Tuesday, September 27, 2011

House of the Falcon

(In the Valley of Canipaco)

By Poet Laureate, Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

Prologue: Land of the Chankas (or the Parkos’ Kingdom) in the time of the Wari and prior, all ancient settlements in the Peruvian Andes, they were an ethnic group that roamed and settled within the region of Huancavelica and part of Junin, all the way to what is know known as the Mantaro Valley (100 BC to 700 AD), they expanded beyond these boundaries, but what this brief is concerned with, is that they settled in the Canipaco Valley, built a stone like fortress, with thick walls that stands to this very day (near the district of Colca) a three hour drive by car to the site, from Huancayo, Peru.

During their ongoing development, the Chankas, created an autonomous culture, and a variant language, the name of their capital (‘Waman Karpa’) in English would be translated to mean “House of the Falcon”. Up to the time of the Incas, they showed a high reverence for their mummified, ancient grandparents, and in a similar manner, venerated the catlike figure ((in the capital, Uscovilca, the founder of the Uran Chanka was worshiped, his remains) (and Ancovilca, was the founder of the Hanan Chanka)). I admit, this all can get confusing, because we must not combine both groups into one, this has been done in the past, and too often, misunderstood, for the Uran group joined another group, which built a federation (Pocra-chanka); thus, for the sake of clarity, we will try to stick to the Canipaco Valley expanse, and the Chanka race in general as a whole. As a result they had built villages within these populations in the Canipaco Valley, with burials, which often were in caves or rock crevasses.

The Chankas were not rivals to or of the Incas per se, although they were warlike people (the Hanans while in combat, were a bloodthirsty group of warriors, hanging their enemy upside down; cutting them so they’d slowly bleed to death in the fingers and feet, and they’d peel the skin off the prisoners, and from a skull cup, drank the blood of the enemy); and they were farmers too, and lived to the height of the 11th to 13th Century. It would seem at different times throughout their existence, they had small to large or larger populations (depending). In the case of the fortress we are about to reveal, perhaps 100-souls, existed within this fortress.

And so I hope this brief-prologue, has brought you to a wider understanding of this ancient culture (of which research will benefit the curious mined person, if indeed he can find any, there is very little on the Chankas, that is why I have went to the actual site of one of their fortresses and talked to the village people, among others for their understanding of this race that once lived where now they sand), and now for the poetic voice:

Fortress, within the:
House of the Falcon

Part One

The Chanka Warriors

Even the finest of the Chanka warriors, contained darkness
All their language, woven from two-thousand years packed
Together—as they grew larger in the Valley of Canipaco

The Hanan Chankas soaked up the stain of their enemy’s blood
Drank it from their skull caps, hanging them upside down
These old thinkers, of the House of the Falcon, remind us

Battle and death to those throats open to invasion.
They built stone fortresses in the District of Colca—buried
Their kind, in caves, rock crevasses, mausoleums.

Notes: Inspired by: Frank Ramirez who attended the presentation of the author’s book “The Cotton Belt” and left the author with a picture of the Chanka site, near his home township, inviting him to visit the site, meeting the author three days afterward, 9-22-2011, to allow the author to become more informed on the Chanka culture, and his particular site. Some research done by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and sifted through by the Poet Laureate, whom wrote a Prologue, and part one of the Islamic style poem “House of the Falcon” on the 22nd of September, 2011. No: 3091.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Dennis L. Siluk's New Stories and Poetry for 2011: Three Dark Poems (In Parts Spanish)

Dennis L. Siluk's New Stories and Poetry for 2011: Three Dark Poems (In Parts Spanish): Song of Absence
[Dedicated to the: Raphiam Giants]

'T was far absent, 't was far missing,
Untamed aloft in a night long past!
‘T is b...

Three Dark Poems (In Parts Spanish)

Song of Absence
[Dedicated to the: Raphiam Giants]

'T was far absent, 't was far missing,
Untamed aloft in a night long past!
‘T is but a few hours left to pass,
You then will see thy face by day.

