielo de Primavera en Minnesota

Éste es el modo que es, éste es el modo que siempre ha sido
Deshielo de primavera, trae fango de primavera, ondas, pájaros
Éste es el modo que es, el modo que siempre ha sido,
Desde que: quien sabe cuando, cuando era un niño.

Curioso, mi sangre corre rápida en mí hoy
Que debería soñar con caras tan lejanas
Estoy sentado sutilmente lejos del horizonte de Minnesota
Y oigo voces, ecos, ríos, de lejos.

Las nubes son claras arriba, infinito azul
Los sonidos de primavera despiertan memorias, renovadas
Estrellas de invierno son idas con nieves de invierno
Los pájaros comienzan a anidar en árboles y prados.

Los vientos de primavera traerán algo de tormentas de primavera
Suficientes para probar a los árboles de sauce de Minnesota
Con muchas ondas sobre sus 10,000 lagos
Alrededor de sus millones de pinos y árboles de hojas perennes

Éste es el modo que es, éste es el modo que siempre ha sido
El deshielo de primavera, trae fango de primavera, ondas, pájaros
Éste es el modo que es, éste es el modo que siempre ha sido
Desde que: quien sabe cuando, cuando era un niño.

Llegué a Perú, el 10/Marzo/2006, mientras la primavera empezaba en mi ciudad de San Pablo, Minnesota; conozco cada aliento y luz suya, cuando sus características se hacen infantil; cuando la Madre Naturaleza dobla sus rodillas. Mis amigos me dicen que las nieves de invierno casi se han ido ahora, fueron muy pesados sólo un mes atrás, cuando estaba allí. Puedo sentir el beneficio del clima adorable, vientos ruidosos, bosques verdes de esmeralda que florecen con la vida, listos para cabalgaduras, caminando sus senderos. El pescado saltando arriba y abajo, pecho primero sumergiéndose profundamente en los lagos claros. Debo darlo un beso trágico, porque extrañaré su primavera, pero recuerdo muchos de ellos, es como si Minnesota está presente, viva dentro de mis sueños, esta es la forma que siempre era. [# 1311 11/Abril/2006]
Publicado en “Minnesota Trails and Parks” en la página web por el Administrador en mayo del 2006

22.

Pine Creek

How pure it burns the Northern Lights, over Minnesota’s mystic nights; here stirs the winds with deathless wings, with secrets undivided; ye, here moans the forest deep to think, what heart would seek, to take, or reap, its strange and deep beauties, and deeper joys from its woodlands, and kindly trees, from its little creek, nearby.

#1367 6/5/2006

When I was at Pine Creek, by Lake Superior, in Bayfield, Minnesota, I noticed animal footprints, in the sand, and the creek, in the back of an old B&B, where I stayed, was as lovely as the day is long. My wife and I climbed down the slope to it, gazed at it; then walked deep into the woods behind the old mansion, up a cliff (sort off). It was all raw beauty, such as will be gone someday I suppose, so we must capture it now. The poem is small, and is composed of a few fragments, of the beauty of Minnesota’s Northerly Lights, its woods, and the little creek, but I felt the commentary should be longer than the poem in this case. When you walk into the thick deep woods by the creek, it is infested with mosquitoes, and the sound of bears, not sure if it is just the winds or the trees, whatever it sounds like wings flapping and one does not see birds until you are out in the opening; in places it is dim, and in other places gleaming with the morning sun; whispers unknown to me, I heard; as if eyes were seeking light but finding me, almost to the loss of a heart beat, I walked to and fro, and then out of this cloud of a forest, then went into the B&B for breakfast.

IN SPANISH

Pine Creek

Qué pura se quema la Aurora Boreal, a lo largo de las noches místicas de Minnesota; aquí se mueven los vientos con alas inmortales, con secretos íntegros; sí, aquí gime el bosque profundamente para pensar, lo que el corazón buscaría, tomaría, o cosecharía, sus bellezas extrañas y profundas, y alegrías más profundas de sus bosques, y árboles bondadosos, de su pequeño riachuelo, cerca.

# 1367 5/Junio/2006

Cuando estaba en Bayfield, en el Bed and Breakfast Pine Creek, por el Lago Superior, en Minnesota, noté huellas de animal, en la arena, y en el riachuelo, detrás del viejo B&B donde yo me alojé, era tan encantadores como el día es largo. Mi esposa y yo bajamos la cuesta, miramos fijamente ello; después caminamos profundamente en los bosques detrás de la vieja mansión, arriba de un acantilado (algo así). Todo esto era belleza cruda, como que desaparecerá un día supongo, por eso debemos captarlo ahora. Este poema es pequeño, y está compuesto de unos fragmentos, de la belleza de las Luces del Norte de Minnesota, de sus bosques, y del pequeño riachuelo, pero sentí que el comentario debería ser más largo que el poema en este caso. Cuando tú caminas entre los espesos bosques profundos por el riachuelo, está infestado de mosquitos, y el sonido de osos, no estoy seguro si sólo son los vientos o los árboles, independemente esto suena como el batir de alas y uno no ve pájaros hasta que estés afuera en la apertura; en algunos sitios es débil, y en otros sitios brillan con el sol de la mañana; desconocidos susurros para mi, he oído; como si ojos estaban buscando la luz, pero me encontraron, casi a la pérdida de los latidos del corazón, anduve de un lado a otro, y luego fuera de esta nube de bosque, fui al B&B por desayuno.

23.

Before the Dawn in Beijing
[A Love Affair]

The nights were long, it seemed an era
(All before the dawn in Beijing),
Came youthful smiles, in my magic age
And we who listened to each heartbeat
A sweet compulsion of that sound
The burst, a mighty morning on Beijing;
Then yellow flowers seem to fall (sing):
She was an empire with pains and peaks
I an ocean, and sky above—

The dark was deep, a drowsy soul
Somewhere between reality and sleep,
Tides of Time and matter seeped—
Pure being, freed from memory
Of voices I have never heard,
And dreams and echoes
Nor did I find the light of the star
Before the dawn in Beijing,
Which haunts the hollow past in me…!

#1371 6/17/06

IN SPANISH

Antes del Alba en Beijing
[Aventura Amorosa]

Las noches eran largas, parecían una era
(Todo antes del alba en Beijing),
Vinieron risas jovenes, a mi edad mágica
Y nosotros que escuchamos a cada latido del corazón
Una amenaza dulce de aquel sonido
La explosión, una mañana poderosa en Beijing;
Entonces flores amarillas parecían caerse (canta):
Ella era un Imperio con dolores y picos
yo un océano, y el cielo encima—

El oscuro era profundo, un alma soñolienta
En algún sitio entre realidad y sueño,
Mareas de Tiempo y materias se filtraron—
Ser puro, liberado de la memoria
De voces que nunca había oído,
Y sueños y ecos,
Tampoco encontré la luz de la estrella
Antes del alba en Beijing,
Que atormenta el pasado vacío en mí…!

# 1371 17/Junio/2006

24.

The Cake Poem

Red, yellow, orange, green and blue—
Balloons on a cake,
Candy covered mushrooms
(Red and white):
The cake sits in a window display
Waiting for the right child
To see and say:
“I wish it was my birthday!”

#1373 6/16/2006 (Commentary): written in Lima, Peru (prior to dusk), while waiting for my coffee at the Deli, “Wilton’s” in what is called ‘The Roundabout Higuereta’ area, in Surco, by Miraflores, Lima, Peru. While drinking my coffee a woman with her two young boys looked—from the outside in—looked at the colorful cakes, with all there decorative items on top of them; the frosting hanging over the edges, the colorful items (toys); thus, life is made up of many moments, and the eye catches them, and the mind stores them for future time; I’m sure the boys will get reflective this evening while sleeping, reflective of those cakes while sleeping tonight, thus their subconscious will mold some dialogue for their parents tomorrow morning; in any case, this was one of those magical moments (plain as it may seem, that is what life is made up of: many plain magical moments); hence, this poem is plain ( but the cakes were not: and the two boys can attest to that). Dedicated to the Deli helper: Luisa

IN SPANISH

EL Poema de la Torta

Rojo, amarillo, anaranjado, verde y azul—
Globos sobre una torta,
Hongos hechos de caramelos cubriendo
(Rojo y blanco):
La torta esta en una ventana de mostrador
Esperando por el niño apropiado
Que vea y diga:
“¡Deseo fuera mi cumpleaños!”

