What is Confessional Poetry? (and why do we write it?)

What is Confessional Poetry? It is when you set yourself up for the big fall, when you get daring enough to tell all. Sylvia Plath, Anne Saxton, the perverted Allen Ginsberg; Robert Lowell, whom I have several books by, was a little calmer in his verse than those poets I just mentioned. Often the “I” is used or “You” in Confessional poetry. I find most of this poetry is unflattering, and that is why I do not do a lot of it; it wasn’t meant to be. It is usually personal and autobiographical. The poet usually is speaking to you directly, the reader. When I read Plath, her confessional style seems more fantasy than fiction, but be that as it may, it is her soul talking; one must forget the themes and subject matter in confessional poetry, it explores certain details, processes past emotions, events, the author is actually exploring and processing his life in front of you. When I do this style of poetry, I try to take my first thoughts, and chain them together; somehow I already I know where I am going. One must eliminate meekness, modesty, or discretion. The poet comes out on top; because of self-revelation while in the process of creating this style of poem—especially if it is free verse.

The question has arisen, “Why do they write it?” and a fair question that should be answered perhaps more from a psychologist, than a poet, for at times one needs to be brutally honest. I was a licensed counselor for many years, and working with folks in, clients in the hospital, one thing I often had them do, to fight their demons, and so forth: write on paper about it. Any length, and then reread it, over and over if necessary. It seems to clear the brain, and makes the guilt duller. Some of my patients wrote 20-pages. After a while, the issue is not as important as it used to be, thus, the process of exposure, and acceptance has taken root. This is my view of course, and I think it can be placed into this area of Confessional Poetry, not for everyone. It gives perspective, if anything, and can be interesting to the reader. For Anne Saxton, this style of poetry reduced her madness. For me I believe it is simply a form of processing old events, and enjoying the trying times I had in yeas past, and how I see them now.

Dipping Beer Bottles (1967) Confessional Poetry

7—Dipping Beer Bottles (1967)

My neighborhood buddies came aroundfor a couple of beers and wine, a placeto drink, and hide from the cops, often

that long summer, in ‘67. I rented a garage overlooking railroad tracks on Acker Street,
about $15-dollars a week (it was a pit),

and the gang came, practiced their drinkingagainst one another, sister and brother: the
silent swollen bottles, drained end to end.

We bathed, immersed ourselves that summer,
with wine, beer and females to no score,
we played an unfaultable game…
drinking contests against one another, at nightwe all became good at it, unseeingly drunk
falling, sick as skunks… in my little garage.

Then one night, Sword came with his friendsbroke an aquarium, raped a girlfriend, shadowless;then unimaginative, the police came.

They couldn’t find him, a gang rape they saidand when they did, he went to prison,between the iron bars, he was now living.

To California Sid fled, and Reno, was
questioned by the police, he’s now dead,
and me, I paced back and forth—wondering.


#1708 2-27-2007 Mr. Siluk lived in a neighborhood called Cayuga Street or as the police called it, back in the '60s, "Donkeyland", and this was one of the many happenings that took place.

Unprimed (From Drink to Rot) Confessional Poetry

6—Unprimed
[From Drink to Rot]

It was always dark when I went to work at the stockyards.
Bare-cold, slush and mud-spring in Minnesota, zero
tolerance I had back then, red-eyed, half drunk—recovering
from a heavy night. And yet I made it (my mother picked
me up at my apartment room), looking undone
in the morning freeze, defined my youth, the hound
in me.
The Mississippi ran adjacent to my ride
against the towering bluffs of St. Paul, its fog-born mourning.
I had never known what steady work was, just intangible voices,
in my head, ghosts that recognized me, trying to brake my back,shapes or shadows they kept me stewed, strewn like sheep,
before them, keeping me weak, as if afraid I might catch on,
they kept coming, coming, repeated their mindless song.
Unprimed I was.
I threw the bottle toward that never-ending cry (one day),
and watched it turn to rot, day after day after day.

#1707 2-28-2007


Note: An alcoholic has one way out, find something better than what you got, otherwise, you might just as well give up and die, because drinking is suicide, it is just a matter of time.