'T was long-ago, 't was long past,
We ruled thee during your untied era.
Our kind found your lot, fond and fair
Until they made us: foe and prey.

Long ago, ever since, we took our bliss
In dreams to come back, and embr

16 February 2007

Orange Timid Moon

O´er the Copan sky
an arch of shadows
weave their webs
with low-lights,
as the moon rises...
orange and timid—
as one more night
passes by...
by the shadows
of the Maya gods
de antigua Copan!...

Note: written while at the Copan Ruines, in Honduras, April, 2005.

Versión en Español
Luna Tímida Anaranjada
Por Dennis Siluk
Traducido por Rosa Peñaloza

Sobre el cielo de Copan
un arco de sombras
teje sus telas
con bajas-luces,
como la luna se levanta...
anaranjada y tímida –
como una noche
más que pasa ...
por las sombras
de los Maya dioses

de antiguo Copan!...

Nota: escrito mientras estaba en las Ruinas de Copan, en Honduras, Abril de 2005.

Nightmare Well

The night winds, hollow—deep in nightmare well, I have peered down it countless
Times, only to find, see primal creatures climb, its slimy sides…!
The horrors deep within this well are horrors before the age of man, powers from
Vast terrestrial spheres, they transverse this well with slimy nightmares,
Give an endless span—; reeking pain within their jaws, claws and gaping hands.
What waits and broods deep in this looming well, I do not know for sure, perhaps:
Monstrous hieroglyphs—dim sunsets, dreams now beastly nightmares.
Against the twilight I have seen them rise—with their vast evil that never dies.
The demons wind echoes through pipes spinning to the top of the well—:
Grim and cold, oozed through the many corridors below….Thus, only the Moon
Sees what legends talk about; ages gone, and to come; hence, if you are sane,
Do not look down the well, unless you cannot help it: what a pity!...

17 September 2006

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Midnight Poems V

Midnight Poems V


Inside the Vietnam War (1969)

All around me men are protesting;
but I am stubborn, I take no part.
Here is the difference:
I welcome the Beasts of war!

—Mr. Before

I went to war completely clothed,
and I have returned half naked.
The Beast gave, and the Beast took,
I am part of the Beast.
—Mr. After

No: 3043 (8-29-2043) Midnight Poems V

Brief commentary: like all wars, the war in Vietnam was costly for its time, $220-billion dollars. The U.S. Military dropped 6.5 million tons of bombs on Vietnam. It killed two-million Asians, and we lost 58,000 men and women (and it created neurological issues for soldiers for the following half century, not to mention maimed soldiers). The United States Government airlifted some 10-million military personnel, by commercial aircraft to the war. We lost 5000-helicopters. Millionaires because of military contracts became billionaires; one star generals became three and four star generals (that’s what the war was about).


Irene (August, 2011)

The Storm goes on through North Carolina, Virginia—
My breath grows slow and heavy, in the melancholy.
Pulling up from far above, where the storm is born;
Thus, spreading ruin, tomb like ruin, on rocky shores—
My breath grows slow and heavy, in the melancholy.

No: 3037, August 27, 2011-08-29 Midnight Poems V


The Father Teeth of War
((Iraq and Afganistan) (commentary on Vietnam))

Let us drive those
Fighter jet bombers down
There light beams
To the chambers of
Hell, and dismantle them!
And live inside of peace
For a while—
That falls on the brow
Of our president (Obama)
Tied to his desk
With empty promises,
And the whims of generals
And merchants…!
As he sits in the White House
In Washington
Watching our Nation’s Youth
Die one by one, in a crisis
That has nothing to do with the
Bring our solders—home!
Return them to earth
As now they live
Inside of fear and sweat
Waiting to die a useless death
In the far-off deserts of Iraq
And Afganistan!

