Thursday, December 23, 2010

End Poems (by D.L. Siluk)

End Poems

Many Windows
(A Poem - "Bringing it together" with Commentary on Form and Structure)

If I shine or if I'm dull
Little does it matter now?
Days fly by like drops of rain
As I slip an' slide
Past the windows of my life
Down the unseen highways!
I stand looking out my windows
Little do I think or say
Blue, yellow, green and white
(All the windows of my life)
They all kind-of look the same
Kind-of look way too plain...
No matter where stand
No matter what I say
No matter where I go it seems
A Poet's vanity, will never change
Like dirty windows, dirty panes,
That constantly needs cleaning!

Notes: Poem No: 2662 (2-18-2010): this poem was inspired after seeing the painting By Christine Tulgren, "Bringing it Together"

Commentary (on form and structure): When you look at something, you are looking at what is a structure, and the structure is made up of parts, like a book with chapters, or a poem with design, or a painting. The meaning of the word structure sounds—for the most part, as "fitting together..." something. The most obvious part of structure—that we normally look at is called elements, the basics; in the painting of Ms Tulgren, "Bringing it Together," one can see way the lines fit together into a shape or pattern (for me they are windows, zooming by, like drops of rain, in place of days; at least to me this is the 'why' or part of it). To somebody else, the painting (or perhaps poem of mine), at first glance has no form to announce—the relatable question might be: "When does it take on this form that amazes you to want to buy the painting or cherish the poem, or finish reading the book?" I'll answer that question in a moment. We must remember we are psychological beings first; but second: some writes prefer rigid forms, as do some artists: exact words, exact lines, exact everything, an extra syllable here or there, a brush stroke here or there, paint within boundaries, paint outside of boundaries—thus you get a psychological perception: the point being, the poet like the artist demonstrates his skill to the reader or observer when they can feel the pleasure of an obstacle overcome (if this makes sense, then buy the book, or the painting or put the poem on the wall); hence, the reader, the poet and/or the artist, we all succeed.

Mother of the Night Sky
(or, My Baby )

Baby there are those roads, believe it or not that feel
around in the darkness…that no matter where you are,
nor how old you’ll become, should something happen…

to you, my heart would be shredded, abandoned, collapse,
numb, it would burst—; you are the fulfillment of the soul,
crafted inside of me, by hands of Jehovah—

I slept restlessly, in the sloping dark, before and after,
I gave you life—; confessions, I have none, but I know
when I saw you, I had swallowed the earth, the deep

hungers inside of me, collapsed, everything I need now
is buried, under the sun. How much I love to fly alone
in the rain, knowing you are part of the universe now,

part of me. So much ecstasy…Alone on the unused seas!
I am a mother that can feel her child through all time
and distance…I am the seagull that follows the ship,

in uttering small cries, to let you know, my long prayers
will follow you…my Baby! Gail, you’ve become a mother
of the night sky—full of life, it all has come to this.

No: 2800/1-23-2010

Dedicated to: Gail Weber (I hope I have captured through Gail, the essence of the indefinable love the mother has for her child, that untouchable near magical moment that stare or glace, consciously or unconsciously into the wonderment of giving life to another and watching it mature, that only a mother has and can give, for her baby) by Dlsiluk

Note: The Ghazal Form, developed in Persia around the 10th Century, (Arabic Verse), was brought to India in the 12the Century. Often used for music, movies, etc. In my case, I do not adhere to the strict pattern of the traditional form, which is in part five to fifteen couplets (perhaps seven will do, in my case six), repeated word or phrases have stipulations, and each couplet is about the same length and meter. The end couplet usually has signature line. In all cases, I really abuse it for content and effect, but I like the style.

“Dennis.I just read the poem and posted a comment. I can't put into words how honored I am. Your ability articulate something as profound as the love a parent for a child is nothing short of miraculous. I just can't thank you enough. How wonderful you had an incredible bound with your own mother…and that you recognize it! Thank you so much.” 9-24-2010erful that you had such an incredible bond with your own mother... and that you recognize it! Thank you so much.” And “Every Mother should read this poem,”
(Gail Weber, 9-24-2010; Editor, Tosca Magazine,)

Spring Cleaning
(A 1960s, Minnesota Poem)

During spring cleaning my
mother worked the house
as if—she was having a GI-Party:
one of those Army clean-up parties
where everything had to be ‘Spick and Span.’
Every nook and crack in every inch
of the place, clean and shiny. She
moved the furniture around—awkward
as it was—sofa chair, table and television
lifting up rugs—and still having
strength and stamina to wash walls
clean. And in the midst of it all
I often wondered, she never rearranged
the rooms. Perhaps because she didn’t
want grandpa to become disoriented.
Thus, no one had to deal with change.
And no one knew the inexhaustible
efforts she put out (or if they did
no one said a word, nor she).