# 1373 16/Junio/2006 (Comentario): escrito en Lima, Perú (antes del crepúsculo) en la Fiambrería Wilton’s, mientras esperaba por mi café, en el area que lo llaman “El Ovalo de Higuereta”, en Surco, cerca de Miraflores, Lima, Perú. Mientras tomaba mi café, una mujer con sus dos niños miraron—desde afuera—miraron las tortas coloridas, con todos sus artículos decorativos encima de estos; el glaseado colgando sobre los borde, los artículos vistosos (juguetes); así, la vida está compuesta de muchos momentos, y el ojo los coge, y la mente los guarda para tiempos futuros; estoy seguro que los niños se volverán reflexivos durmiendo esta noche, reflexivos en aquellas tortas, durmiendo esta noche, así sus subconscientes moldearán algún diálogo para con sus padres mañana por la mañana; de todas formas, esto fue uno de esos momentos mágicos (simple como puede parecer, esto es de lo que la vida está compuesta: muchos momentos simples mágicos); de ahí, este poema es simple (pero las tortas no lo eran: y los dos niños pueden dar testimonio de esto). Dedicado a ayudante de la Fiambrería: Luisa.

25.

Grandpa’s House
[The ole Real House]

The house needed painting
Sun-blistered and flaking
Grandpa started to have us
Boys—Mike and I— start
Doing some scraping—
While he, pealed off the ole
Paint, and started painting…

Just a humble wooden house
With several rooms, but
Strong enough to keep the
Winds and winter snows out,

How he loved that ole house!...
An’ his well-kept yard, which
Contained lilac bushes, and
Big shade trees; where birds
And squirrels lived—season
To season, scattered on…
Branches—they looked like
Play things (back in the 50s)

#807 8/18/05

Note by the author: “We all grew up together I suppose you might say, my brother and I, mom and grandpa, a few aunts in the beginning, all living in an extended family environment; that is how it felt anyhow. Although the house belonged to my grandfather, we all lived together; now it all seems so long ago, and what pops out of my mind is: I never did take a liking to painting houses after painting his a few times.”

IN SPANISH

La Casa del Abuelo
[La Verdadera Casa Vieja]

La casa necesitaba pintura
Descascarillados por el sol y escamas
El abuelo comenzó a hacer que
Los muchachos—Mike y yo—empezaramos
A hacer algunos raspados—
Mientras él, pelaba la vieja
Pintura, y empezaba a pintar...

Solamente una casa humilde de madera
Con varios cuartos, pero
Bastante fuerte para no dejar pasar los
Vientos y nieves de invierno.

¡Cómo le gustaba esa casa vieja!...
Y su jardín bien cuidado, que
Tenía arbustos de lila, y
Grandes árboles de sombra; donde los pájaros
y ardillas vivían—estación
tras estación, dispersados sobre …
Ramas—ellos parecían
Juguetes (allá por los años 50)

# 807 18/Agosto/2005

Nota por el autor: “Todos crecimos juntos supongo que podrías decir, mi hermano y yo, mi mamá y mi abuelo, unas cuantas tías al principio, todos viviendo en un ambiente de clan familiar; eso es como esta se sintió de todos modos. Aunque la casa perteneciera a mi abuelo, vivimos juntos; ahora todo esto parece tan lejos atrás, y lo que se escapa de mi mente es: Nunca tomé aficion a pintar casas después de pintar la suya unas cuantas veces”.

26.

House Without Windows

I am building a house with no windows
And a very small door,
And my friends all ask me why.

Life has been for me full of anxiety—
And I care not to let it in any more;
So you see, I am making a very small door.

And having no windows allows
What is outside not to look in—
Thus freeing my spirit to rest again…

Original published in the Magazine: The Mango Tree, out of India (August/September issue 204), considered by the editor to be an exceptional poem. Also published in the book “The macabre Poems,” Volume III.

IN SPANISH

Casa sin Ventanas

Estoy construyendo una casa sin ventanas
Y con una puerta muy pequeña,
Y todos mis amigos me preguntan por qué.

La vida ha sido para mí llena de ansiedad—
Y no me importa dejarla entrar nunca más;
Entonces ves, estoy haciendo una puerta muy pequeña.

Y no teniendo ventanas permite
Que lo que esta afuera no mire adentro—
Así liberando mi espíritu para descansar otra vez …

Original publicado en la Revista: El Árbol de Mango, de India (Publicacion 204 de agosto/septiembre), considerado por el editor ser un poema excepcional. También publicado en el libro “Los Poemas Macabros,” Volumen III.

Last Autumn and Winter: Minnesota Poems by: D.L. Siluk

2006-07-03T21:21:00.000-07:00

Last Autumn and Winter

[Poems out of Minnesota]

In English and Spanish

Last Autumn and Winter
[Poems out of Minnesota]
Copyright ©, 2006
All Rights Reserved
Dennis L. Siluk

All art work was done by the Author.
Photo on back of book, by Rosa Peñaloza
Of Hidden Falls [Park], St. Paul, Minnesota
(taken on Christmas Day, 2005).
Cover is of the Boundary Waters of Minnesota.

This book is dedicated to the:
Minnesotans and my wife Rosa who
Loved, and lived through five Minnesota winters

Special thanks to Rosa Peñaloza and
Nancy Peñaloza for their work in translating and editing
the English into Spanish.

Index:

Introductory Poem:
Winter of Death

Introduction of the poems by
Rosa Peñaloza

* (Star) Indicates Notes or Commentary

Recent Notes: interviews
And books by the author
(See back of book)

Autumn Poems of Minnesota

1—Breathing-in, Minnesota
Respirando en Minnesota
2—An Old Woodpile*
Un Viejo Montón de Leña
3—Burning Autumn Leaves
Hojas de Otoño Quemadas
4—Sonnet of Hidden Falls*
Soneto de las Cataratas Escondidas
5—Th’ Ol Mississippi
El Viejo Mississippi
6—Comin’ O’ Winter
Llegada de Invierno
7—The Old Hearth
La Vieja Chimenea
8—The Beauty and Loss
of Minnesota’s Autumn
La Belleza y Pérdida del Otoño de Minnesota

Winter Poems of Minnesota

9—Tone of Minnesota
Tono de Minnesota
10—Potholes
(on Minnesota Streets)
Huecos
(en las Calles de Minnesota)
11—Night Poem in the Minnesota Cold
Poemas Nocturnos en el Frío de Minnesota
12—Iron Winter in Minnesota
Invierno de Hierro en Minnesota
13—Winter, Box-elder bugs
Invierno, bichos mayores
14—Morning Whiteout
Nieve Blanca de Mañana
15—Cold December Days Ahead
Días Fríos de Diciembre Delante
16—Waiting at the Café
Espera en el Café
17—Cold Spell
Periodo de Frío
18—Forenoon Snow*
Nieve de Mañana
19—Moonlight Chills Over Minnesota’s Forests
Enfriamientos de Luz de Luna sobre los Bosques de Minnesota
20—Walking in the Snow*
[New Years day, 2005]
Caminando en la Nieve
21—Sleepy Winter Wife
Esposa Soñolienta en Invierno
22—Brothers in the Winter of their Lives
Hermanos en el Invierno de sus Vidas
23—Minnesota Slush
Mirando la Nieve Derretida

(Introductory Poem)

Winter of Death

In the winter of doubt
Death swims—engulfs
Like a hurricane—like
A ship sinking; thus,
Pitilessly with tons of
Crushing sea!

Here I stand on the lofty
Poop, above the angry
Waves—, as it waits for
Me!...

#943 [12/7/05]

Versión en Español

(Poema Introductorio)

Invierno de Muerte

En el invierno de duda
La Muerte nada—sumerge
Como un huracán—como
Un barco hundiéndose; así,
¡Despiadadamente con toneladas de
Aplastante mar!

Aquí estoy sobre la Popa
Alta, encima de las olas
Enfadadas—, como si éstas esperan
¡Por mi!...