No: 3041 (8-28-2011) Midnight Poems V


The Farm Orphanage
((North St. Paul, Minnesota; Kiddie Corner) (Poetic Prose))

In my mind I can see-–still see—the farm (orphanage); children and adults on the side of the wooden fence standing, gossiping—where I and my brother had lived as a child ((more on than off)(for five plus years)(back in ’48 thru ’52)).

Here I am, a boy, feeding the cows and horses with grass through the fence, even giving them a delightful little tap on the snoot—in the light dusty heat of a summer’s day.

No: 3020 (8-12-2011) Midnight Poems V


Nothing to Something Poem

There is a bit of nothing that flies above my head
It is like a dark shadow, a condor all-encompassing
the sky—nothing distinguishable!

Something out of the fragments of my dreams
I do believe.

What amazes me is this: it was a bit of nothing that
Somehow became something (a large bird, so it seems):
once it reached my cranial…?

No: 3022 (8-17-2011) Midnight Poems V


First Things First

If you want to drive across the desert
you do two things: first you kill the
scorpions; second, you build the roads.

No: 600 (2004) Midnight Poems V


No One sees it!

It is always lighter just before the dark
There is always calmness just before the storm
Pride always comes just before destruction
A weed in a flower garden is always out of place
In all such cases, no one sees it before it comes!

No: 3024 (8-22-2011) Midnight Poems V (10:11 p.m.)

Two Poems of Vividness and Force

Ode to the Tender Grape

I am sick, of hate (and)
I am sick, of love…
I wait until day breaks
Until the shadows stray away (to go my own way)
It is safer that way—
This is the voice of a tired old man.
We look to love for everything
And when we receive it, it is less than nothing—;
The pessimist warns: “All are evil women!”
or, “All are evil men!”
Neither one knows the way of the condor in the air,
Or, the scorpion on a desert rock—
How then can either one know, ever know,
the way of the heart?
Perhaps it is better to marry than to burn
(as it has been said, and written)
And rejoice at the lack of understanding,
And let her and him love as they please! Let their
Bodies be one’s reward; relish in the day and moment
And let love and hate—bitter as they can be—
Drink early to late, staring at one another’s face—
In some lonely vineyard—with the tender grape!

Note: an ode is a lyric poem in essence, usually celebrating someone or something, often addressed to its subject. In this case exalting the grape, to keep love and hate, busy, avoiding its destructive powers. No: 3044 (8-30-2011)

America Forsaken
(In Poetic Prose)

Why does America flourish and ignore and blaspheme God? (And fitfully Europe too…) Why else do most other countries of the world eat dust, live in desolation, captivity?
Why, why, why? What can one say of such a God?

America no longer retains its piety to God; perhaps that is why He has allowed Satan to heap a variety of calamities upon her (trying to call her back!)
In time her fortitude will break (internally throughout and worldwide), she will within her inners—commit suicide, and she will bitterly reproach God, for forsaking her.

And I heard God’s words, from the echoes of His angels:

“You are the people, wisdom has died inside of. I gave you abundantly. My eyes have seen all; you are no longer of any value. There is no longer hope in that you will sprout again.
Thus, I give you over to my Adversary. If you prosper, it is by his wishes, his darkeneth counsel. Grind up now your loins, for He will soon demand of thee, he has laid the foundations—thereof, know a thick darkness has entered through your gates, and death be opened unto thee!”

No: 3045 (8-30-2011)

The Prose Poem

((Poetic prose and the Prosodic Unit) (a commentary or essay))

Part I
What is Poetic Prose?

The prose poem (poetic prose) is as old as the hills—well at least as old as poetry itself; that is to say, it is not a new invention as many would have you believe.
It is, in its most oversimplified definition, a short story, a fable. In its more complete form, it is an image centred, or cantered on an object. It is often expressed in layers. It nourishes the spirit, or should. To make, or create it, it is a work of art, and most difficult, more so than a metered poem—so I feel, in that a metered poem is a click to a box. Whereas, the prose poem has two tails—each different than the other; the poets mind has to adjust to this. Here the mind cannot leave the subject, and the poet’s mind cannot be concealed.

