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!...
#972 12/18/05
Inspired by, and Dedicated to the Poet Richard L. Tierney, and his poet friends from Arkham House
Imaginative Poetry (a commentary)
It is not my nature to tell people how to write poetry, or try to teach them how to, what is right or wrong. I simply feel for the beginner who wants to write, just read it to enjoy, throw away what you don’t like, make life simply, and then write; and when you’ve learned how to enjoy it, study it, then write some more. Like learning how to operate a computer, play with it for six weeks or so, then get some lessons if you wish.
Having said that, I want to share my view, or opinion, and that is all it is, an opinion, on some poetry, I call it digging into it, and some may say it is less or more, it doesn’t matter to me, I’m not trying to impress.
Does a cloud need a reason to pass over your lawn? I mean, does it need a voice, or a plot, or insight, or theme, or for that matter, does it need socialistic,or humanistic roots, to pass over. No, I don’t think so, and neither does imaginative poetry. Sometimes I like what I call, uninhibited poetry [unregulated], something like Plath’s I suppose. But I always like effect, have an effect on, influence. That is the main ingredients—effect=result. How you get it is another story. I feel imaginative power is similar to the cloud theory, and can supersede all those socialistic views I mentioned about. Adjectives are wild in making the imagination create power in a poem.
Some folks have asked: what my style is. If you read my poetry, you might conclude to different opinions, but I don’t think I have one; I do have moods though. And if there is a system in moods, then it is the mood-system I adopted. It is easy for someone to say, he has good or bad poetry. Write it and see who reads it. The ones who have read some of my poetry, have studied it to a t and doting of the i’s, and coma and back again to the meaning of every word, only to write: this is not right, or this and that.
I don’t have time in life to write them personally, so be it, thanks for taking the time to evaluate, they must have felt it worth their time, and if anyone who is willing to give a bad or good poet time, he has influenced them in some way or another—and that is called effect. This is simply saying, do not, not write poetry because you feel you can’t write it. If you can sing, you can write poetry, and everybody can sing, some not as well as others, but the longer you sing, the more your voice will find the way to make the tunes better.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Messiah
The Messiah
Advance notes: The Messiah original was published in the books, “On the Threshold of a Dream,” First Edition, 1988 (from the National Library of Poetry). The Messiah was also published in the book “Sirens” by the Dennis L. Siluk, 2004. And thus far has won two International awards (Editors’ Choice Award for 1988)) it was one of the 135-pome3s out of over 10,000 to be so honored.)) It graphic imagery must be felt, it is beyond description.
In addition to this poem being one of the author’s most favored, it has provoked the most controversy in the past. Written in November, of 1987, the controversy stared at once; some of the controversy was between Minnesota Christian Churches, but after reviewing it closer, and asking how the author got the descriptiveness within the poem, and his answer being “In a vision (1983),” the controversy stopped (right after the vision, the author had written down the panorama of the picture he kept in his mind). Thus the author simply tried—to the best ability—to describe the scene. The author also had stated at the time, “It was so bad I almost started vomiting and had to ask the Lord to stopped the scene, at which time He did.” #115 (11/1987)
(The poem: The Messiah)
Like pelts stretched from side-to side
On a wooden cross, undressed, alive—
The Messiah hung, like a wild beast:
Uncouth, uncrowned, no dignity.
De-boned—like fish—His body hung;
Lifeless, deformed: —in silent pain.
Dried blood upon His ransomed face,
Eyes decaying, hardly seen:
Pours hemorrhaging with a gloss of sweat—
Skin like mounds of inflamed tar
[like boils reflecting off dark shaded ice]
Deep distress around His soot-covered veins,
A mixture of Saliva, Dirt and shame;—
Ugly as sin, beyond recognition
[like open incisions of an autopsy].
Acquainted with grief, yes, oh Yes!
As the prophets foretold, long ago.
A new scene, we became redeemed!!
Spanish Version
(El Poema: El Mesías)
Como pieles estiradas de lado a—lado
Sobre una cruz de madera, desnudo, vivo—
El Mesías colgado, como una fiera:
Grosero, destronado, sin dignidad.