#943 [12/Julio/05]

Introduction by Rosa Peñaloza: in Dennis’ poetry on Minnesota, he has tried to deliver the engraved impressions he received, that have shaped themselves within the windows and cracks of his mind. Realizing life is not a halo, but rather a task—of the unknown, unseen. Here he tries to bring the unchaining spirit: whatever peculiarities or simplicities they maybe, into the possible. In the beauty of “Last Autumn and Winter,” of Minnesota, Dennis brings out an echo, a voice and does it politely, as he marches on from autumn to winter.

Versión en Español

Introducción por Rosa Peñaloza: en las poesías de Dennis sobre Minnesota, él trata de entregar las impresiones grabadas que ha recibido, formadas ella mismas dentro de las lumbreras y grietas de su mente. Entendiendo que la vida no es un halo, pero más bien una tarea—de lo desconocido, de lo no visto. Aquí él trata de traer el espíritu de desencadenamiento: cualquiera sean las peculiaridades o simplicidades de ellos tal vez en el posible. En la belleza de “Ultimo Otoño e Invierno”, de Minnesota, Dennis lanza un eco, una voz y lo hace correctamente mientras él marcha de otoño a invierno.

Autumn Poems of Minnesota

Minnesota Landscape, Arboretum

1—Breathing-in, Minnesota
[a St. Paul, Minnesota, Poem]

In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls—falls,
In buckets, buckets and more buckets—: drops
Likened to music from its many streams—land
Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel
Everywhere…everyplace!...
Grandpa sits on the porch—daydreaming of, of
Something, perhaps winter around the corner—;
As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes…
Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come early
Maybe he’s thinking about summer: miles and miles
And miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood now
Long gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at the
Metal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on the
Embankment, leading up the steps to the porch;
It’s worn-out now, like him.

The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from all
The foliage; there’s a lot of it. The eighty-three
Year old man looks about, on his screened-in
Porch —fetches his pipe, lights it up, sucks in a
Drag, pushes out some smoke: it drifts and drifts
Into the corners of the house (cracks and crooks)
“Ah!” he says—proud of his life events—I say to
Myself (I’m but ten): “No doubt He’s already lived this?”
There are many stories he wants to tell, but first he
Wants to smell the fresh air, the burning of autumn
Leaves—He, he never intended to have lived this long
Of a life, I believe—the old bear came from Russia
In 1916; He accepted life—adjusted to it….
He hears the sparrows, their feathers flapping, faintly
Soiled feathers, flapping, covering every inch of their
Bodies— He notices frost on the nearby tree. It seems to
Him, the sun is bouncing off the ground, he gets bits
And pieces of it on his face, it warms it, somehow
Thaws it out…. He’s breathing in…Minnesota…
He’s breathing in, frail like—, like reading Faulkner: slowly
Does it, a ting uneasy. He never left Minnesota once—
Not once He arrived back home from WWI (in 1918),
“…no need to,” he says—he’s happy here in Minnesota…!

People getting haircuts—everything’s shutting down:
The fields are becoming raw, clean to the bone;
Animals kept warm, now in the barns: in the city.

Winter is now—it came last night, a Minnesota winter
Is like no other. He just woke up, his bones chilled.
The Wind blows, now it whistles, no foliage to stop its echoes.
“There are only a few left like me,” he murmurs.
The Flavor of winter he likes; warm biscuits, hot coffee, a
Smoke from his pipe or cigar.

Black branches, those were green a few months ago—,
No longer, at ten-below zero….
He sees the beauty of Minnesota in a glance here and
There—it makes his brain swim with life; it is nature at its
Best, at its Finest!...

For Kathy at the Midway Bookstore, St. Paul, Minnesota [#800 8/14/05]

Versión en Español

Respirando en Minnesota
[un poema: ahora en español e inglés]

Al comienzo del otoño, en Minnesota, las lluvias caen, caen,
En cubos, cubos y más cubos—: gotas
Comparadas con la música por sus muchos arroyuelos—tierra
De los diez mil lagos; cascajo humedecido, cascajo
¡Por todas partes…por todos lugares!...
El abuelo se sienta en el pórtico—soñando despierto de, de
Algo, quizás invierno alrededor de la esquina—;
Mientras las moscas desaparecen, con los mosquitos…
Las hojas muy pronto desaparecerán, las sombras vendrán temprano
Tal vez él está pensando en el verano: millas y millas
y millas y millas de maizales; su niñez ahora
hace mucho tiempo ida, él tararea un himno, una canción; mirando a la
Valla metálica-entubada, que él hizo, con tres postes, sobre el
Terraplén, conduciendo a las escaleras del pórtico;
Este está desgastado ahora como él.

Los vientos en Minnesota huelen a fresco, fresco por todo
El follaje, hay mucho de ello. El anciano de ochenta y tres
Años de edad mira alrededor, en su protegido
Pórtico—busca su pipa, lo enciende, aspira
Lentamente, expulsando algo de humo: que va a la deriva
Entre las esquinas de la casa (grietas y curvas)
“¡Ah!” él dice—orgulloso de sus acontecimientos de vida—Me digo a
Mi mismo (tengo sólo diez años de edad): “Sin duda ¿Él ya ha vivido esto?”
Hay muchas historias que él quiere contar, pero primero él
Quiere oler el aire fresco, el olor de las quemadas
Hojas de otoño—Él, él nunca pensó que viviría hasta esta edad,
Creo—el viejo oso vino de Rusia
En 1916; Él aceptó la vida—se adaptó a ella
Él oye a los gorriones, batir de sus plumas, débilmente
Plumas manchadas, batiendo, cubriendo cada pulgada de sus
Cuerpos—Él nota la escarcha sobre el árbol cercano. Le parece a
Él, que el sol está saltando de la tierra, él consigue añicos
y pedazos sobre su cara, éste calienta, de algún modo,
Lo deshiela hacia afuera…él está respirando en…Minnesota…
Él está aspirando, como frágil, —como leyendo a Faulkner, despacio
Hace esto, un tintineo difícil. Él nunca dejó Minnesota una vez—
Ni una vez desde que volvió a casa de la Primera Guerra Mundial (1918), “…ninguna necesidad”, él dice— ¡él está feliz aquí in Minnesota…!

La personas se corten el pelo—todo está cerrando.
Los campos se están volviendo ariscos, limpios hasta el hueso;
Los animales son abrigados, ahora en los establos: en la ciudad.

El invierno está ahora—éste vino anoche, un invierno de Minnesota
No se parece a ningún otro. Él justo se acaba de despertar, sus huesos fríos. El viento sopla, ahora éste silba, ningún follaje para sus ecos.
“Sólo hay unos pocos que quedan como yo”, él murmura.
El sabor del invierno a él le gusta; bizcochos calientes, café caliente, fumar una pipa o un cigarro.

Ramas negras, aquellas que fueron verdes unos meses atrás—,
Ahora ya no, a 10 bajo cero…
Él ve la belleza de Minnesota de un vistazo aquí y
Allí—Esto hace que su mente se mantenga con vida; ¡esto es naturaleza
En su máximo, en su fineza!...

Dedicado a Kathy de la Librería Midway de San Pablo, Minnesota [# 800 14/Agosto/05].

2—An Old Wood Pile
Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk

Old skin once held tight
against her skeleton—
rose no more, just draped
loosely over her unpadded flesh
un-tightened muscles and tissue
lost its courage, no-fortitude—.
Gone are the days and years
that stood against the
indomitable elements;
the skeleton, now a landmark
hidden under flesh and blood,
guts and mortal fiber.
Backbone, collapsed from drudgery
(time, time’s—cascading inside).
Bones now leaving impressions
accepting fate
like tarnished silver!...
Her hands look like autumn leaves
fallen from old trees.
Winter is around the corner
the door of time is closing
like an old wood pile
being burnt up—.
Hard to open things,
hard to do anything.
She’s precariously balanced—
painfully slow….
She hears my feet
cross the room—her pale
sweet blue eyes, flicker
like butterflies….
Tilting her face
to catch her breath
She says:
“Who wants to live like this?”

#793 [8/11/05]

Notes by the author: “I think of myself as an old wood pile you might say, and so I use that analogy here: in my poem “An Old Wood Pile,” not out of disrespect, for I used my mother as an analogy, as well as my grandfather (in a prior poem), and even myself, which I’ve also used on occasions, within this book: “Last Autumn and Winter”. My mother had her mission, I was part of it; she was part of mine. I think I have learned to do one thing, if anything, in life, which is to examine it; otherwise, for me it would not be worth living. For this is where the truth of the matter is. Why do we do what we do [?] My mother said, “Who wants to live like this…?” and I had to make a choice for her, after she made her choice. We live in a world where most people, willing or unwilling live in a pretense. When my mother said what she said, there was no more deception for her, if there ever was any. She wanted to go to the next level, and said goodbye in her own way; as we all will in time.”

