The Song of Vietnam (a poem reflecting on the ten-year war)

The Song of Vietnam
(a poem reflecting on the ten-year war)


For ten years together, the Presidents of the United States,
the Lords and Kings of other countries tried to subjugate
the lands of Vietnam.
From the inner southern jungles to the sea-coast they had
conquered most all the land; although,
the north was there before them, left to sand.
Yet, there was no town nor village uncrushed by this plight,
save only Hanoi that stood on the north’s side.
And at the war’s end, even they, the American’s bombed
that city, in which no beauty was found
no love for democracy, or the Christian God; they worshiped
Buddha and Confucian traditions.
Nor could they shun the evil fortune that beleaguered them
thereafter.



II. The Armies were gathered more than five-hundred thousand
men: not counting the enemies (this was the forth occupation,
one with Japan, China and the French, now America).
“Here now has come the President of America,” cried the Vietcong,
“to our land to overthrow us!”
They had no equal in weaponry to meet the Eagle with its might,
nor enough henchmen to beat them in any fight.
But a wise man gave them counsel, saying “Wait…
time is not a virtue to the enemy, it brings to them, a slow death
among their kind, and shame.”
All listened, save the Americans and they came, and came and came



III. Among the wisest this man was known to be, called,
Hoe Ch Minh (revolutionist, statesmen)
And a good vassal, he seemed to be, a man of humble beginnings.
Shrewd he was, and skilful, politically cunning,
And he spoke unto the king of France, on a treaty.
(But to be dismayed soon thereafter.)
“But send us Chiang Kai-shek,” cried, but Chiang Kai-shek
traded Chinese influence in Vietnam for French concessions
in Shanghai, from the arrogant and strong,
and so for the man who once was a cook, and chef,
with promise and faithfulness, service and friendship, he
leaped forward and long, and his dogs fought the lions,
five-hundred thousand of them, like hawks they came well
equipped.
They came with the dollars, and the grit, muscle bombs,
hundreds and hundreds of them, they came like hawks.
And more dollars wherewith to pay the soldiers.
Of his people, three-million would die, perish, by bullets,
mines, Agent Orange and bombs, and much more
They couldn’t die straightway, but they didn’t die like
beggars in their own land, but with honor and dignity.

1-21-2009 (No: 2555)

Meadows of the Charioteer (in poetic prose)

Meadows of the Charioteer

In Poetic Prose

((A day near heaven, and a midnight stir, from laden-brows) (part one))

I knew them also—some. I had seen them, in my other life. I was now like a wheel, like the spoke in a wheel itself, in its hub, in this vast place that doesn’t even show on any earth map, that not ten-people out of all the earth know its name, if that many, if it has any name at all, for I heard spoken out loud, in all directions a name called ‘The Meadows of the Charioteer,’ and here no one touched, never a one, not a big nor a smell touch, never a one too light or too hard, it is a place that men and women, live in—as I felt I was about to—and here I am starting to think of a lot of little things—quiet enough to do so—although not so quiet are the things I’m thinking of, things I once loved, places I once lived, names of people, and people before them, deeds done and not done, that made the quiet and loudness in my life, names of men and women who did the deeds, thinks and names and people I want to forget. How they and I lived, how we lasted and endured, fought the battles of life, and the ones they and I lost, and the ones they and I fought again, because a voice said, “You haven’t lost yet.” The heights they and I climbed to; the deserts that soiled us, and the shapes we turned into.

I knew many of them, the men and women standing about, that couldn’t touch or be touched, old, some young, some twice my age, and I’m seventy. And they, like me, thought these things, as we waited for the Charioteer, in the meadows, we thought these things in our minds. Then, as I looked down upon earth, it looked so dangerous and still, I looked at the storms coming from the North and South and East and West—in the mist—we all could see the four horsemen of apocalypse—riding faster and faster.

