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Poetry Information.... from Heart-Links.com |
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Five PoemsPoems have different cores, or so I believe, and can only be structured well for certain figurative language-heart beats; like all counselors are not made for all clients, so all poems are not made for the same person, or purpose; when we read we all have our likes and dislikes; I do not necessarily know what poetry is per se, but I do know what the greatness of poetry has, and great poetry is close to an illusion?it carries an echo I do believe-figurative yes, at best, and questionable yes, by far. Here are five poems I've recently wrote, all with a different core, focus and style. 1) The Beehive [Poetic cut-ups] [Paper] "USA Today," 75 cents, March 18, 20, 2005: '?it was acceptable in the l980's?as a cup of coffee?what I will not do is participate...to be clear, I have never taken illegal drugs?In my 19 years in the big league?Around the World in 8, days?.McGuire said repeatedly?recent spat of vehicle accidents in Iraq?Rice Reaches Out?Quest for Fame?Jules Verne 100th anniversary?Peterson to San Quentin?Jackson's young guests?Stun guns?' [Sound] In the background of the café-bookstore, I hear the music of Nat King Cole: '?we are not too young to know?' Now I hear trousers hitting legs?Dishes in the dishwasher [café] ?a laugh, I think its Erica behind the café counter?squealing of galoshes?a cough in the background? . [Sight] Three girls went to the counter?lady beside me writing?Michelle came up to my table, talking about her boyfriend?Mark waved goodbye for the day, just left his music area?lady in the front of me whispering?large woman with a thin sport jacket on at the front ordering food, talking to the servers (some food to go I think)? . [Dreams] Voices that let you roam at your will, but to receive the voices one must stop all the echoes, shadows, aggravations-find silence. The subconscious can hear ever operation going on. I am like all warm blooded mammals: we all dream: bats, bears and beasts-like humankind. Dreams are the keys to keeping the heart beat, beating; stop the dreaming, you stop everything. Last night I dreamed of writing this poem. [Epilogue] The mind, the mind, the mind: papers, sounds, sights and dreams-come in and out from all sides of me: day and night, and night and night and day, every which way. From all sides of me, like a movie; computer, filing, filing them all away, "?for what you say?" 2) Old Charlie Edwards Old Charlie Edwards had an office About one and a half miles from town Most cars that came by you'd know why He owned all the real estate In town He never smoked cigarettes Nor drank alcohol He never gambled with his money From what, most folks can recall, during his formative years And until his High School Prom He'd play Monopoly year round And whip everyone Fine, as you may foretell He made his money just that way It was like playing chess, he'd say And he'd never rest, play all day And owned half the town Well, Old Charlie Edwards' Office Was always in the white Until the town's committee Voted to build an interstate Just to spite Old Charlie and his ways Yes, Charlie had to move From that old spot As you may have guessed And thereafter, Charlie sold all His real estate After that, all the towns folks Ran to his office to look around As if he may have left some treasure Laying about But Old Charlie Edwards Simply moved out of town Laughing and Giggling Buying more real estate in St. Paul!? 3) The Last Second Angels come (sometimes) within arms reach but dare not touch the heart's beat; beyond its sacred melody? for your sake!... 4) Sid M. [l966] Long forgotten is my friend Forty-year ago this spring- He died when he was twenty, And I was but nineteen. I see us in our High School Halls, With boyish hopes and dreams; His face was always high-brow But he never looked down on me. To him who died so very young, And now, so very long ago? In memory, unsought, I say: I have never forgotten you! 5) The Scent of Paris Calm as a Paris?river's afternoon Warm in the month of June And filled with spirits, crimson people, Pervaded with a scent that could lead One's illusional dreams-to be! A ghoul's cologne haunts my hands As I glimpse the bridges: land to land As I touch the hidden flutes of memory The scent of Paris-comes back to me. About the author: Mr. Siluk is a world traveler, a lover of the mysteries around the world, and has visit many World Heritage Sites, his most recent being Easter Island, the Galapagos and Mesa Verde. His books can be seen on/at Barns and Noble.com, Amazon.com, Wal-Mart, Abe.com Alibis, Boarders and several other sites and book stores. Many of his books can be purchased through the English Bookdealers. He spends his time between Lima, Peru and St. Paul, Minnesota, and has just finished working on two new books: "The Macabre Poems," and "Perhaps it's Love," and continues to work on "Curse of the Abyss Worm," a suspenseful mystery, and "Cold Kindness," a tragic love affair.
