Poets & Poems (by D. L. Siluk)) Part XVII) Selected October Writings

Poets & Poems
Globetrotter Poet
(By D.L. Siluk)) Part XVII))
(Reviews, Commentaries, Short Stories and Poems)
[10-23-2006]


Selected October Writings by D. L. Siluk

Index:

Two poems in Italian
Four poems on Love, Youth and Envy (in English)
Three Summer Poems (in English
A Short Story of A Bullfight




Italian Version

Due poems e un'analisi [?Witness? & vecchio amore?An? ].

,
due poems e un'analisi [ 'il testimone, '& 'un vecchio Love'],
,
testimone,
,
la mia faccia appartiene a chiunque la vede,
tutto ha un significato ma vita,
anche gli insetti tentano d'ottenere l'esistenza,
uomo conservato dio, dal dio,
fantasmi hanno sins soli,
le sue ossa sono pietre,
su e giù la collina,
il fiore dei giardini,
cieli spotless,
i dramatists,
agosto,
io non possono,
rest!?,
,
#708 la sua vita,
che non chiude mai i suoi occhi,
ma osservare in su per il suo volo seguente,
,
cose che ho ancora vedere,
attesa, attesa, attesa, attesa di?for dove, il
echeggia dai poets scrive, il
l'attesa, per lontano fuori i destini,
,
e dove i miei pensieri sono, il
io deve andare, dato che ci anche è mio,
. anima; quindi, il la cosa migliore colpire, again! del fuoco > del ,
6/3/05 # 707,

,
analisi: Sono stato chiesto l'altro giorno per fare un'analisi verbale e rapida per un poem. Può essere un con esperienza terrificante, particolarmente se la persona è un amico. Che cosa dite? Come esso o non, è una cosa utile da fare ed ha fatto. Ed ho avuto alcuni cento dei miei poems analizzati, colpito a, masticato in su; quindi, una volta chiesto di analizzare un poem, lo faccio con cura grande. Ma realizzo che non sto andando contribuire a qualche cosa tranne la mia propria risposta attenta. Scaturisce questo poem lo ha eluso e quello non era buono, ma ho studiato bene il poem dopo che andasse, io potrei soltanto dargli alcune parti dei miei pensieri prima del suo andare. In seguito ho contrassegnato le frasi che hanno interferito la mia attenzione, buon e difettoso, cose che erano notevoli o difficili e dove il fuoco è stato perso. Mi fido della mia intuizione, di modo che è una buona cosa,
,
là sono tre cose che provo a guardare 1) lo scopo del poem, come lo capisco per essere 2) l'enfasi centrale (problemi e preoccupazioni, ecc) e 3) il linguaggio figurato, tono, misura e così via, mentre allo stesso tempo prova a non diminuire l'effetto poetic il poem stia provando a dare. Ma allora, non faccio l'analisi ma in alcune occasioni speciali l'altra poesia delle persone, dato che mi diverto fare la mia poesia. Ma ho pensato che alcune osservazioni potrebbero valere la pena di accennare. Indovino, se gradisco il poem, io appena lo gradisco, periodo. L'autore,
,
qui è due nuovi poems, entrambi i differenti nel loro fuoco, enfasi poetic; entrambi i poems corti, ma abbastanza per dare seguito distintivo. Il tono è di importanza speciale. Un'analisi viene con i due poems, non sui poems del sig. Siluk, dato che quella è affinchè qualcun'altro faccia, ma su come osserva occasionalmente su altri poems, riconoscendo la combinazione degli elementi differenti. -- Rosa Penaloza,




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


2) 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

3) 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

4) 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. 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.




Three Summer Poems
1) Summer’s Song
Enter July, happily,
Summers here, and fair
Fancy-free, and young heats beat
With lovers everywhere!
Bright and dark eyes, smiles sweet,
Some tears along the way,
But ‘Winter’s gone,’ and
Summer’s here,
Laugh your troubles away.

#1392 7/17/06

2) Summer’s Edge

With you, my thoughts are sweet and dear
And my heart is trouble free, but
I sit and let the seasons by
Looking out my window frame—,
And wonder with my heart stretched thin:
“Is he in Paris again?”