But stone-still we stood, waited to hear the name of the Charioteer, to see which way he’d come from, and I thought, and I could sense the others thought: what did we die for, or become just before we died, louder than any hunger it echoed in my head, it seemed to cover the whole meadow, and then, only then, did we all see the Charioteer, afar. (How long they waited I don’t know, how long I was to wait, I wasn’t sure, some had been there long, I sensed that; and I’m sure, some didn’t want to leave.)

And he rode fast and hard, and I listened to the hoof-beets of the horses as he came closer and closer, and we all waited until after dark, and we stood outside in the meadows, and we could hear his horse breathing, and to some it made them deaf to the voice of the Charioteer, and to some they could hear him plain. And that night I started to say…but he said, “Hush!” as I was thinking. And so we stood there, it was getting cold, and I was listening to him talk—but in-between, thinking, and he said “Hush!” And he said some things I understood, others I didn’t, and still some, I couldn’t make heads or tails out. And then he said, “That would be all for awhile.”

Across the meadows he rode, and I cried, “I want to go home!” And he stopped, turned about, said, “What’s the matter with you? I called your name and you didn’t jump on.” I said, “I didn’t understand.” Next he said, “When are you going to start?” and I ran, this time I heard him loud and clear, and I wasn’t thinking or looking back at anything, nothing at all—just straight ahead.




(The Charioteer, Near the Gates)

And he, the Charioteer, rode hard and fast, and all the old snapshots in my head hurriedly faded, as his team of horses swaggered a little, and he had—I noticed, a gold-and-leather military harness, and I said, “What about those left behind,” and he looked at me, said, “They are dead.” When I had left they looked lost, baffled, but not dead. I noticed his hardness commanded respect, so I said very little, trying to get used to the ride. He looked at me, said “They are all thick-sinned, men and women with scrawled transparent unbootable hearts; they lived and now are dead.” And as we rode on, he gave me a series of brief glares, instantaneous and without intensity or a point of view in particular, perhaps trying to see if I understood I suppose the depth of what was happening, as I stood on his chariot, then after a while, he told me, “The object of general interest in their hearts is different than yours, I know what heaven can bear and become if I ride them up to the gates, I cannot let in darkness.”

And so I understood, and for some reason, the closer I got to the gates, the less tears that were going to be tears, because of the lost ones, faded, and I was elated, and I could smell a fragrance that was so pleasant and majestic, and unique, it made my senses and my pours heavy and sweet. It was poetic stimulating and rich at the same time, and I saw angels, and the Charioteer said, with a smile, “Yes, this is the place.”



Note: Part one written: 1-12-2009 ((Poetic Prose: No: 2549) (Part two, ‘The Charioteer, near the gates’ written 1-13-2009))

The Days - A Poetic Tribute to Juan Parra Del Reigo (In English and Spanish)

English Version


The Days
By Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D (Poet Laureate)
(Tribute to Juan Parra Riego)

I

All year, knowing you’re dead,
I’ve sat in two hard-pillowed chairs,
Looking out the windows, being sad
With human melancholy, trying to restart
Those days in which you lived your poetry—
(in translating, editing, and selecting your best),
Days when your youth like mine, felt the sun
Carried ambition, from earth to sky,
Ominous days, with inspiration to share;
I live them now, but feel yours in death.

II

Today, is like any day, I suppose
As you once knew, expected death,
As I do now. The sky is overcast,
(I hear the shuddering rain, the splash
As cars driving by, with purring engines)—
And in the rush, like a river off-course,
This is the moment when the air
Being most full of life and images,
Appears lifeless, no motion, now:
Land, river and sky, we merge, the
Splash is gone. And so is my sadness.
Everything is drowned out of me, but you
(so I can write this poetic tribute).
My memories emerge (with them), I’ve found
The days you lived, the key to your poetry;
The secret closet you hid as a poet.

III

I think of all you did, when you lived
(That is, all you wrote, and might have wrote
And done before death undid you…despair)
There was much promise in your youthful
Years--your wild reserve, the color of autumn leaves
In your Face, inspiring the wind, and woods
And the bare silence in the hummingbirds.