Versión en Español

Un Viejo Montón de Leña
Dedicado a Elsie Siluk

La piel vieja que una vez se mantuvo lisa
contra su esqueleto—
no se levantó más, sólo cayó
sueltamente sobre su carne flácida
músculos y tejidos sueltos
perdieron su coraje, ninguna-fortaleza—.
Ido son los días y los años
que estuvieron de pie contra los
elementos indomables;
el esqueleto, ahora una señal
escondida bajo carne y sangre,
tripas y fibra mortal.
Espina dorsal, demolida por servidumbre
(tiempo, tiempos—torrentes de tiempo dentro).
Huesos que dejan ahora impresiones
de aceptar el destino
¡como plata deslustrada!..
Sus manos lucen como hojas de otoño
caídas de viejos árboles.
El invierno está muy cerca,
la puerta de tiempo se está cerrando
como un viejo montón de leña
que está siendo quemada—.
Difícil de abrir las cosas,
difícil de hacer algo.
Ella es efímeramente equilibrada—
terriblemente lenta…
Ella oye mis pasos
cruzar el cuarto—sus pálidos
dulces ojos azules, parpadean
como mariposas….
Inclinando su cara
para coger su aliento
Ella dice:
“¿Quién quiere vivir así?”

# 793 [11/Agosto/05]

Apuntes por el autor: “Pienso en mí como un viejo montón de leña, podrías decir, y por eso uso esta analogía aquí: en mi poema ‘Un Viejo Montón de Leña’, no por falta de respeto, porque use a mi madre como una analogía, asimismo a mi abuelo (anterior a este poema), e incluso a mí mismo, que también lo hice en algunas ocasiones. Mi madre tenía su misión, yo fui parte de ella; ella fue parte de la mía. Pienso que si he aprendido a hacer una cosa en la vida, es examinar ésta; de otra manera, para mí no valdría la pena vivir. Porque aquí es donde está la verdad del asunto. ¿Por qué hacemos lo que hacemos? Mi madre me dijo, “¿Quién quiere vivir así…?” y tuve que tomar una decisión por ella, después de que ella hizo su elección. Vivimos en un mundo donde la mayoría de la gente, dispuesta o indispuesta vive en un pretexto. Cuando mi madre dijo lo que ella dijo, no hubo más engaño para ella, si alguna vez hubo alguno. Ella quiso ir al siguiente nivel, y dijo ¡adiós! en su propio modo; como todos lo haremos en su momento”.

3—Burning Autumn Leaves
[1950s in St. Paul, Minnesota]

My long steel pointed rake punctured
And twisted through tons of autumn leaves
(back in the ‘50s); and there’s a hill yet,
I didn’t rake, I see; behind it, two embankments
Leaves I didn’t rake a day ago; thus, the essence
Of fall still sleeps on the ground.

I love the scent of burning leaves:
I seem to dream of them nowadays.
I cannot shake the excitement I get
From the sight and smells of burning leaves.
Now the city will not allow the burning,
Not sure what can take its place—
Only wishful thinking and dreaming I think.
But—every leaf that now appears, in autumn
I keep hearing the cracking of the fire; see
The flickering-flames of burning leaves; I
Can even smell—-the autumn leaves of long ago.
I have had too much of raking leaves, I do believe—.
I’m now old and tired, too tired to rake those hills,
Yet raking I still desire, not sure why.
There were a thousand days I raked, back then.
Held in hand, the rake that struck the earth—;
Spiked, into its dirt—capturing those critters (leaves)
Like thieves—, thieves sleeping.
This tiredness of mine will never go away, I fear;
It’s called aging, or something, so I will have to find
Another place, to smell the burning autumn leaves.
And perhaps, perchance, do just a ting of raking,
Before the long, long, very long sleep—appears.

#771 7/24/05

Versión en Español

Hojas de Otoño Quemadas
(Los años de 1950 en San Pablo, Minnesota)

Mi rastrillo de acero largo y puntiagudo pinchó
Y dio vuelta a través de toneladas de hojas
(allá por los años 50); y hay una colina aún,
Que no rastrillé, veo; detrás de esto, dos terraplenes
De hojas que no rastrillé el día anterior; así, la esencia
Del otoño todavía duerme sobre el suelo.

Me gusta la esencia de las hojas ardiendo;
Parezco soñar con ella estos días.
No puedo sacudirme del entusiasmo que tengo
De la vista y olores de quemar hojas:
Ahora la ciudad no permite quemarlas,
No estoy seguro qué puede tomar su lugar—:
Sólo el hacerse ilusiones y soñar pienso.
Pero—cada hoja que ahora aparece, en otoño
Sigo oyendo el ruido del fuego; veo
El parpadear de las llamas de hojas ardiendo; yo
Puedo aún oler- las hojas de otoño de hace mucho tiempo atrás.
He tenido demasiado rastrillando hojas, creo—
Ahora estoy viejo y cansado, demasiado cansado
Para rastrillar esas colinas;
Aunque rastrillar todavía deseo, no estoy seguro ¿por qué?
Hubo miles de días que rastrillé, entonces
Sosteniendo en la mano, el rastrillo que golpeaba la tierra—;
Pinchando, dentro de su tierra—capturando aquellos bichos (hojas)
Como ladrones—, ladrones durmiendo.
Este cansancio mío no se irá jamás, me temo;
Esto es llamado envejecimiento, o algo, por eso tendré que hallar
Otro lugar, para oler las hojas de otoño quemadas.
Y talvez, la posibilidad, de hacer justo un pequeño intento de rastrillar,
Antes de que el largo, largo, muy largo sueño—aparezca.

#771 7/24/05

4—Sonnet of Hidden falls,
[St. Paul, Minnesota; along the Mississippi]

I waited for thy thro a lifetime of years,
Till now when camest your beauty was blind.
‘Tis written “He that seeketh, he shall find”
Hidden, I have found thy next, in all the spheres,
By my city’s river, a voice no man hears
Save for the hunger unknown but well seceded:
From the Mississippi behind hidden wind
Like a blue star, your eyes flow thro many tears!

Thou art the silence, the city’s soul; thou
The beauty of things unseen upon my brow.
O likened to Civil War walls, once dreamed
And winter found perfect! Cup of mystery
Upon your stones forgotten suns have gleamed
Whose waters are waters from unseen streams!

St. Paul, MN #944 12/27/05

Note: I woke up this morning, and thought about my Christmas, in which I took my lovely wife down to Hidden Falls; being a St. Paul-lite, I had never seen the falls, faintly remember hearing about it. And took a three day search to find where it was, and as I have said, found it on Christmas Day, a most beautiful hidden falls along the Mississippi River in St. Paul, Minnesota. Back at the Café bookstore—I go to daily—my brother showed up, and after describing the falls, he being an International Photographer, sought its whereabouts also. It is funny, I’ve lived here most of my life, was born here, and I doubt I will die here, but I didn’t even know where the most beautiful falls in St. Paul was. We do have Minnehaha Falls, but that is across the river in Minneapolis, not St. Paul. So those coming to St. Paul for a visit, it would be worth your time to see this (what I call) Civil War treasure.

Versión en Español

Soneto de las Cataratas Escondidas
(San Pablo, Minnesota, a lo largo del río Mississippi)

Esperé por ti a través de una larga vida,
Tu belleza era ciega hasta ahora cuando vino.
Esto está escrito “El que busca, lo encontrará”
Ocultada, te he encontrado después, en todas las esferas,
Por el río de mi ciudad, una voz que ningún hombre oye
Salvo por el hambre desconocido pero bien dividido:
¡Detrás del Mississippi viento oculto
Como una estrella azul, sus ojos fluyen a través de muchas lágrimas!

Tú eres el silencio, el alma de la ciudad; tú
La belleza de cosas no vistas sobre mi frente.
O como las paredes de la Guerra Civil, una vez soñadas
¡Y el invierno la encontró perfecta! ¡Taza de misterio
Sobre tus piedras el sol olvidado ha brillado
Cuyas aguas son aguas de corrientes no vistas!