Deshuesado—como pescado—Su cuerpo colgado;
Sin vida, deforme: —en dolor silencioso.
Sangre seca sobre Su cara rescatada,
Ojos descompuestos, apenas vistos:
Vierten hemorragia con un lustre de sudor—
Piel como los montones de alquitrán inflamado
[como furúnculos relejando la sombra oscura del hielo]
Profunda angustia (dolor) alrededor de Sus venas cubiertas por hollín,
Una mezcla de Saliva, Suciedad y vergüenza; —
Feo como el pecado, más allá de reconocimiento
[como incisiones abiertas de una autopsia].
¡Enterado con pena, sí, oh Si!
Como los profetas pronosticaron, hace mucho.
¡¡Una nueva escena, nos hicimos redimidos!!
Advance notes: The Messiah original was published in the books, “On the Threshold of a Dream,” First Edition, 1988 (from the National Library of Poetry). The Messiah was also published in the book “Sirens” by the Dennis L. Siluk, 2004. And thus far has won two International awards (Editors’ Choice Award for 1988)) it was one of the 135-pome3s out of over 10,000 to be so honored.)) It graphic imagery must be felt, it is beyond description.
In addition to this poem being one of the author’s most favored, it has provoked the most controversy in the past. Written in November, of 1987, the controversy stared at once; some of the controversy was between Minnesota Christian Churches, but after reviewing it closer, and asking how the author got the descriptiveness within the poem, and his answer being “In a vision (1983),” the controversy stopped (right after the vision, the author had written down the panorama of the picture he kept in his mind). Thus the author simply tried—to the best ability—to describe the scene. The author also had stated at the time, “It was so bad I almost started vomiting and had to ask the Lord to stopped the scene, at which time He did.” #115 (11/1987)
(The poem: The Messiah)
Like pelts stretched from side-to side
On a wooden cross, undressed, alive—
The Messiah hung, like a wild beast:
Uncouth, uncrowned, no dignity.
De-boned—like fish—His body hung;
Lifeless, deformed: —in silent pain.
Dried blood upon His ransomed face,
Eyes decaying, hardly seen:
Pours hemorrhaging with a gloss of sweat—
Skin like mounds of inflamed tar
[like boils reflecting off dark shaded ice]
Deep distress around His soot-covered veins,
A mixture of Saliva, Dirt and shame;—
Ugly as sin, beyond recognition
[like open incisions of an autopsy].
Acquainted with grief, yes, oh Yes!
As the prophets foretold, long ago.
A new scene, we became redeemed!!
Spanish Version
(El Poema: El Mesías)
Como pieles estiradas de lado a—lado
Sobre una cruz de madera, desnudo, vivo—
El Mesías colgado, como una fiera:
Grosero, destronado, sin dignidad.
Deshuesado—como pescado—Su cuerpo colgado;
Sin vida, deforme: —en dolor silencioso.
Sangre seca sobre Su cara rescatada,
Ojos descompuestos, apenas vistos:
Vierten hemorragia con un lustre de sudor—
Piel como los montones de alquitrán inflamado
[como furúnculos relejando la sombra oscura del hielo]
Profunda angustia (dolor) alrededor de Sus venas cubiertas por hollín,
Una mezcla de Saliva, Suciedad y vergüenza; —
Feo como el pecado, más allá de reconocimiento
[como incisiones abiertas de una autopsia].
¡Enterado con pena, sí, oh Si!
Como los profetas pronosticaron, hace mucho.
¡¡Una nueva escena, nos hicimos redimidos!!
Pigeons at La Favorita Cafe
Faintly, a scene of effects unfolds, awakens the eyes
And is soon forgotten, as it dies: the pigeons prance
Around parked cars, by the Café Favorita’s tables
in Lima, Peru!
Then they take off in flight, some remain, and prance under cars,
Out of sight: as they move in and out (the café is boarding
the street in Miraflores).
They prance, prance: pecking at crumbs on the ground,
Slowly winged, unhastening (as zooming cars pass by).
I watch these pigeons melt into the scene
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Rimac Rio
I sometimes wonder, if you are for real (My River);
I see you are worried and frightened.