Part II
Poetic Prose Form!

Often the poetic prose poem—has the same subject throughout; it is like a one-way highway. Another form, one sets the tone in the first sentence, and then alters it as s/he descends, as the mood changes in the poem. Thus, the mind with the words is set. Let me repeat, the focus is on an unchanging element or subject—in the prosodic unit, it is not the stanza but the sentence. Let me give you an example:
A good haiku is evidence the poet has overcome polarities (large and small, human and animal, etc). Now let me create right here and now, a haiku for an example:

The wood in the hearth
this also
gave home to a bird.

‘Wood-bird ‘Haiku ((No: 3040) (8-29-2011))

The writer or poet usually uses, or writes such divisions or polarities, when creating haikus in the presence of the object—if you want to know where the bird came from, you have to know the tree it perched on; or build its nest on. Saw the branch, this kind of observation opens the mind to give human surveillance and understanding, in the right way. In this case the wood in the hearth is more than wood, it was part of a bird’s home, a tree that had life, now it warms the body and the room that the body is in. This information cannot be made up, it is processed through the mind, and a creative mind says you have an active soul. You have created something much more than what you originally had—when the mind and the soul began working together.

Part III
Creative Senses in Poetic Prose

In prose poems, the poet can stay close to his creative senses for a lengthy time, in a tranquil setting (similar to a painter, as often I’ve seen, on the bridges crossing over to Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, painting away as if in another world) instead of a metered storm (trying to put the perfect rhyme schema to an accentual meter form or syllabic meter form; example: dimeter, trimester, tetrameter, hexameter, and so on and so forth, which refers to lines of verse based on a syllabic length or duration in time—this can be a storm…) example:

I want to say what deaths love have come and gone,
I know only, that winter sang in you
A long while, that now sings in me as well.

‘Mother’s Winter’ Accentual-syllabic meter ((No: 3041) (8-29-2011))

In the poem ‘Mother’s Winter’ one is forced to give attention to certain words, the first line for example, creates less force, because death has come and gone for many people the poet has loved—now in lines two and three, the force becomes stronger, because the poet is saying, in essence, all previous loves are nil compared to his memory of her loving mother’s love for winter (as we see in the name of the poem: in particular). And now, that memory sings in the poet as well. The lines are fixed, to a ten syllabic meter, as in a sonnet.

The prose poem helps to balance the non-figurative; there are more freedoms for detail in the prose poem, more room for description, intimacy—the object is more exposed. What metered poetry cannot do, poetic prose can. In metered poetry, the mind often gives up and accepts what it has done…

The sonnet, although lovely in its structure, is too impersonal for poetic prose. I need not explain this if you have ever written a sonnet. Thus, it has many ancestors to please.

Part IV
The Mind and Poet’s Responsibility (conclusion)

The first to second sentences of a prose poem, usually sets up the rhythm or sounds of the poem (the dynamics), the syllables are set in line, in motion. And as for reading the poem your mind expects this process to satisfy it.
The poet must pay mind to the reader, s/he expects it, and density demands it. A good poet will please the reader, or try—and in the process have an effect on the reader (is this not one of the main purposes for the poet?)

Let’s us hope no self-proclaimed mastermind or wiz-kid, tries to standardize the prose poem, with rigid patterns that may stagnate the poet’s mind, so it no longer expects excellence, and accepts mediocre: giving it boundaries and hurdles to crossover.
On the other hand, that does not give a licence for the poet to be sloppy in form, and to accept the middle-of-the-road (what we write and what the reader reads, goes into the mind and we are responsible for that, so let’s not put in garbage, or something putrid that causes a meltdown for a younger mind). The reader wants elegance and this is part of the poet’s job.

Dennis L. Siluk (Poet)
Written 8-27-2011

Article (8-282011)