San Pablo, Minnesota # 944 27/Diciembre/05.

Apuntes: me desperté esta mañana y recordé mi Navidad, en la cual tomé a mi encantadora esposa a las Cataratas Ocultas; siendo de San Pablo, nunca había visto estas cataratas, vagamente me acuerdo haber oído sobre ella. Me tomó tres días para encontrar dónde quedaba ésta, y como lo había dicho, la encontré durante el Día de Navidad, la más hermosa caída de agua ocultada a lo largo del río Mississippi en San Pablo, Minnesota. De vuelta al café de la librería—al que voy diariamente—mi hermano vino, él es un fotógrafo internacional, quién después de escuchar la descripción de las cataratas preguntó por su ubicación también. Es gracioso, he vivido la mayor parte de mi vida aquí, he nacido aquí, y dudo que muera aquí, pero todavía no sabía dónde estaban las Cataratas Escondidas más hermosas de San Pablo. Tenemos las Cataratas Minnehaha, pero esa está cruzando el río en Minneapolis, no en San Pablo. Por eso aquellos viniendo a San Pablo por una visita, valdría su tiempo que vean esto (al que llamo) el tesoro de la Guerra civil.

5—Th’ Ol Mississippi
(A Minnesota Poem)

That’s th’ ol Mississippi River—
Ripplin’, dimplin’ down Minnesota.
Down south she’s kind of muddy,
But up here she’s like a Queen!
Wanting to play a moody scene!
Peaceful now she looks; boilin’
She can be…
And that’s why I live in St. Paul
Where she’s thin and her wit
Is a bit lean…!
But she’s wise and she fool’ us
Now and then…up around the
—ol’ Minnesota bends.

#837 12/1/2005

Versión en Español

El Viejo Mississippi
(Un Poema de Minnesota)

Éste es el viejo Río Mississippi—
Ondulando, hoyuelos por Minnesota.
Por el sur éste es como turbio,
¡Pero aquí arriba es como un Rey!
¡Queriendo jugar una escena caprichosa!
Pacífico ahora él luce; hirviendo
Él puede estar…
Y es por eso que vivo en San Pablo
Dónde éste es transparente y su agudeza
¡Es… un poco frágil!
Pero él es sabio y él nos engaña
Ahora y entonces…arriba alrededor de—
Las viejas curvas de Minnesota.

# 837 1/Diciembre/2005

6—Comin’ O’ Winter
(In Minnesota)

Lord! It’s good to feel the comin‘ o’ winter
Not Spring!
To vision the furrows of snow drifting
Around my cold, cold feet!
See the winter’s harsh banks start to
Grow, grow, grow…
Hear the flicker of the birds heading
Down south!...
Boy! it’s great to feel the comin’ of
Winter… not Spring!

(Because I won’t be here! I’ll be
Down south, where it’s warm!!)

#936 12/1/05

Dedicated to the Barnes and Noble Cafe folks, at Har Mar Mall, in Roseville, Minnesota.

Versión en Español

Llegada del Invierno
(En Minnesota)

¡Señor! Es bueno sentir la llegada del invierno
¡No la Primavera!
Para visualizar los surcos de nieve que se amontonan
¡Alrededor de mis fríos, pies fríos!
Mirar los bancos ásperos del invierno que comienzan a
Crecer, crecer, crecer…
Oír el aleteo de los pájaros que se dirigen
¡Hacia el sur!...
¡Oh! ¡Es estupendo sentir la llegada del
Invierno… no la Primavera!

(¡Porque no estaré aquí! ¡Estaré en el sur, dónde es caliente!)

#936 1/Diciembre/05

Dedicado a las personas del Café de Barnes y Noble en Har Mar Mall, en Roseville, Minnesota.

7—The Old Hearth
(Minnesota Fall-Winter)

Winter seems to me more nostalgic
Now that I’m aging with gray;
But I’ve always liked the fire
Of a Hearth (a warm fireplace).

Flames that flicker, doors that moan
Windows that rattle
And warm, warm old bones,
Of a Hearth (a warm fireplace).

I like the gleam of the hearth
The spell upon the room,
I always seem to drift a little
By the fireplace of the room.

Winter seems to me more nostalgic
Flames that flicker, doors that groan
I like the gleam of the hearth
Now that I’m growing old!...

#938 12/2/05

Dedicated to my friends in Stillwater, Minnesota, and their nice warm Fireplace where I had my 2005 Thanks Giving Dinner, and my Peruvian wife her first, Traditional Thanks Giving Meal: Jim and Julie Vinar.

Versión en Español

La Vieja Chimenea
(Invierno de Minnesota)

El invierno me parece a mí más nostálgico
Ahora que envejezco con canas;
Pero siempre me gusta el fuego
De una chimenea (una chimenea caliente).

Llamas que parpadean, puertas que crujen
Ventanas que vibran,
Y caliente: caliente viejos huesos,
De una chimenea (una chimenea caliente).

Me gusta el destello de la chimenea
El encanto, sobre el cuarto,
Siempre parezco rondar un poco
Por la chimenea del cuarto.

El invierno me parece más nostálgico
Llamas que parpadean, puertas que chirrían
Me gusta el destello de la chimenea
¡Ahora que estoy envejeciendo!...

# 938 2/Diciembre/05

Dedicado a mis amigos en Stillwater, Minnesota, y a su agradable chimenea caliente donde tuve mi cena de Acción de Gracias del 2005, y mi peruana esposa su primera Cena de Acción de Gracias tradicional: Jim y Julie Vinar.

8—The Beauty and Loss
of Minnesota’s Autumn

Now droops the anxious trees
The cold sunset darkens its leaves.
A feeling so holy, a grief so divine,
Creates the changing of the year.

A weary sigh—from long winds
Scratch the sky—, with blue tints;
A dream for a dreamer’s eye!...

A tear for autumn’s grave divine:
A sorrowful wind, stirs in mine?
A mist, avails over the winter’s sky;
In vain, in vain I rage and cry!…
“Let it be autumn one more time!”

Note: #931 (11/20/2005) There is no place on earth more beautiful
in autumn (during the changing of the leaves), than Minnesota.

Versión en Español

La Belleza y Pérdida
del Otoño de Minnesota

Ahora se marchitan los árboles ansiosos
La puesta del sol fría oscurece sus hojas.
Un sensación tan santa, una pena tan divina,
Crea el cambio del año.

Un suspiro cansado—de vientos largos
Rasguñe el cielo, —con tintes azules;
¡Un sueño para los ojos de un soñador!...

Una lágrima por la divina sepultura de otoño:
¿Un doloroso viento, se mueve en el mío?
Una niebla, cruza sobre el cielo de invierno;
En vano, en vano me impaciento…
“¡Deja que sea otoño otra vez!”

Nota: # 931 (20/Noviembre/2005) no hay ningún lugar sobre la tierra más hermoso en otoño (durante el cambio de las hojas) que Minnesota.

Winter Poems of Minnesota

A winter’s lake, Lake Vermillion [Minnesota]

9—Tone of Minnesota

These are the woods, where time has trodden—:
Minnesota, where the winds talk and rise on the
ancient rivers; where the virgin woods nurture
the autumn leaves—and winter roots…!

The land of many lakes where the skies shout,
yell the greatness of the passing years:
reflect the green of the wood’s wild paradise,
the pioneers—the seeds that brought life here…!

Here, here is where the deer and elk have fed;
where huge log cabins, were build by men;
where there were many tribes of ruling Indians.
Here, here came the annals of an unborn state…!

Oh yes! yes here is where the people fought for
destinies and dreams. Made their fate: amongst
the weather’s extremes: the Minnesotans, their
character now reckoned—reckoned great!...

#935 12/1/05 Dedicated to Janet French

Versión en Español

Tono de Minnesota

Hay bosques, donde el tiempo ha marcado—
¡Minnesota, donde los vientos hablan y se levantan sobre los
ríos antiguos; donde los bosques vírgenes nutren
las hojas de otoño—y raíces de invierno…!