Confessional Poetry ©2007 by D.L. Siluk



Poeta Laureado De San Jerónimo de Tunan, Perú

Awarded the Grand Cross of the City

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture

Los Andes University (Peru): Recognition given to Dennis Siluk for his poetic and cultural contribution

My First Real Lover (Confessional Poetry)

Note: Dispensation Poetry/Confessional: so I refer to the four poems below. I don’t often look back, and process my life into poetic stanzas, unless it is in short story form, traveling, culture and a few other exceptions, and in a different character other than me usually, it seems to make for a better read, but here are for poems that are to the contrary of that rule.



5— My First Real Lover
(Dispensation/Confessional Poetry)

At seventeen, not yet married, there were
signs: that read caution, I was too young, to see them, her given name, Barbara, ah, Barbara — my first real lover; even her face

had signs, even her brother, perhaps a lover; on my wedding day she called my name from the car, honking the horn, pregnant, to South Dakota, entrenched, I went with her

stubborn they were, mother and daughter.
we married, and mother went her way—
and Barbara went with me down the street,
to a motel, at the age of only sixteen.
So it was poorly done, but to some liberation. Alone in my bed, no longer unseen as I had been;
to her — I was a friend: for me, a lover—
and then I learned how to drink, to overlook!

I was drinking a lot back then, a far-away lost soul; that such youth has to suffer to grow; had I a knife to slice off that part of my soul—
I might have done so, and live in a bubble!...

#1706 2-28-2007

Aftereffects (In Ozark, Alabama)) A Poem))

Aftereffects (In Ozark, Alabama)

I think by now it is time for us to move on from here. I can see the shanty huts, the ones along side the
Cemetery, dilapidated they are, in need of restoration long overdue. The garbage has filled the air
above our small rented house, and the grass against the fence can’t hide the cemetery or the garbage.
I’ve walked through that section, when we first came here, over the gravestones through the tall grass, —twilight itself
shinned on my porch, the neighbor flirted with me from her’s . I just pretended not to notice and stood outside, smiled.
I saw her move about. She reminded me of me — when I was single and younger, long ago —
as she moved on, and away from the porch from the screened-in door with reflections from the moon.
I confess that my insides were dropping, cramping
I kept a pretense. In it, I became different and nervous, not
wanting to crossover to her, shameful she came to me
from her mouth these words came (echoes throughout me)
“You see, my husband wants me to lay with you, and watch?”
that came from her so easier, opening a wishful door,but I didn’t want a scar, or wound, or being numb; it would
had been the beginning, the second time —closer to the end.


#1706 7-27-2007

Note: I lived in Ozark, Alabama in the 1970s, and have been married a few times, and was there with my wife, and my neighbor was an attractive woman, a few years younger than I (her husband a friend, and both high on pot all the time), and to be honest, I and my human nature was being tested. I am no hero for avoiding the situation, but glad I did, it is simply trading one pot of crickets for another, and who needs that.

Hospital Visit (Confessional Poetry)

Hospital Visit (Confessional Poetry)

The curtains are half closed around my bed, no one in the room, only my mother standing. And then finally, I see a sad countenance, it surprises me, I see my brother’s arrival, he seems guarded. Only two, years difference in age, I wonder what happened, have I: been her long. Empty minutes in my head, I feel absent but here — behind her eyes — she knows, he knows they look at the tubes in my chest watch it rise and fall in my casing, and try

to pretend all is well, nothing but sad eyes in her throat. Then, finally, she touches the bed railing to look into my face, deeper, she wants to cry, and holds it in — she can’t imagined medying before her, we are seeing each other, our humanity, the enduring of love.