#1393 7/17/06

3) Pretense Friends

They shook my hand, and smiled clear
They spoke with check and brow,
And all I heard was what they said:
“We’re friend forever now!”
And they were playful and mild
Who whispered lies to me back then,
The soul that grows in July,
May never mend again.
So young I was, and unwise
And so many a hearts, they split,
And little did they realize
They were only pretence friends.
Who brought me silly talk in June
Shall meet a bitter end,
For July is nearly over now
And my heart has yet to mend.

#1390 7/17/06 Written at El Parquetito’s in Miraflores, Lima, Peru; if visiting Peru, stop by the café and say hello to Dennis, he is usually there writing something, having a cup of coffee, busy writing over some Lomo Saltado, with a coke. Rosa


The Monster Archaic
[A haunting bullfight in Lima]


1
The Bull Fight

I tell you this for a truth. Well, it all started out simple and my Grandfather, well—something inside his head got triggered. It all took place in the bull-ring at Lima, 1923. My Grandpapa was born in l886, and had retired from boxing long before, unwillingly, but kind of had to. Oh, he had fought the best, Jack Johnson, Sullivan, and then, well I will tell you the story. I didn’t see it happen, how could I, I wasn’t born yet. It was a mystery for many years to me and many others, but I know how he was, and the Peruvian woman he said he was in love with, fine, Latin blood she had, but she didn’t understand, I doubt anyone in Peru understood that warm hot summer day when Anatolee, the blue-eyed gringo went mad, nutty.

He was a brave man though, let no one say otherwise, six foot three, two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe a bit more than that, I can tell by his pictures somewhat, and I read his history. He was from Russia, came over to America as a youth, learned how to fight like Sullivan and Dempsey in the bars and then in the ring. I am Russian myself, in that capacity, like my Grandpapa. The Peruvians laughed at him when he stood up and yelled at the capadores sitting in the arena, when he slipped and the bull gored him, a breathless moment I do expect, perhaps this was the moment the fans took notice of him, for he did it unexpectedly, and thought him a fool, oh I suppose he was more then excited, more than he wished to be anyhow, ‘it is their bullfight,’ he murmured,’ so it is said, and he sat back down.

The lovely Señorita he was with, one to be his bride someday, she hoped—was dismayed at the Gringo’s disposition on this matter. For she said something like, ‘excuse me,’ (she loved the bullfight) and looked at him. You see, he was for the bull, because the bull had no chance. None whatsoever he said, he told his beautiful Senorita as she sat in his sitting place, marked with a number, --her by his side and her friends to the right of her, of which he told them with even more venom, ‘The bull is dead the moment he enters the ring, and paces the walls trying to find his way out’. Some say, Anatolee wanted a way out of marrying the young lady, for he was close to forty, and she was close to twenty—but I don’t believe that, I think what took place was because of other reasons, enemies inside his head came out of his tongue, like the bulls, when they are thirsty, and the bull of course is filled with water to make him slow during his fight with the matador. And the banderillos placed the darts, and often times fail to place them properly (as they did this day), thus the bull gets mad and so did my Grandfather. I know he felt it was cruel and cold-blooded punishment for the animal that didn’t want to be there in the first place.

So what did Anatolee do, what you would expect, he stood up from his seat, in the hot summer high temperature, gazing, staring—hypnotically into the bullring and yelled like a mad bull himself, ‘What chance, what damn chance has the bull got!’ he yelled. His girlfriend’s Peruvian friend, an enthusiast comrade like her, that liked her, matter of fact, would have liked to marry her—had he not been married, tried to reason with Anatolee, but as the bull was enticed into charging the capadores, and the man who looked like he was to be eaten up by the bull, escaped unhurt, he again could not help himself, he yelled feverishly at the bullring. The audiences jeered at him liken to a viper, told him to sit down in Spanish, but he didn’t understand, and thus, a sword appeared and missed the heart of the bull and suck out through the side of his ribs. But he just sat sadly in his seat—unmotivated, with hidden anger and staring, his face contorted, his teeth grinding.