La tierra de muchos lagos donde los cielos gritan,
gritan la grandeza del paso de los años:
refleja el verde del paraíso salvaje de los bosques.
los pioneros, las semillas que trajeron vida aquí…;

Aquí, aquí es donde el ciervo y el alce se alimentan,
donde enormes cabinas de tronco, fueron construidas por hombres.
donde hubo muchas tribus de indios reinantes.
Aquí, aquí vinieron los anales de un estado nonato…

¡Oh sí! sí aquí es donde las gentes lucharon por
destinos y sueños. Construyeron su destino entre
climas extremos: ¡Los minnesotanos!, su
carácter ahora contado—contado ¡grande!...

# 935 1/Diciembre/05 Dedicado a Janet French.

10—Potholes
[On Minnesota Streets]

There are two seasons they say in Minnesota!
I refer to them as: road construction, because
of our harsh winters. And mosquito season,
because of our excruciating, hot and damp
summers.

On my way to have lunch today, at Arby’s—
(where at this moment I’m writing this poem)
((and eating)) I had to dodge a few potholes,
on the cold winter-asphalt.

Unlike my Peruvian wife, who drives over them,
who broke an axle a few years back, with her
Jaguar; she’s still learning Minnesota has—but
two seasons.

#974 12/19/2005 dedicated to my wife Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Versión en Español

Huecos
[En las Calles de Minnesota]

¡Hay dos estaciones ellos dicen en Minnesota!
Me refiero a ellos como: construcción de caminos, debido
a nuestros inviernos ásperos. Y estación de mosquitos,
debido a nuestros veranos insoportables, calientes y húmedos
veranos.

En mi camino a almorzar hoy día, a Arby's—
(donde, en este momento estoy escribiendo este poema
(y comiendo)) tuve que esquivar unos cuantos huecos,
sobre el asfalto frío de invierno.

A diferencia de mi peruana esposa, que maneja sobre ellos
Rompió un eje unos años atrás, con su
Jaguar; ella todavía está aprendiendo que Minnesota tiene—acaso
dos estaciones.

#974 19/Diciembre/2005 Dedicado a mi esposa Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk.

11—Night Poem,
in the Minnesota cold

It’s night. The coke warms by the register; the cracking
—bubbling register; my neighbors are all asleep.
(I’m by the computer.) It seems I’ve traveled all my life.

This old Victorian house rattles like a mousetrap; it has
its own way; perhaps it gets confused like me, in old age.

My legs are stiff from sitting; snowflakes falling outside
with only one eye—the moon. Goodnight.

#975 12/19/2005 Written at 1094 Albemarle Street, St. Paul, Minnesota.

Versión en Español

Poemas Nocturnos
en el Frío de Minnesota

Es de noche. La soda se calienta por el radiador; el resquebrajar
—burbujear del radiador; mis vecinos todos están dormidos.
(Yo estoy por la computadora.) Parece que he viajado toda mi vida.

Esta casa vieja de estilo Victoria repiquetea como una trampa de ratón; ésta tiene su propio camino; quizás ésta se confunde como yo, en la vejez.

Mis piernas están tiesas de tanto sentarme; copos de nieve caen afuera
con sólo un ojo—la luna. Buenas noches.

# 975 19/Diciembre/2005 Escrito en la Calle Albemarle # 1094, en San Pablo, Minnesota.

12—Iron Winter in Minnesota

Our souls are all part of the invisible world,
sometimes I think perhaps they want to go home,
but can’t find the door!...

Some in summer, some in fall, some in spring—
but in Minnesota, often times it’s in winter, the
iron cold season (but the soul doesn’t freeze).
Strange how nights make you think.

#976 12/2005

Versión en Español

Invierno de Hierro en Minnesota

Nuestras almas todas son parte del mundo invisible,
a veces pienso quizás que ellas quieren ir a casa,
pero ¡no pueden encontrar la puerta!...

Unos en verano, unos en otoño, unos en primavera;
pero en Minnesota, a menudo es invierno,
la estación fría de hierro (pero el alma no se congela).
Es extraño cómo las noches te hacen pensar.

# 976 Diciembre/2005

13—Winter Box-elder bugs
(A Minnesota poem)

Winter has arrived and this poem
Is long over-due! I think
Someone cut down a box-elder-bug tree
(Somewhere down the block),
Because—, they’re all over my house!

(In every room.)

In the spring, they’re not content
To stay at home—(I know); thus,
Until then, I have urges to travel—
And leave them alone.

#964 12/14/05

Versión en Español

Invierno, bichos mayores
(Un poema de Minnesota)

¡El invierno ha llegado y este poema
Está bastante atrasado! Pienso que
Alguien cortó un árbol de mosquitos
(En algún lugar abajo de la cuadra),
Porque—, ¡ellos están por todas partes de mi casa!

(En cada cuarto.)
En primavera, ellos no están contentos
de quedarse en casa—(lo sé); así,
Hasta entonces, tengo impulsos de viajar—
Y no molestarlos.

#964 14/Diciembre/05

14—Morning Whiteout
(In St. Paul, Minnesota)

An early snow, acclaims the light:
Brings forth its blinding haze—
And a thin high-billowing wind
Brings forth, its chills all day—;
No end to this whiteness, coming.
The ashen sun remains hidden—
And the snow: it just keeps coming.

#962 12/15/05

Versión en Español

Nieve Blanca de Mañana
(En San Pablo, Minnesota)

Una temprana nieve, aclama la luz:
Trae en adelante su niebla cegadora—
y una oleada de viento fino
Trae en adelante, su frialdad todo el día—;
Ningún final a esta blancura, viene
el sol ceniciento permanece oculto—
Y la nieve: simplemente sigue cayendo.

# 962 15/Diciembre/05

15—Cold December Days Ahead
(In Minnesota)

The sky defused with a pale of cold mist, it puts on its face—.
The Sun peeks up as it rides Libra down, to snowy ground.
The birds don’t sing at dawn anymore—gone south.
The white pure snow covers all like youthful bards chanting,
In the background with the wind, celebrating winter’s
Cold days ahead…

#958 12/11/06

Versión en Español

Días Fríos de Diciembre Adelante
(En Minnesota)

El cielo distendió con una niebla pálida fría, ésta puesta en su cara—.
El Sol ojea arriba mientras éste monta Libra abajo, a tierras nevosas.
Los pájaros no cantan al amanecer (nunca más) —se han ido al sur.
Las nieves blancas puras cubren todo como bardos jóvenes cantando,
En el fondo con el viento, celebrando los
Días fríos de invierno adelante…

#958 11/Diciembre/06

16—Waiting at the Café-bookstore
(Minnesota Winter)

The moon seems to be frozen in the eastern sky,
High overhead, in the dead of winter
Sitting in this Café waiting for my wife—

The falling snow of Minnesota sees from on high
In the heavenly sky (not so far from my home),
Sees—my wife leave the Post Office…alone.

In this cloudless cold night, waiting on the bus-stop
High overhead wisps cold and frost, against
Her throat, breathing out cloudbanks…

Breathing out cloudbanks of carbon-dioxide—.
Soon she’ll walk through these doors
A smile on her face, a hug and a kiss…

A chilled wind, still on her cheeks, adjusting to the
Warm air of the café…woops, here she comes
(7:15 PM), “Coffee or tea,” I say…

(she’s just smiling).

#957/ 12-10-05. Dedicated to Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Versión en Español

Espera en el Café de la Librería
(Invierno en Minnesota)

La luna parece estar congelada en el cielo oriental,
Alto en lo alto, en el medio del invierno
Sentado en este café esperando por mi esposa—

La nieve caída de Minnesota ve desde lo alto
En el cielo divino (no muy lejos de mi casa),
Ve—que mi esposa dejó la Oficina de Correos…sola.

En esta despejada noche fría, esperando en la parada de autobús
Alto en lo alto espiral de frío y escarcha, contra
Su garganta, exhalando bancos de nube…

Exhalando bancos de nube de dióxido de carbón—;
Pronto ella va a pasar a través de estas puertas
Una sonrisa en su cara, un abrazo y un beso…

Un viento frío, todavía sobre sus mejillas, adaptándose al
Aire caliente del café…woops, aquí ella viene
(7:15 de la noche), “Café o té,” le digo…

(ella solamente sonríe).

*957/ 10-Diciembre-05 Dedicado a Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

17—Cold Spell
[In St. Paul, Minnesota]

While the snow smothers the hazy lazy winter ice,
I stay up watching by the window until midnight
What else can I do…there must be something!
My loving wife is fast asleep! And here I sit
Half the night, around my computer—so I write,
And I write and think and write: how long, how long
Will this cold, this cold spell last!...