None had such promise then, not even
Cesar Vallejo, or Borges, not even Yeats,
Or Keats, GeorgeTrakl, or Pablo Neruda.
Your rhythm and rhyme, scapegrace charm,
Pattern and structure of sound, verse and meter,
Accentual-syllabic line, all gave motion
As if glazed in rain, falling hard to soft…with
Disarming grace, yes, oh yes, you were bold,
As Homer, building a wooden horse
To Deceive and then destroy Troy!
In the Age of Symbolism and Modernism.

It was, was it not, in your luckless blood?
That failure came only because all passion
Was taken away in mid-course? By Death!
You shrank to nothingness, but still you
Wrote your poetry, an hour before your death!
You lived beyond the gloomy boredom of regret.
You did not deject any love, the beat of your heart,
Was for Blanca Luz Brum, no cold fortune…
Your slow death, shaped your stare upon life
There was blood within that sightless stare,
But it made you one, made you look and wrote
Your poetry in stone, at the end, alone…

IV

Your poetry has outlived you, and that sightless stare.
Your poetry Parra, has outlive that boat you rowed—
So long ago, in Montevideo and it will
Out live the painting that hung in your room
Where you sat by a table— the ultimate last hours
Before your death (with Blanca Luz and an amigo)…

I see the grief upon her youthful face, drunk
With loss, seeking some oblivious place, to hide in
Desolation, despondency, mouth open as if in horror,
Eyes staring, for the haunted hour is near, harrowing
Face, full of disgrace…for being helpless!
She holds hard onto her chair, legs half crossed,
Breathing slowly, she knows soon, what she must endure.

V

Blanca and Juan’s amigo, stood by him the hour
Of his humiliation, yet he did not turn upon them
In the last hours of the night—they in a sad self-
Loathing, Juan, concealing nothing,
He heard Blanca cry, “I am lost. But you are worse!”
Perhaps the dying do not own to their dominance.
But this night, the lights were lowered,
It was the later hour,
And then the lights went out,

then the dissipation of the night passed…

Everybody worn-out, utter destitution
And the two now knew, the world deprived!

VI

Knowing, and having heard, read the bare fact
Of your death, the word lingers in my head--
Death in that haunting room,
Shut tight, from sky and cloud,
Only silent thoughts, cast from
Moment to moment, to illume later on
With those loved ones by your side
...

The hours you and I have now known,
Even though you’ve been dead over eighty-years,
Neither denounces my poem, tribute for you,
Nor pardons, my words, if they offend…
Like you, I have seen the moon’s light, glide
Upon, and over the sea’s tide, and the waves
Lost on the sandy shore, as they recede never
To succumb to them even when the dark has come;
I hope I am strong as you (when my death comes),
Although I cannot promise what I cannot give…

and now to your Surpassed fame, O’dark!
you have turned into light!


Written 12-24-2008 (Morning); Huancayo, Peru, No: 2533
Spanish Version


Spanish Version

Los Días
Por Dr. Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D (Poeta Laureado)
(Tributo a Juan Parra del Riego)

I

Todo el año, sabiendo que estás muerto,
Me he sentado en un sillón con dos cojines,
Mirando por la ventana, estando triste
Con melancolía humana, tratando de revivir
Aquellos días en que viviste tus poesías—
(traduciéndolas, editándolas y seleccionando tus mejores),
Días cuando tu juventud como la mía, sintieron el sol
Llevar ambición, desde la tierra hasta el cielo,
Días siniestros, con inspiración para compartir;
Ahora los vivo, pero siento los tuyos en la muerte.

II

Hoy, es como otro día, supongo
Como tú una vez lo supiste, muerte esperada,
Como yo lo sé ahora. El cielo está nublado,
(Escucho la estremecedora lluvia, las salpicaduras
Mientras los carros pasan, sus motores ruidosos)
Y en la prisa, como un río fuera de curso, ahora
Es el momento cuando el aire
Estando principalmente lleno de vida e imágenes,
Aparece sin vida, sin movimiento, ahora:
Tierra, río y cielo, nos fusionamos, las
Salpicaduras se han ido. Y también mi tristeza.
Todo es ahogado en mi, pero no tú
(por eso puedo escribir este tributo poético)
Mis memorias emergen (con ellos), he encontrado
Los días que tú viviste, la llave a tus poesías:
El armario secreto que escondiste como poeta.