—Then came out the picador on his horse (I have talked to Picadors, they are brave to go into the ring on an old horse like they do, most are old and ragged looking, this poor horse was so old and skinny, good for nothing else I suppose, and this is why they use them of course, and my Grandfather knew this, like him, he was now aging, and good for what?), and the bull charged the horse, sad as it was, the horse flipped flopped about rolled over—not knowing another gore was coming and when it did, went in the air, and the picador landed on the ground, and again escaped like the capadores before; a hideous crime he thought. This bull was very strong, like a bull I saw in Mexico City—Nico, who died slowly like this one, and was strong, so very strong like this bull, they were both fighters, ones that would not go down with a blow, like in the ring where my Grandfather fought as a professional boxer. I’ve seen this same fighting instinct in the bull in Mexico City, what my Grandfather saw in the ring in Lima, he had in himself, but for him it went a little farther. I shall explain that now, for it is the horse that triggered him.

2
The Trigger

My Grandfather was in many fights like me as I have tried to explain, so I know what took place that Saturday afternoon in the heat of the afternoon, the Peruvian warmth at the bullring in Lima. It was akin to a fight in the ring, in the hot hours of daylight. When the horse fell, gored in the stomach, gored several times, his insides came out—his whole insides unfilled, bare, unoccupied there on the dirt of the bullring emptied out, the horse kicking his feet like a man down in the boxing-ring trying to get up, trying but not getting up, but let’s say is also blindfolded: told if he does get up—if he does stand on those feet of his, those limbs, tentacles, he will get his guts opened up like the horse, emptied out in front of his family, and his families guts emptied out like his; he had to take a dive in the ring, let the other man win, he had no choice. The scum of the earth made him stay down, loose the fight, like the Peruvian’s who made the horse go into the ring blindfolded, now was down; blindfolded so he could not see it coming—death coming, the spear of death; so he could not see the bull ready to gore him, trusting humanity, the nature of humanity; dumb as that might be. The horse like the fighter has no chance; that is what went through his head at that very moment—that last millisecond. It was the last fight my Grandfather ever fought, the day he lost to a smaller man, less skilled, but he had a family, and should he get up—stand up on those legs to fight this man, this puny man, they would cut their guts out, like the horse in the ring, no chance—you see, none whatsoever. But he lost his wife none the less (and that is another story unto itself), and met his Señorita, but that is all history, let me finish the story for you.

--He stood up now, all wonder why he did not go crazy when the bull was killed, I should say slaughtered slowly, and dragged out of the ring by a mule, two mules. ‘Why the horse,’ people kept saying for years, still say it. As I tried to explain, my Grandfather was the horse, the audience were the scum, the boxing people who fixed the fights, the ones that humiliated him to, to such a thing as to take a dive in the middle of his life for a younger fighter, who knew nothing. He was blindfolded, kind of speaking, like the horse. The bull to him was simply a stupid animal with no chance at all, dead the moment he walked in the ring—like the young fighter. Yes, yes, my Grandfather was gored by the scum, by the stupid young man [liken to the stupid bull, he knew no better].
--So now you see why Anatolee stood up and yelled, and then when the horse got gored, like him, he lost it, hit the man beside his Señorita sitting next to her with his wife, broke his nose, and when two soldiers came running toward him—well, then the shooting started, and the crowed stood up to see what was happening. The soldiers and the crowd killed him, as he went wild hitting any and everyone who got close to him, several Peruvians went to the hospital that day, but nonetheless, he was dead from the insanity that took place that day. Yes, oh yes, it was a hot day in Lima and the beast primitive came out of Anatolee, my Grandfather, what more can I say.

Note: Inspirited by Jack London, Earnest Hemingway and a bullfight I saw in Mexico, City, and Lima, Peru

A Quiet, but loud Voice

[Bullfight in Lima, Peru]

Gone are the feelings of hope, gone forever; the glory of the fight lives on but for a moment, like a song once sung, now silent: like the trumpets that blow for this fiesta, the bull-fight. They sing and throw their hats; arm to arm—they sway back and forth, like the waves of the ocean. They will never come back: the bull, the horse, the prize fighter; the poor dead. And somewhere the wind is blowing, the snow is falling—but here, here in the arena is the sun, the sun shinning its ultraviolet heat, over head, shining down, down—it shines down low on the dead.

3
Benediction

Oh, I say to one and all, I am neither for the bull or the matador; as Hemingway protested, one must be for one or the other—no, I am for the champion of the brave, the glory of the arena, the ceremony of the event, its intrinsic meanings, and its blessings. So I make no judgment inasmuch as I do enjoy the bullfight, the cockfight, the ring, the karate tournaments, and the sumo wrestling tournaments. In all such events it is the grit and endurance and it all pleases me.