#952 12/9/05

Versión en Español

Periodo de Frío
(En Minnesota)

Mientras la nieve cubre el hielo de invierno nebuloso perezoso,
Me quedo mirando por la ventana hasta la medianoche
¡Qué más puedo hacer…debe haber algo!
¡Mi cariñosa esposa se quedó dormida! Y aquí me siento
La mitad de la noche, alrededor de mi computadora, mientras escribo,
Y escribo y pienso y escribo: cuánto tiempo, cuánto tiempo,
Este frío, este período de frío va a durar!...

#952 9/Diciembre/05

18—Forenoon Snow
(Minnesota’s Emerald Snow)

Above—, the emerald snow,
Flows down (on Minnesota green),
As I look out my window:
Gaze upon the snowy skies,
Capture the morning scene—!

Boundless and swift, untroubled:
Are—, its snowy glistening hues!...
Content with my thoughts: to see
This soft emerald, forenoon snow…!

“Follow me, O’ yes, please do”:
I called unto the Forenoon Snow:
“Follow me into my memories,
For times when I am old!... “

#940 (12/3/05)

Note (by the author): “This afternoon, I walked out into the soft snow in my driveway; swept the snow away from my car with a broom. Then I remembered how beautiful it all is, winter in Minnesota (how it was, used to be, is); I was kind of in a trance looking at it all descend from the sky, onto the green trees in our backyard, the car, driveway, me. I had waked up earlier, and looked out the window (prior to this), and it was boundless snow that filled my eyes: I remember thinking, ‘What a blessing to be able to simply soak up all this’. Later on that evening my wife said: “I love walking in the snow,” she’s from Peru, and this is her sixth winter in Minnesota. She has learned there is no other place on earth that has such a wonderful and full winter. Long it is, but beautiful. And then she said that evening as we left the bookstore, to get into our car, “Look at the snow how it glistens,” it was doing just that with the lights of the bookstore, arch light by the car, and moon, it all set the mood, touched our senses, this was not a perchance thing, it was a God sent thing; she has learned what we Minnesotans take for granted: Minnesota is by far, the wonderland of all lands in the world, in winter, and St. Paul, is surely the city of cites to enjoy a winter in. I have learned one must grab the novelistic beauty of a thing, and bottle it, before it disappears.”

Versión en Español

Nieve de Mañana
(Nieve de Esmeralda de Minnesota)

Arriba—, la nieve de esmeralda,
Fluye abajo (sobre el verde de Minnesota),
Mientras miro afuera de mi ventana:
Miro fijamente sobre los cielos nevosos,
¡Capturo la escena de la mañana-!

Sin fronteras y veloz, despreocupado:
¡Son—, sus matices nevosos que brillan!...
Contento con mis pensamientos: de ver
Esta suave esmeralda, nieve de mañana…

“Sígueme, oh sí, por favor hágalo”:
Llamé a la Nieve de Mañana:
“¡Sígueme dentro de mis memorias,
Para tiempos cuándo este viejo! ...”

# 940 (3/Diciembre/05)

Apuntes (por el autor): “Esta tarde, caminé sobre la nieve suave en mi camino de entrada a mi cochera; sacudí la nieve de mi coche con una escoba. Entonces recordé qué hermoso es todo esto, el invierno en Minnesota (cómo era, solía ser, es); estaba como en un trance mirando todo esto descendiendo del cielo, encima del árbol verde en nuestro patio, sobre el coche, sobre el camino de entrada, y sobre mí. Me había levando temprano, y había mirado afuera de la ventana (antes de esto), y fue la nieve ilimitada lo que llenó mis ojos: Me acuerdo pensando, 'Que bendición ser capaz de simplemente empaparse de todo esto'. Más tarde esa noche mi esposa dijo: “Me gusta caminar sobre la nieve,” ella es de Perú, y éste es su sexto invierno en Minnesota. Ella ha aprendido que no hay ningún otro lugar sobre la tierra que tenga un invierno tan maravilloso y lleno. Largo éste es, pero hermoso. Y luego ella dijo esa noche mientras salíamos de la librería, y nos dirigíamos a nuestro carro, “Mira la nieve como brilla”, éste hacía justo esto con las luces de la librería y la luz del arco cerca al carro, y la luna, todo esto puso el humor, tocó nuestros sentidos, esto no era una cosa al azahar, era una cosa enviada por Dios; ella ha aprendido lo que nosotros los de Minnesota lo damos por sentado: Minnesota es de lejos, el país de las maravillas de todas las tierras en el mundo, en invierno, y San Pablo, es a ciencia cierta la ciudad de las ciudades para disfrutar de un invierno. He aprendido que uno debe de coger la belleza novelística de una cosa, y embotellarlo, antes de que ésta desaparezca”

19—Moonlight Chills over
Minnesota’s Forests

The winter moonlight chills with ice
The far north…:
Its light melts the quiet sky…
Silently—from far to near
The evening trembles with falling stars!

Winter holds dominion, within the deep
(Once changeless forest—);
Time without end lived here,
(Under holy northern skies);
Hale to the legacy of the last dynasty.

#863 9/2005 [Revised]

Versión en Español

Enfriamientos de Luz de Luna sobre
Los Bosques de Minnesota

La luz de la luna de invierno enfría con el hielo
El norte lejano…:
Su luz derrite, el cielo tranquilo…
Silenciosamente—de lejos a cerca
¡La noche tiembla con estrellas decrecientes!

El invierno sostiene el dominio, dentro del profundo
(Una vez bosque invariable—);
Tiempo sin final vivió aquí,
(Bajo cielos santos del norte);
Sano a la herencia de la última dinastía.

# 863 Septiembre/2005 [Revisado]

20—Walking in the Snow
(New Years Day—2006)

The winter wind whistles, harmoniously
with happy snowdrifts, miles long—
and my shoes, like car tires
grip the ground—, they chop through
away the whiteness.

The day is calm. No birds fly
across the sky. Hercules
is asleep. It must be this snow
we need to balance our equilibrium,
this snow: calm, white and cold.

Dedicated to my goddaughter, Ximena Herrera Peñaloza 1/1/2006 [#1053]

Note by the author: “On my way to the bookstore today, in Roseville, Minnesota (New Year’s Day), my wife was expressing how beautiful the trees were, all laced with white snow from the night before, from the tip, to each branch, to their toes.”

Versión en Español

Caminando en la Nieve
(Nuevo Año—2006)

El viento de invierno silva, armoniosamente
con cúmulos de nieve felices, largas milla—
y mis zapatos, como neumáticos de coche
agarran el suelo—, ellos cortan de lejos
la blancura.

El día es tranquilo. Ningún pájaro vuela
a través del cielo. Hércules
está dormido. Esto debe ser esta nieve
necesitamos balancear nuestro equilibrio,
esta nieve: tranquila, blanca y fría.

Dedicado a mi ahijada, Ximena Herrera Peñaloza 1/Enero/2006 [# 1053]

Nota por el autor: “En mi camino a la librería hoy, en Roseville, Minnesota (el Día de Año nuevo), mi esposa expresaba qué hermosos eran los árboles, todo encajados con la nieve blanca de la noche anterior, desde la punta, a cada rama, hasta abajo”.

21—Sleepy Winter Wife

Each night the first face I see sleeping
Is my wife’s—
I have decided to leave her sleep in the sofa
Chair—by the warm cozy fire.
She often peeks to see if I’m still there
Busy writing or reading, by my computer.
Then she falls back into her deep sleep again.
Like a little fussy bear, hibernating…
I can’t complain much, I’ve been blessed;
Thus, I check out the house at midnight,
Wake her up, and like a train, choo-choo to bed.

#1042 1/1/2006

Versión en Español

Esposa Soñolienta en Invierno
(Nuevo Año—2006)

Cada noche la primera cara que veo dormida
Es el de mi esposa—
He decidido dejarla dormir en el sofá
—por el fuego caliente acogedor.
Ella a menudo echa una ojeada para ver si estoy todavía allí
Ocupado escribiendo o leyendo, por mi computadora.
Después ella vuelve a su sueño profundo otra vez.
Como un pequeño oso quisquilloso, invernando…
No puedo quejarme mucho, he sido bendecido;
Así, chequeo la casa en la medianoche,
La despierto, y como un tren, caminamos hacia la cama.