I am sure,
neither one of us have anything to fear
but the element of time:
some call this death, death, death!…
Yet you river, coy as you may seem,
go on, and on, and on (strangely):
seemingly, without change….
I’ve noticed you’ve been suspicious of
many things,
especially me—.
In this respect, I have been watching thy.
I have been viewing the world,
and everyone’s havoc and fainted smiles,
on everyone’s lips….
“Well,” I said, “they have over looked me;
but I am nothing anybody would wish.”
This
little game they and I, I and you play…
play, is almost laughable, as we both hide
from the truth, or at least
dare not acknowledge it.
I suppose, —I suppose,
I am glad I have nothing of value
other than my life.
And have you for my tranquility;
yet, I have learned:
no matter how often a man’s soul is
tranquil, Calm. serene:
a culprit will be hiding in the valley
thus, make no mistake…;
pride comes before destruction
yet still, none will
bow their knees…
it is the beast within thee… !
I feel like a stranger
in a world of strange beings,
all of us thrown together
in some kind of fading mystery.
The moment occupies but an once
of time…we, we, we are…
are all preoccupied, obsessed with time…
time, time, a rivers rhyme;
I see even the river bleeds helplessly,
that is perhaps, a weakness it
does not wish for me to see.
The river just gave me one of its
most terrible looks—;
it summons me, as if I was on its hook.
“Undress and come in,” it says;
then, “shut up, get dressed!”
It is confused like so many of us;
it is fabricating something.
“I don’t know what you are talking
about,” I say to the river.
“Treason,” it replies: barks back at me.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,”
I say, almost plead.
But the river does not bend, kneel for
anybody.
I leap to my feet and the waves of the
river grab me… seize me: several hands
around me….
“Take him underneath the water,
drawn him,” I hear the Rimac say, then
comes the words: “a spy, spy, spy..!”
but I think: I have nothing, nothing
But my life!…
I figured, this was the end to it all:
Time…as I know it to be (and it soon will be).
But I have learned you must trust somebody,
it’s simply healthy; for the river, well,
it will find somebody more suitable than I, I
suppose; and in time, it will also die: why?
The river can no longer tell the wolf from the
sheep; it only sees mans greed.
I see you are worried and frightened.
I am sure,
neither one of us have anything to fear
but the element of time:
some call this death, death, death!…
Yet you river, coy as you may seem,
go on, and on, and on (strangely):
seemingly, without change….
I’ve noticed you’ve been suspicious of
many things,
especially me—.
In this respect, I have been watching thy.
I have been viewing the world,
and everyone’s havoc and fainted smiles,
on everyone’s lips….
“Well,” I said, “they have over looked me;
but I am nothing anybody would wish.”
This
little game they and I, I and you play…
play, is almost laughable, as we both hide
from the truth, or at least
dare not acknowledge it.
I suppose, —I suppose,
I am glad I have nothing of value
other than my life.
And have you for my tranquility;
yet, I have learned:
no matter how often a man’s soul is
tranquil, Calm. serene:
a culprit will be hiding in the valley
thus, make no mistake…;
pride comes before destruction
yet still, none will
bow their knees…
it is the beast within thee… !
I feel like a stranger
in a world of strange beings,
all of us thrown together
in some kind of fading mystery.
The moment occupies but an once
of time…we, we, we are…
are all preoccupied, obsessed with time…
time, time, a rivers rhyme;
I see even the river bleeds helplessly,
that is perhaps, a weakness it
does not wish for me to see.
The river just gave me one of its
most terrible looks—;
it summons me, as if I was on its hook.
“Undress and come in,” it says;
then, “shut up, get dressed!”
It is confused like so many of us;
it is fabricating something.
“I don’t know what you are talking
about,” I say to the river.
“Treason,” it replies: barks back at me.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,”
I say, almost plead.
But the river does not bend, kneel for
anybody.
I leap to my feet and the waves of the
river grab me… seize me: several hands
around me….
“Take him underneath the water,
drawn him,” I hear the Rimac say, then
comes the words: “a spy, spy, spy..!”
but I think: I have nothing, nothing
But my life!…
I figured, this was the end to it all:
Time…as I know it to be (and it soon will be).