III

Pienso en todo lo que hiciste, cuando viviste
(Es decir, todo lo que escribiste y pudiste escribir
Y hecho antes que la muerte te llevara…desesperación)
Hubo mucha promesa en tus años
Jóvenes—tu reserva entusiasta, el color de las hojas de otoño
En tu cara, inspirando al viento, y bosques
Y al silencio desnudo en los picaflores.

Ninguno tuvo tal promesa entonces, no aún
César Vallejo, o Borges, no aún Yeats,
O Kyats, George Trakl, o Pablo Neruda.
Tu ritmo y rima, encanto astuto,
Modelo y estructura del sonido, verso y medida,
Líneas silábicas acentuadas, todo daban movimiento
Como cristales en la lluvia, cayendo con fuerza y suave…con
Gracia desarmada, si, o si, tú fuiste audaz,
Como Homero, construyendo su caballo de madera
¡Para engañar y luego destruir a Troya!
En la Edad del Simbolismo y Modernismo.

Esto estaba en tu sangre desafortunada ¿cierto?
Esa falla vino sólo porque toda pasión
Estaba siendo quitada a mitad del recorrido ¡Por la muerte!
Tú te redujiste a la nada, pero aún
Escribiste tu poesía, ¡una hora antes de tu muerte!
Tú viviste más allá del sombrío aburrimiento de pesar.
Tú no afligiste a ningún amor, los latidos de tu corazón,
Fueron para Blanca Luz Brum…
Tu muerte lenta, moldeó tu mirada sobre la vida
Había sangre dentro de esa mirada ciega,
Pero esto te hizo uno, te hizo mirar y escribir
Tu poesía en piedra, al final, solo…

IV

Tu poesía te ha sobrevivido, y a esa mirada ciega.
Tu poesía, Parra, ha sobrevivido aquel bote que remaste—
Mucho tiempo atrás, en Montevideo y esta
Sobrevivirá a la pintura colgada en la pared de tu cuarto
Donde te sentaste cerca de una mesa—las últimas horas
Antes de tu muerte (con Blanca Luz y un amigo)…

Veo el dolor en su cara joven, embriagada
Con pérdida, buscando algún lugar tranquilo, para esconderse
En desolación, abatida, boquiabierta como si en horror,
Ojos mirando, porque la hora atribulada está cerca,
Cara desgarradora, llena de desgracia… ¡por ser impotente!
Ella se agarra fuerte de su silla, sus piernas medias cruzadas,
Respirando lentamente, ella sabe pronto, lo que debe de sufrir.

V

Blanca y el amigo de Juan estuvieron cerca de él la hora
De su degradación, aunque él no se volteó hacia ellos
En las últimas horas de la noche—ellos en una triste
Auto aversión, Juan, sin nada que ocultar,
Él oyó gritar a Blanca, “Estoy perdida, pero tú estás peor”
Talvez el moribundo no poseía a sus dominios,
Pero esta noche, las luces estaban bajas,
Era la última hora,
Y luego las luces se apagaron,

entonces la disipación de la noche pasó….

Todos rendidos, en completa penuria
Y los dos ahora supieron, ¡el mundo se privó!

VI

Sabiendo y habiendo oído, leído sobre la verdad desnuda
De tu muerte, la palabra perdura en mi cabeza—
Muerte en ese cuarto tormentoso,
Cerrado fuertemente, desde el cielo y nubes,
Sólo pensamientos silenciosos, echados de
Momento a momento, para iluminar más tarde
Con aquellos seres amados por tu lado
…

Las horas que tú y yo ahora conocemos,
A pesar de que tú estás muerto más de ochenta años,
Ni denuncia mi poema, un tributo para ti,
Ni perdona, mis palabras, si ellas ofenden…
Como tú, he visto la luz de la luna, deslizarse
Encima, y sobre la marea del mar, y las olas
Perdidas en las orillas arenosas, mientras ellas se retiran
Para nunca sucumbir a ellos aun cuando la oscuridad ha llegado;
Espero que yo sea fuerte como tú (cuando mi muerte llegue),
Aunque no puedo prometer lo que no puedo dar…

Y ahora a tu fama superada, ¡oh oscuridad!
¡Tú te has transformado en luz!