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Poetry - Google News | | | | RELATED ARTICLES Four Poems: Grendels Nature...the Racetrack...Counting days...[Now in English and Spanish] English Version1) Grendel's DivorceYou must know that I do not hateAnd that I hate you, Because everything dead has twoSides; A sound is one arm of the quiet, Ice has its warm half.I hate you in order to start hating you To begin life again And never to stop hating you: That is why I do not hate you yet. Bleed now is not the time to open open that great door again not the time to be more tolerant not the time to play to winnow is not the time for justice evolution mercy choices not the time to pet the puppies yipping with pathetic voicesnow is not the time for kindness not the time for compromise not the time for loving blindness not the time to close my eyesnow for one too many people not that i have gained no good heart has sown but flesh is reaping tears to mind and wasted bloodnow my inner wolf seeks equals only those whose chords can howl deadly whether lone or social defending young or on the prowltell me not that you would die upon the spines of my displeasure live for me and for you will i cherish each cell as if a treasureput me not inside a cage but roam with me through snow and sun be by my side or breathe my dust for i shall bleed again for noneNiki Lasher Artist, Writer, and Webmatron http://www.kthulah. Two Poems and a Short Story 1)dying in the bar [sluggishly]yet, I would crawl too upto the bar, it was everything, the dampness the carved wood the zoned-out-ness in my head dreaming; it was better than death? then I took another drink?so many I never moved much, like dead fish. my head split like an ass it was numb and, nothing else numbness was my homeacross the street, dancing on the patio the moon was out. The Crusader: A Search for the Virtue Inside (an excerpt of an Epic Poem) On through the darkness she searches the bones Seeking the hand of her love; Deep in the stillness, the maid searches on, Petitioning help from above. Onward she gropes through the flesh and the blood Of the warriors disfigured and maimed; She carries no hope for the life of her love - For naught but his body she came. A Ship to Remember Hammers. Timbers. The Man Who Could Not Say Sorry For His Sins Sorry would be a start.Though you cant take back your mistakes, and you cant unravel time, you'd think there would be remorse, for such a self serving crime, to send others out to die, to pay the blood price you have decreed, when its purely posturing and posing, all about vanity and greed, to secure a perceived niche in history, glowing down the years, is the extent of your ambition, is the puny limit of your fears, when those you have sent to die, believing implicitly in you, leave relatives behind who see, that nothing you said was true, there is no thought now for those, whose number you dont count, they are yesterdays forgotten, though daily they still mount, no thought of resignation, no apology to those left behind, just onward with the ego, fast forward from those times, as if nothing ever happened, as if your lies are quite ok, as if now is what to focus on, and then was another day, lost back in the mists of time, obscured by clouds half seen, not an affront to the living, not impeachable and obscene, you may want to move on now, and ignore your past infamy, but you should be tried for treason, and jailed for blasphemy. Lamenting Poetic Moods [six Poems] Advance: in Mr. Siluk's poetry one finds symbolist values, sensuous impressions; verbal magic and even childish jingles; at times the popular 8-syllable verse (ballad metre). Spell of the Andes: (in English and Spanish) Note: written 4-15-05, while driving through the Andes of Peru, from Huancayo to Lima. I sensed I was but an ant, among the mass of stone, earth and foliage of this enchanting, and enduring landscape. Eight Poems Out of the eight poems provided here [all previously unpublished], four are Poetic Prose, a few Visionary [what I call Vsionary anyhow], a few Free Verse, and a few with more form and structure, more closely to the Auden style of: stanza, metrical rhythm, and rhyme. In saying that, I do believe all the poems are conveying a rich network of meaning, some of them painfully close bond