No: 2695 (5-18-2010) ; Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk

Three Shot Espresso
(Moody thoughts for a moody morning)

Every one sees us
Betrays us
A few stop
Breathes in my air
Some discreetly
Some loudly
Some ramming
Some hammering
Perfectly pointless

That’s the window
I’m looking out
Sitting in the
Olympic Restaurant
Here in Huancayo, Peru
(by the Plaza de Armas)
This Saturday morning—
Feeling moody!

So many of us
Walking by each other
In a clutter
(like shovels of dirt!)
We shall by evening
Desecrate the earth
Our hands are on the door
Knob…ready to get on!

Note 1: written while having coffee at the Olímpico Café, Huancayo, and Perú; No: 2872/ 12-4-2010; (Confessional style of poetry)

Note 2: “Moody thoughts for a moony morning,” the subtitle fits. The young manager at the Olympic asked “Is every thing okay?” and my wife had told him, “When everything doesn’t go right, he gets a bit moody.” That doesn’t make me sound very good does it? Oh well, we’re all human.

(Dedicated to Andy Diner Flores at the Olympic Restaurant, in downtown Huancayo, Peru)

El Tambo Spiders
(Inspired by living in El Tambo for eight years) Part I

When it’s cold in Huancayo
The spiders know
They crawl on the walls…
Along my window sills

(in El Tambo);

Along the seams within my rooms
Under my bed,
Making cobwebs…! (and)

when I’m asleep: on my brow
They fall and somehow bite.
Some even swing on hinges
Especially on rainy nights…

You’d be surprised how much
They know—
About my apartment, and its rooms:

Looking and prancing about,
As if they owned the house—
Bodies brown, black and gray…!

Wish they’d leave me alone
At least on the weekdays…

No: 1845 (5-26-2007)
(Dedicated to the folks of El Tambo)

Substitute Mothers
Rubbing their Eyes
((of, Huancayo, Peru) (in poetic prose))

Nearly Christmas.
All day the sky is sunny than gray
(a little rain)
Here I am, a substitute mother at the orphanage,
Dreams of the children press us on all sides…

We walk unsteadily along the buildings, tired—
But our children balance us, as we unwind…!
They’re growing faster, up and down, up and down
(head to toe)
Until their shoes are tight (no longer fit)

We comb their hair, brush their teeth:
Silent and alone—we know they are thinking
At night ‘I am trying to lie still,’
Thinking… ‘Stones do not hurt as much as
Not having a home or mother!’

But they know somewhere—life is waiting
For them; and that now—this emptiness
Will be filled by the substitute mothers
(the substitute mothers who must be as strong
and as hard as willow trees to cover and protect—

these children, until they leave).

No. 2881; written: 12-17-2010 (reedited, 12-2010)
Dedicated to the substitute mothers of the Huancayo, Peru Orphanage

A Short Commentary for the kids: It’s going to be very difficult, it’s not always going to be uphill or downhill all the way, you’ll be opposed, perhaps called terrible names, but eventually things in life will start to flow. And then everybody will shut up. And by then you’ll be successful…your life will show results. By then, I’ll be dead. Then you will find people who need you, bright kids like you—excited kids and you will tell them what needs to be done, in the next generation. Its how it is, and should be. Give them good advice—please! Dlsiluk

The Mad Coffee Lady
((of, Huancayo, Peru) (in poetic prose))

A Contemporary Legend in the Making

Thin to the bone, legs like boards, eyes in deep socks, leaning like a bent lamp post—a tin can in her hand, held tight, begging for coffee or twenty cents, to passerby’s, who passed her by, avoiding the wench, the mad coffee lady of Huancayo, crazed in black rages.

She wore a black Wanka hat, nearly flat, piled with soot and grime, all black cloths, from head to toe—mud up to her ankles, how indigent, how unrefined she looked among us all, a beast of burden a scarecrow figure, now only to look back, if possible—past this dreadful figure that once lived among us all, without class; whom we somehow washed our hearts, and hands and souls clean of, and paid her no more attention than the pigeons in the Plaza de Arms. And then one day, just as if she never was, she wasn’t anymore, she had disappeared, and to who knows where— gone forevermore.

Commentary: Written after seeing the photograph of Victoria, the Mad, the Mad Coffee Lady, of Huancayo, whom lived and became notorious during the 1970s and ‘80s, and one day disappeared (now a legend). It was said she would walk the streets, rain or shine, and was at a young age, quite pretty to look at. Anyhow she would take her empty tin can and walk the streets asking for loose change or coffee, mud up to her ankles. I talked to several folks who saw her, slightly knew her, she’d even sit on folks house steps, and to get rid of her they’d have to give her a coin or two. Sometimes she’d run after a child’s sandwich, and grab it out of their hands, if they were unwilling to share it, and she’d eat it. Perhaps she was sycophantic or had some other disorder, which’s to say, no one paid all that much attention to understanding her problem, but somebody did take a picture of her for the city archives. And thus, from memory, I drew my picture, and did a little research for this commentary and poem above. To my understanding, if she had lived, or if she is living, she’d be now, somewhere in her mid ‘60s.

No. 1842 5-2007 (reedited, 12-2010) Dedicated to Virginia (God Bless)