#1705 2-27-2007


Note: there really are no words or ways to express certain looks people give you when they are weakened because of their love for you, in the time of disaster. They don’t quite know what to say, and you don’t know quite what to say, and how it should be said, if indeed, it must be said. I was in the hospital dying in 1994, a stroke and heart attack. In 2003, my mother was dying in the hospital, it all was reversed it seemed, 11-years later. I was angry she was going to die, my mother was sad I was going to die. Not sure which emotions are right or wrong, I don’t think any are, they are what they are, emotions, and simple as that. It is how we process them afterwards. I didn’t blame God, and I’m glad I didn’t, it would have been a mistake, I was angry simply because, it was easier than dealing with the hurt of the loss (we will all die some day). But it must all be worked out; I just thank God, he took my mother and gave her beautiful little eyes, and that I could see them in 1994, because I still see them; I hope she saw my eyes when I visited her in the hospital, without the anger.

Confessional Poetry: "Hunting for--" & "Untangled Shadow"

Hunting For—
(Why not me?)) Confessional Poetry))


They always thought—said, ‘you can’t’ at the schools he attended, in the army, to him, by his friends
he’d walk in like whatsoever he had worked, days and nights, all hours. Hard times, often broke, steadfast with mule-
like fortitude, he marched on, the underdog turned wolf as if from underneath some curse a devils spell that was long planted.
‘You mustn’t tire,’ he told himself, of the dreams and past efforts he could admire, if only by himself and over in his mind—he climbed
to the top of the heap, where tired men sleep, and pushed on, like granite. He wrote book after
book and traveled the worldwide, and measured his hours he’d spent, building his kingdom, becoming rich, helping family
and friends, winning prizes,
living in the moment, unafraid—no more pretense, saving all those attributes, those works of art that had carved his world so long ago.


#1703 2-27-2007



Note: Sometimes a deficit can be the stepping stone to success. My daughter was told, she’d never be able to read, mentally retarded; my son, Shawn who got 93% in a countrywide intelligence test, way above average, became a bum, and my daughter became a learner. That is to say, she learned to read and write, something her doctors and educators said she’d not be able to do. But day after day, after month after year, she did succeed. Also sometimes where we live the environment we live in, kind of spells out what we are supposed to be. I was raised in a troublesome neighborhood, the only one that went to college, and perhaps the only one to travel worldwide. You got to make a plan, and work it out. I’ve noticed on my way up, and when I was down, people give up. Perhaps that is good, it leaves some gaps open for me. The second insight I learned, was to grab opportunity, at one time I would have said, “Not me”, now I say, “why not me?” And go ahead with the plan.








Untangled Shadow (Confessional Poetry)

For three years I lived in her housenot knowing: had I not moved out, I’d had died: our weddingportrait I threw in the garbage, one suite case in handin the car; her face still staring as I left.You told me, there was no way then, to putit back; you wanted my house, keeping your’s also.Sunday at church, your children cursed my nameon the way out, and you kept the diamond ring

safe, hidden with photographs I might have taken back,and there was no guilt unless you borrowed somefrom him. Months later we met, you told me he leftyou, he was sick like me, and said “If you can leave him
why not me?” he was already prepared, not like me;he saw and untangle the blueprint, hidden under yourshadow, moving towards him, and he ran.

#1704 2-27-2007




Note: Today is not like it used to be, and the use to be was in the 40s and 50s, when there was a stigma if you got a divorce, or if you had children, being raised in a second marriage by the husband who is not the father. In most cases, it seems, it can be a thankless joy, and the children do get in-between. And women do marry men for the wrong reasons, and perhaps they are right to them, wrong for the man, in this case, to help with raising them, as in the poem above, “Untangled Shadow.” We don’t need to point fingers, or blame others, but we do need to work out the emotions, the hurt, for people do get angry, or hurt in the process: children as well as the marriage couple. There is no secret formula, only honesty, if that can be laid on the table, before hand.

Monkey Jump: Man’s Neolithic Climb (10,000 to 7000 BC))A Poem and Commentary))

Monkey Jump:
Man’s Neolithic Climb
(10,000 to 7000 BC)


Somehow, someway, some time, and somewhere
Long ago, ancient man (often called Ape),
Went from sub-Homo, to Homo, in one big leap;
There was this defining gene, with rapid wings,
And man reaped the benefits, from its seed—
And Intolerance, was maimed, and man gained,
A whooping, and romping, and stomping, enzyme,
Which broke down lactose (a main sugar it contained??)
Going through its brain, --all in all, man now,
Hand a survival rate, or advantage as they say:
And the population grew and changed; next
Came Adam and Eve, and a deadly seed: Caen!....