between pleasure and destruction. Shakespeares Sonnet XVIII, Shall I Compare Thee to a Summers Day? Shakespeare's sonnets require time and effort to appreciate. Understanding the numerous meanings of the lines, the crisply made references, the brilliance of the images, and the complexity of the sound, rhythm and structure of the verse demands attention and experience. Mechanical Poetry; Part Two What do you do when you want to write poetry? I hope your answer is "I start writing." Even writing a bad poem is better than waiting for the "right words. Testimony to the Night [In English and Spanish] In the quiet of the arctic night- In its deep northern skies, Dim are the lights, in its coldEvening frost?! Even the stars of the arctic Seem silently stone frozen!Here, here is where you find Peace and the beast within-! Remote, no ears or wordsTo clutter the mind To entrench the throat; Here, here is where you die?(for a moment).Here, the sky has eternal eyes Eyes with cosmic tides Tides that never rest: they warWith the Universe- Likened to a dark deep abyss; Endless and never resting?Here my eyes seek and search In countless hours, ebbing and Sweeping the heavens aboveNumbing, changeless- Are the cosmos, the heavens? Here resides a strange peace?Here, resides a strange peace With an army of stars to defeat Shinning, silently in the darkThe ebbing, eldritch dark; Time has no relevance here, Here, resides a strange, peace?Cold and oddly numb are my feet, As I look up, upon the many bridges One star bridging the next-as if,If Kings and Queens were Guarding them-the Hosts- O-Yes! A strange, strange peace?Ah! Praise, praise be to thee, to thee Flaming, blazing firmaments-ye, Ye, remind me not, of the wars I left,Of the foes, divine immortals?The enemies that never rest Ah! Praise, praise be to thee, to theeI hear music, harmony from afar (there) There are storms hidden in a storehouse, For tomorrow-war beyond, beyondOrion's dust?perpetual dust; There, there the sun is dim to bleak. Review Of Stephen B. Wileys First Book Of Poetry: HERO ISLAND Poet Stephen B. Wiley's first book of poetry, Hero Island, reflects tender snapshots and reminiscent overviews of various stages of his life as a youngster working on a farm in New Jersey, summer vacations spent with his family in Northern Vermont, and his positive stance on life. Looking Out the Rear Window The funeral rite concluded With the pastor shaking hands, Offering words of comfort I didn't quite understand.The undertakers came forth And summoned pallbearers' four. Superman So many looked to you for inspiration,Unlikely hero for the wheelchair nation.Proudly you fought and proudly you believed,Everyone loved you Christopher Reeve. Ole Bulky Jeeps & Paper, Ink and Rain [two Peoms] Ole Bulky JeepsThrough late summer's heat These bulky shaped jeeps Ride by house and farm City and barn-Hungry for Spring-again, hoping to avoid The Slipping and sliding Of winter's ice and wind?[s]Their weighty legs are dirty From moving dust and rain (Here and there, everywhere) Through all kinds of terrain Like moving clouds caught In the foliage of the woods? They never slow down a ting They have a duty, and give.It's part of how they live- In military-, bulky ole jeeps!. Tale of the: Old Hunter and the Golden Hare [In SPANISH and English now] There once lived an old man and his goodwife On the edge of the thick of the woods; They lived in an old run-down shack For forty-years and some. The old man hunted for his living, And his wife sewed on her lap. Since Youve Been Gone... My life has changedin so so many waysIt seems to always bein a state of disarray.. Shaking out the Rugs [Following the Poet] Let's follow the poet to his Hell and heaven! Count his Ghosts and dilemma's?Reach out to touch his Stretched-out skies; let's follow The poet to see where he lays.Let's follow the poet to his end; To see if he can?whatever He wants to do, do over again?. Famous Poets Quotations - Top 30 Poetry Quotations by Famous Poets "For this reason poetry is something more philosophical and more worthy of serious attention than history."-- Aristotle"Every American poet feels that the whole responsibility for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary aristocracy of one. |
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