Escrito el 24-Dic.-2008 en la mañana, en Huancayo, Perú. Nro. 2533

Poems: Suicide-bomber; Hamas... & Deeper than the Beast

1) Suicide-bomber
((LAHORE, Pakistan)(Terrorism))


They do this clear-eyed, this is their game,
Though the whole world grows sick with fits of it
Such butcheries does man devise for man,
No conscious and no blood in the face.
Thus, out of Hell’s slime they climb
Thinking of Paradise—doing the bidding
For the abyss, a stench upon our days
And ways of life… a sign of the times!


Note: 1-9-2009 (No: 2540)



2) Hamas,
No corsetry, no Defense (war 1-2009)


They took the sword of Mohammad
That shined, and serviced the right
But tarnished now, with bright blood
Of their own kind; from the streets of
Al-Attara, Gaza: planting explosives
To kill, or let be killed their people:
Perversely using civilians as human shields;
Putting snipers in positions in mosques,
All to glorify Allah, and honor their God;
Bombs by gas stations, booby-trapped
Civilian houses, all for show and tell…
To let the world think, they live in Hell.
Forgetting, who’s really the devil!

1-10-2009(No: 2541)

Note: I do believe we look for solutions for war and peace, yes; we like to start them, and win them, and yell peace, when we get tired of them. But war always continues if it serves a purpose; no matter if we want to believe it or not, this ongoing war with Palestine or Hamas, or the PLO, and Israel, it serves a purpose, maybe not yours or mine, but someone’s. And until the price to pay is not worth war, it will continue. On another note, Satan, like God, uses who is usable, and available, thus, we can take it from there.


3) Deeper than the Beast

What monsters of mythological dens are we?
Can we match the horror of the Huns?
Or the Roman Legions?
The heated blood coagulates, makes man insane
Leaps out of his senses, goes furious, as if in an outrage:
By what they do, it would seem to me,
We are deeper than the beast!
And now seek to eat, the reptiles while they sleep.

1-10-2009 (No: 2542) Written in Lima, Peru

Three War Poems: Al-Qaeda's Dark Chiefs, Off the Coast of Somalia & To Vietnam

Al-Qaeda's Dark Chiefs


From gravid dugouts and brooding ramparts,
Blasphemous they wound the lands and minds with death!
They have turned upon the world with cannons’ from Hell,
Until many millions of mother’s eyes are wet!
Ravage they say, even God’s holiness…!
For the gates of Paradise are open now:
Another ruin for their youth on earth,
And ashes they fined, and shall not forget:

Some by the devastation of their guns,
Some by the tempest-shock, of rockets,
And yet some by the slow removal of their children
Thus, the downfall comes, betrayer to their own kind!
But at the inauguration of their credo
The lying words of their Clergy,
Sink their honor and their souls to dust.

(1-8-2009)(No: 2538)




Off the Coast of Somalia


Near all evil that the tongue can name,
Somewhere in the pits wherein we think resides Hell,
Oh! Deep, deep, deep below the crust of the earth
There is a secular abyss called the Coast of Somalia,
A place secular, of human shame:
Here is where the monster ships of the earth sail
And the worms and snakes may find a cell:
They are called the Pirates of the sea
And they capture the ships, for ransom.
But now the pirate hunters have come
(The Russians, Americans, and Chinese)
To eat the fancied devils, where they dwell
And find their honor and thine own the same.

(1-8-2009)(No: 2539)



To Vietnam

The names that time shall turn one’s stomach to recall,
Now polluted in the jungles and waters of Vietnam,
In which, not so long ago, armies worked their dark desires,
And in whose slime each soldier had to crawl,
Today, I remember them all!

(1-8-2009)(No: 2540)