#1701 2/26/2007


Commentary ‘Changing One’s Style’: One can call “Monkey Jump…” a lyric poem, if they wished to, and they’d be right, or perhaps, a short Ode, celebrating mankind from one point to the next, which is really an ode/Lyric poem in essence anyhow; or an Elegy, a poetic lament for the dead or absent, in this case, the missing link between them and us, or Man’s climb to whom he is. If indeed it was a climb. In two of my previous stories, one now in book form, “After Eve,” and one unpublished, thus far, called “The Fable of Big-chest (although on the internet)” I try to produce I suppose this missing link, in these stories, as in the poem “Monkey Jump…”one can see it transpire if they read both stories. The point being, poetic fiction can be divided up into historical novels, or stories to make novels, and different types or styles can be used. Poems come in many types of genres, and poets should take advantage of them I do believe, utilizing what they know the best, and not simple write what is expected, such as, and too often I believe confessional poetry, can be this draft of wind. As good as it can be, and I love reading it, poets get stuck in one mode, and every poem ends up reading like their others. An opinion.

Rats without a Roof (A Minnesota Poem((And Three Epigrams))

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))

Poetic Tender Riffs (Three Poems) "Angel...." & "Flyover" & "Rosa's Newspaper"

Poetic Tender Riffs

Here are a few poems I wrote today, in the process of writing them, I wanted to give them all one common name, because it all came out in one long afternoon chain of thoughts (so I named them: “Tender Riffs”), as I sat under the sun, my coffee in hand, and eggs and steak nearby, at my favorite outdoor restaurant, in Lima, and the waitress (Sarah, brought my food, said “Mr. Siluk…” meaning stop whatever you are doing and let me put your food on the plate, that is what she was thinking, not saying, and what I was reading, eyes tell a lot. Her hands patiently hoping I’ll finish my stanza quick so she doesn’t have to hold the tray much longer. I have to always finish the sentence you know, or the stanza. My wife, Rosa, is under the big yellow umbrella, I sit under the sun—she likes the shade. Then after I eat, finish eating that is, back I go again to see if …whatever is needed gets it (2-18-2007):


1) 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) Flyover

An F16 Jet, flew over our heads
(on my way to the café, today))
Several times, like a Roaring lion))
The earth moaned under my feet,
As I walked the neighborhood,
Lima, streets…folks were outside
Sitting, watching, listening…numb,
Women, with hands over their mouths,
Absorbing the terrifying sound…!
After the flyover (a military air show I hear),
The jet now out of sight, I look back at the
Two women, still they remain in fright…
And the others, speechless…!

#1697


3) Rosa’s Newspaper

She tucks the newspaper—tightly
against itself,
Taps it on the table, to insure one section
Is even with the others—as if she’s going
To give it a rest (and drink her coke,
Perhaps talk); then she—Rosa, my wife,
Opens it a second time, and reads it
Again (not sure what the tucking
And the tapping was for) but now she
Adjusts her eyes to the small print,
With her new glasses—‘Guess’ (squints)
And grips it as if the wind may move it
(what wind, I ask…myself); She’s firm
in her posture,
Glances onto the next page (doesn’t notice,
I notice her)) I think…?). I ask,
“Anything interesting?”
“No,” she comments, and then adds:
“There is a man in Pakistan he blew
himself up….”
She glances at me now (as I write
this down (stoned faced) unaware;
Then she shifts her eyes back to the paper
and continues to read again….

#1693

Profile (A Poem)

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

Monday Poems (Four Poems: to include:'Minnesota's Winter Rose')

Monday Poems

Here are four poems, by Dennis Siluk, where he ‘stitched together’ as he put it "...the inner and outer worlds..."; by what the author says, "we need only use our eyes, experience, and absorb the day..." Rosa Penaloza de Siluk



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 his
And it came to mind ‘one’
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. 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.