*1042 1/Enero/2006

22—Brothers in the Winter
Of their Lives
[In St. Paul, Minnesota]

When we were children, my brother and I
kind of walked side by side,
and sometimes got in a fight.
I’m the young one, he’s the older one.
My brother’s blond,
seems never to get mad,
I’m the angry redhead.

It never bothered me to talk,
perhaps I’m still the same.
My brother’s still quiet,
he hasn’t changed. Except
we’ve grown old now (now
in the winters of our lives)—
been through many things;
and he now has feelings.

#1014 12/2005

Dedicated to my brother Mike E. Siluk; we grew up
in St. Paul, Minnesota, and that is where we grew old.

Versión en Español

Hermanos en el Invierno
De sus Vidas
(En San Pablo, Minnesota)

Cuando éramos niños, mi hermano y yo
como que caminábamos de espalda a espalda,
y a veces terminábamos en una pelea
Yo soy el menor, él es el mayor.
El rubio de mi hermano,
nunca parecía ponerse furioso,
yo soy el pelirrojo enfadado.

Nunca me molestó hablar de esto,
quizás todavía soy el mismo.
Mi hermano todavía es apacible,
él no ha cambiado. Excepto
que ahora hemos envejecido (ahora
en el invierno de nuestras vidas)—
hemos pasado por muchas cosas;
y él ahora tiene sentimientos.

#1014 12/2005

22—Minnesota Slush
[In St. Paul, Minnesota]

Snow fell the other night—and now
Slush resides on the city’s streets.
Shifting my neck and eyes I see,
White gleaming snow
On tall leaning trees…
As I look back, more slush ahead.

# 1054 01-02-06

Note: Often, us Minnesotans, have to fight a moderate winter day, with slush, and thus, is the origin, and the birth of this poem “Minnesota Slush”

Versión en Español

Nieve Derretida en Minnesota
(En San Pablo, Minnesota)

Nieve cayó la otra noche y ahora
Hay nieve derretida en las calles de la ciudad
Moviendo mi cuello y ojos veo,
Nieve blanca y brillante
En altos árboles inclinados…
Mientras miro atrás, más nieve derretida adelante.

# 1054 02-Enero-2006

Nota: A veces, nosotros los de Minnesota, tenemos que pelear un día moderado de invierno, con nieve derritiéndose, y así, es el origen y el nacimiento de este poema “Nieve Derretida en Minnesota”

End of the book

◊

Reviews of the
Author Dennis L. Siluk

By Rosa Peñaloza,

I have in the past written many comments about Dennis’ work, and today I want to share with you some of his reviews and comments other people have had. He has a variety of literature out there, from short stories (over 200 now), to articles (over 800), to poems (over 1100), to chapbooks (he has done about 12-chapbooks) —and of course his 32-books, and he is working on four other books. Most of this work has been done in the past five years, except three books, six chapbooks, and about 300-poems (along with some miscellaneous poetry).

For the most part, I think Dennis is best know for his travels and poetry; he has traveled the world over, now it is almost 27-times around the world, or as he said: 687,000-air miles; not to include all the travels he has done cross-countries, on the road, etc., he did when he was young, going to: San Francisco, Omaha, along with Seattle, and the Dakotas; he lived in all those places in the 60s; in the 70s he traveled throughout Europe for four years, during this time he went to Vietnam, in 1971, and came back to Europe thereafter. Now he has spent, or taken eight trips to South America, where he has his second home, and where he loves the Mountains by Huancayo.

Here are some of his reviews:

Note 1: Recent interview on Radio Programas del Perú, concerning his two publications: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”; reaching five countries, and three continents; over 15-million people; by Milagros Valverde, 11/15/2005, 11:00 PM. (Milagros read poems from both of Mr. Siluk’s books: “Spell of the Andes” and “The Ice Maiden”.)
Note 2: “Spell of the Andes,” recommended by the Cultural Agency in Lima- Peru; located in Alfredo Benavides # 605 - Apartment 201, phone number 2428942

Note 3: Interviewed by JP Magazine, interviewer Jose Luis Pantoja Ventocilla, who had very positive comments and appreciation for Dennis’ Poetic Peruvian Traditions and Contemporary way of Life; 10/26/2005.

Note 4: Mayor of San Jeronimo, Peru, Jesus Vargas Párraga, “All mayors should recognize Dennis’ work (on his Poetic Traditions of Peru; and favorable articles for the Mantaro Valley Region) and publicize it.... (paraphrased: we should not hide his work)”

Note 5: 91.7 Radio “Super Latina”, 10/19/2005, interviewer Joseito Arrieta, reaching 1.2 million people in the Mantaro Valley Region about the book “Spell of the Andes” (paraphrased): the Municipality and the Cultural House from Huancayo should give an acknowledgement for the work you did on The Mantaro Valley.

Note 6: Channel #5 “Panamericana” 10/16/2005, “Good Morning Huancayo” (in Huancayo, Peru ((population 325,000)); interviewed by reporter: Vladimir Bendezú, on Mr. Siluk’s two books: “Spell of the Andes,” and “Peruvian Poems”: also on, Mr. Siluk’s biography.

*Note 7: Cesar Hildebrandt, International Journalist and Commentator, for Channel #2, in Lima, Peru, on October 7, 2005, introduced Mr. Siluk’s book, “Peruvian Poems,” to the world, saying: “…Peruvian Poems, is a most interesting book, and important….” (Population of Lima, eight million, and all of Peru: twenty-five million)) plus a number of other Latin American countries: reaching about sixty-three million inhabitants, in addition, his program reaches Spain)).

Note 8: More than 240,000-visit Mr. Siluk’s web site a year: see his travels and books…!

Note 9: Mr. Siluk received a signed personal picture with compliments from the Dalai Lama, 11/05, after sending him his book with a letter, “The Last Trumpet…” on eschatology.

Note 10: Ezine Articles [Internet Magazine] 11/2005, recognized by the Magazine Team, as one of 250-top writers, out of 14,700. Christopher Knight, Editor; annual readership: twelve-million (or one million per month). Dennis has about 10,000 readers of his articles, poems and stories, alone on this site per month.

Note 11: Dennis L. Siluk Columnist of the Year, on the International Internet Magazine, Useless-knowledge; December 5, 2005 (Annual Readership: 1.5 million).

Note 12: Dennis L. Siluk was made Special Author, status, for the site www.Freearticles.com

Note 13: Mr. Siluk’s works are on over 400-web sites worldwide as of (early 2005)

☼

More Reviews:

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 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…” (September 2005)

“…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 separated 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

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]

☼

Additional (mixed) Notes and Reviews:

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.

From the book, “Death on Demand,” by Mr. Siluk, says author:

E.J. Soltermann
Author of Healing from Terrorism, Fear and Global War:

“The Dead Vault: A gripping tale that sucks you deep through human emotions and spits you out at the end as something better.” (Feb. 2004)

♥

Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk my mother]

She fought a good battle,
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left; —
Where at once was plenty.

And so, poised and dignified—
She said, farewell in her own way; —
And left behind,
A grand old time,
Room for another: —

Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.

Dlsiluk 7/03

Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers. Other web sites you can see Siluk’s work at: www.eldritchdark.com www.swft/writings.html www.abe.com www.alibris.com www.freearticles.com and many more

Books by the Author

Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [1980]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1981]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985]

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

Angelic Renegades & Rephaim Giants

Tales of the Tiamat [not released]
Can be purchased individually [trilogy]

Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III

Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib

The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:

A Path to Sobriety,
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery

Autobiographical-fiction

A Romance in Augsburg I
Romancing San Francisco II
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III
Stay Down, Old Abram IV

Romance:

Perhaps it’s Love
Cold Kindness

The Suspense short stories of D.L. Siluk:

Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]

Dracula’s Ghost
[And other Peculiar stories]

The Mumbler [psychological]

After Eve [a prehistoric adventure]

Poetry:

Sirens
[Poems-Volume II, 2003]

The Macabre Poems [2004]

Spell of the Andes [2005]

Peruvian Poems [2005]

Last autumn and Winter [2006]
[Poems out of Minnesota]

Poetic Images out of Peru
[And other poem, 2006]

From Satipo to the Amazon
[And other Poems, 2006]