But I have learned you must trust somebody,
it’s simply healthy; for the river, well,
it will find somebody more suitable than I, I
suppose; and in time, it will also die: why?
The river can no longer tell the wolf from the
sheep; it only sees mans greed.
My First Published Poem
The good news is that you don't have to spend many years studying the craft (although it does help); you don't have to go to some fancy school or listen to some college professor babble on and on. We are going to tell you right now, right here how anyone -that's right, even you- can learn to write the sweetest, most inspiring love poetry ever.
I am sometimes reminded of the first "real" poem I ever wrote. I was nine years old and it went something like this:
One last little rose
How lonely you must be
One last little rose
What will become of thee
All alone, All alone
So sad you must be
Little rose, little rose
Won't you come and visit me?
As you can tell, I was still learning a lot about poetry. And even though it may not be the best poem ever, it has some great potential. I think one reason people seem to like it even today is because while it may have been written by a child, it has rhythm and it has rhyme. It has almost a sing-song feel to it and it rolls off the tongue. This is a very important thing in poetry.
I will talk more about rhyme and rhythm later and every poem does not have to rhyme but there should be a rhythm and flow to it. Another thing that was good about this simple little poem is that it has feeling. There are so many different things that go into writing poetry - especially love poetry, to really make it good.
I am sometimes reminded of the first "real" poem I ever wrote. I was nine years old and it went something like this:
One last little rose
How lonely you must be
One last little rose
What will become of thee
All alone, All alone
So sad you must be
Little rose, little rose
Won't you come and visit me?
As you can tell, I was still learning a lot about poetry. And even though it may not be the best poem ever, it has some great potential. I think one reason people seem to like it even today is because while it may have been written by a child, it has rhythm and it has rhyme. It has almost a sing-song feel to it and it rolls off the tongue. This is a very important thing in poetry.
I will talk more about rhyme and rhythm later and every poem does not have to rhyme but there should be a rhythm and flow to it. Another thing that was good about this simple little poem is that it has feeling. There are so many different things that go into writing poetry - especially love poetry, to really make it good.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Minnesota Winter Crows
Minnesota Winter Crows
[A Minnesota Poem] in Haiku form
The long, long wave of winter
Creeps, slowly creeps back
From where it came from
It had burst around us, this
This Merry spell—died
It has not, not yet…
But lifted its gray, bleak clouds—
It most surely has!
Less lovely…yes, perhaps;
Then comes early spring: crows
In their bleak, black—flight
Looking feverish…!
Notes: here is a four stanza Haiku, on the ending of winter in Minnesota, in 2007. Minnesota is known for its winters going out like a lion, and so it has proven so in the month of March, of 2007, when this poem was written. It would seem winter would simply stop, and spring would come in, but it never happens that way. Even the crows have a period of time to readjust to the new season, for the winter has helped them grow thin and lean, and has helped the humans in Minnesota to grow fat, because they hibernate in the house somewhat. Then in spring the crows grow fat, and the humans start growing lean, they get out of the house as soon as possible—and then there is no end to their activities.
Commentary on Winter Storms: Winter storms are simply a part of the culture, a fact of life, or so it would seem in Minnesota; I was born there, in St. Paul, and have witnessed many of them. Severe winter storms go back as far as weather reporting goes, to perhaps, Nov 10, 1835, when a severe storm caused 19shipwrecks on Great Lakes, 254 sailor’s died´. And then on Nov 8, 1870 the first winter storm warning was issued by the U.S. Army Signal Corps. On March 14-15, 1941 terrible blizzard in western counties, 85-mph winds at Grand Forks, 75 mph winds at Duluth. In 1996, we had three blizzards, and in 1997, we had five blizzards. The total seasonal snow fall, is between 90 and 120 inches.
[A Minnesota Poem] in Haiku form
The long, long wave of winter
Creeps, slowly creeps back
From where it came from
It had burst around us, this
This Merry spell—died
It has not, not yet…
But lifted its gray, bleak clouds—
It most surely has!
Less lovely…yes, perhaps;
Then comes early spring: crows
In their bleak, black—flight
Looking feverish…!