Haiku on Life and Time

Our life amounts to time
As we wait to die, for judgment—!
In-between, adopt attitudes…

#1678 2-5-2007

The afternoon

The afternoon has come
I’m at the same ole café
The same ole pigeon
Is walking by my table
Composed—calmly
unlazyly, like a
Mule…he walks arched,
As if His muscles are
Cramped in his back…;
I ask him: ‘Can this
Noble Poet, write about you?
Endlessly walking, to and fro
Reminds me of my grandpa
(Perhaps he is one).
Perhaps he’s listening
To the cheerful music—
He never looks up, not once.

#1679 2-5-2007


Minnesota’s Winter Rose

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

#1676 2-5-2006

Two Poems and a Commentary: Lima's Summer & Great Poems

Shapes and HEAT in Lima’s Summer

I can tell by the morning
After I get up, look out my windows
That heat will come, thus, I can bake
In the outside restaurant, in the afternoon—
Next, I hear the birds in the garden singing
I look at the shapes of them (everything)
In the park, doorways, the street
Like syllables in a poem; shapes, shapes
(I can almost count them))The shapes))
They have faces you know, and
Images, weight, color (dimensions)
Everything, every little thing, has shapes.
I let myself (for a moment) just a moment,
I let the shapes dominate me (by them)
And then, then the heat comes…
Souring is the sun (in Lima’s summer)
Then I rush down to El Parquecitos
A Restaurant in Miraflores…
(by: Taxi, Taxi, Taxi…more shapes)
—talk to:
Carmon, Ela, or Sarah … (usually);
Looking at more shapes: their
Sounds, colors, weights, dimensions.

#1657 2-1-2007


Comments on writing a poem: To write a poem, one must travel, study art, music, movements, the eyes, and body language of the individual, the colors and shapes of the landscape, you must see the fire flicker, hear the sound of it, smell the smoke, feel the heat of the fire, to the flesh (all from memory); thus, now we are ready to write a poem: flesh, fire and flickers, make for a great beginning.



Great Poems

“If you can’t write go to the Zoo,
And look at the panther,” said
The painter to the poet—and
He did just that, and wrote a
Book called: “New Poems,”
In 1908; and matter-of-fact,
History now calls them
“Great Poems” at that.

#1657 2/1-2/2007


In these two poems and comments, Dennis tries to deliver a message I think, he is trying to say: use all you have to put into the poem. If you travel, use it, if you play music, add it...yes, look at what is around you, this is life, write about it. And if you can't find it, to write it, go looking for it. Rosa



29) Poems with: imaging… and
imagery

Softly Bends the Leaves

Softly bends the long thin—knifelike leaves
Through the curtains and glass
I can see—, Its green…

The Sun reflecting off its seams;
If I move the piano, just a tinge
I’d see the whole thing.

#1659 (2-2-2007)) Lima, Peru




God Told Me

God told me once,
“Dennis, you’re after my heart…”
“Oh!” I said (perhaps playing dumb)
“Is this not true?” He replied.
(I hesitated, not sure why)) Said :))
“Yes, this is true,” (I was no fool).

#1658 2-1-2007



Highways

We build highways where people go
No one seems to get off them
And so, no one really knows….

#1660 2/1-2/2007

Triggers

The Deepest thing in us is Memories,
which can, and will
find their way out, once triggered.

#1661


Rosa’s Newspaper

She turns the pages of the newspaper
Like a slap on a child’s wrist
(so it looks and so it sounds):
Trying to find the crossword puzzle…!

#1662 (Dedicated to my wife, Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk)


Commentary: Poetry’s Function (just a few words): I believe the nature of poetry, its function—for the most part, have attached meanings; in the physical world, it can be confusing, it is in fact about language, as it claims to be. For often it has no voice, theme or even recognizable form. We call this free Verse, which is the dominate form of Postmodernism; prior to this, we had of course, Modernism, where we reexamined what poetry is. The density of language and intensity of imaging… and imagery; put another way, mental images; and: descriptions, metaphors, similes. Language is a two-way street, embraced but unregulated for the most part.