Notes: here is a four stanza Haiku, on the ending of winter in Minnesota, in 2007. Minnesota is known for its winters going out like a lion, and so it has proven so in the month of March, of 2007, when this poem was written. It would seem winter would simply stop, and spring would come in, but it never happens that way. Even the crows have a period of time to readjust to the new season, for the winter has helped them grow thin and lean, and has helped the humans in Minnesota to grow fat, because they hibernate in the house somewhat. Then in spring the crows grow fat, and the humans start growing lean, they get out of the house as soon as possible—and then there is no end to their activities.
Commentary on Winter Storms: Winter storms are simply a part of the culture, a fact of life, or so it would seem in Minnesota; I was born there, in St. Paul, and have witnessed many of them. Severe winter storms go back as far as weather reporting goes, to perhaps, Nov 10, 1835, when a severe storm caused 19shipwrecks on Great Lakes, 254 sailor’s died´. And then on Nov 8, 1870 the first winter storm warning was issued by the U.S. Army Signal Corps. On March 14-15, 1941 terrible blizzard in western counties, 85-mph winds at Grand Forks, 75 mph winds at Duluth. In 1996, we had three blizzards, and in 1997, we had five blizzards. The total seasonal snow fall, is between 90 and 120 inches.
Abu Laith al-Libi and Obama vs Hillary
Abu Laith al-Libi
Poetic Epitaph
Saddam's been waiting I hear, down there
down younger in the netherworld, waiting
for you Abu Laith, planning a big bash, with
lots of whores, booze and cash.
They say you worked hard for Allah, up
here, on earth, killing and robbing,
rapping and all sorts of nasty things...
things that would make a persons ears
ring, all in the name of Allah!
Now it's simply, a gravy train, all you
got to do, is find Allah, before the
devil-for it seems to me, He's also
been waiting for you.
#2201 1-31-2008
Obama vs. Hillary
And EK?
Obama, is somehow in a high because Sen. Edward Kennedy has put his arm around his shoulder, as if he was an Uncle Tom.
I do not know Obama that well, as far as a political person, or his views, but I do know Edward, and I'd not allow his hands over my shoulder when the camera was looking, Edward is what I would call, a cold blooded scavenger. Remember the book, "Dark Waters," by Joyce Otis... here is a guy when the chips get down, runs to a hole in the ground and like an ostrich, hides his head, hoping no one saw what he did, or have we all forgot he was responsible for the death of a young woman not so long ago. It is like having O.J. indorsing me for an honorary PH.D, forget it. I will not be surprised if this psychologically, penetrates in time, his parade of black followers, to shift to Hillary. People change alliances as fast as they change jelly for toast. Beware, there is no sacred ground, around the Kennedy family anymore, Camelot is empty.
Poetic Epitaph
Saddam's been waiting I hear, down there
down younger in the netherworld, waiting
for you Abu Laith, planning a big bash, with
lots of whores, booze and cash.
They say you worked hard for Allah, up
here, on earth, killing and robbing,
rapping and all sorts of nasty things...
things that would make a persons ears
ring, all in the name of Allah!
Now it's simply, a gravy train, all you
got to do, is find Allah, before the
devil-for it seems to me, He's also
been waiting for you.
#2201 1-31-2008
Obama vs. Hillary
And EK?
Obama, is somehow in a high because Sen. Edward Kennedy has put his arm around his shoulder, as if he was an Uncle Tom.
I do not know Obama that well, as far as a political person, or his views, but I do know Edward, and I'd not allow his hands over my shoulder when the camera was looking, Edward is what I would call, a cold blooded scavenger. Remember the book, "Dark Waters," by Joyce Otis... here is a guy when the chips get down, runs to a hole in the ground and like an ostrich, hides his head, hoping no one saw what he did, or have we all forgot he was responsible for the death of a young woman not so long ago. It is like having O.J. indorsing me for an honorary PH.D, forget it. I will not be surprised if this psychologically, penetrates in time, his parade of black followers, to shift to Hillary. People change alliances as fast as they change jelly for toast. Beware, there is no sacred ground, around the Kennedy family anymore, Camelot is empty.
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