Minnesota Poems [in English & Spanish] By Dennis L. Siluk

Here are a few dozen poems, all centered on Minnesota, Dennis' original place of origin. see site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Friday, February 23, 2007

Angel or White Shadow (Surr'el))Minnesota, Poetry))

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 2-18-2007

Note: the poem speaks for its self I suppose, but I did want to point out, the happening, where I had a stroke, and heart attack, and was not suppose to make it, and fooled everyone, was at the VA Hospital, in St. Paul/Minneopoles, Minneosta, in 1993, May 5. And every morning I'd wake up and see the doctor there, and when I had asked his name, they said "Which one," and said he does not come around until noon with two other doctors, and a nurse (I saw him about 5 AM each morning just standing there, solid as stone, white jacket, big and broad). I asked: "Then who was at the end of my bed these past tree days?" They said, "No one." Well, you can say what you want, but when you see it for yourself, no one can tell you different. Especially when they said I was at one point, like a Fruitcake, dead in the brain. So I think I owe my angel one poem, for those were three trying days. I remember slightly, trying to use the phone, and I couldn´t figure out the numbers for the life of me; even forgot how to play the guitar, and I had been playing it for 30-years at the time. I relearned quickly, and was the miricale of the ward. My brother Mike was there for me, and my mother was having every church in the City pray for me, bless her soul. And I have written poems for both of them, but now for the angel.

Night Song (confessional poetry))Minnesota))

Night Song (confessional poetry)

Anger set in her going, like an over would watch
As the hospital tried to hide me
From my unwed mother’s arms
(in 1947)—
And then I took my place among
The corrupt world.

There were no bands or relatives
Upon my arrive, I
Was just simple, and naked
Looking blindly at the walls;
Now in my mothers arms
Held tightly as the nurses frowned.


Note: #1610 (1-15-2007). One child had died that night in the hospital, on October 7, 1947, at St. Josephs Hospital, in St. Paul, Minnesota; hence, I was almost fed to a new family, had my mother fallen to sleep up a few minutes more.

Non-Virtue (A Minnesota sketch from a summers day)

Non-Virtue
(A sketch—From the summer of 1960))
Dedicated to Mike Siluk))


“Hurry up, come here!” He said.
My brother, Mike, was smoking in the backyard underneath some bushes afraid mother would see him, thus hiding somewhat, and he spotted me, or I him, I can’t remember fully who got the first glance, but we were seeing eye to eye now, so I leaned down and got closer to those bushes, and sure enough it was Mike, smoking a cigarette, if I had any doubts before, I had none now.
He was shifting that cigarette like car gears, between his mouth and hand, and back again. Perhaps that is where he got his name later, “Gunner,”
I couldn’t say for sure, but I think he used to gun his cars, you know, accelerate it like puffing on a cigarette to get more juice out of it, before the big bang, before the car took off. I suppose it made it all that much more pleasurable.
The pantry was part of the kitchen, connecting anyhow, to one another, and mother would walk back and forth, she could see through the pantry window, the whole backyard, and that is why Mike singled with his hands, motioned that is (to me), to join him in his little crime scene. Ah, I was not wise back then, as you will see in a moment.
“All right,” he said, “take it quick,” as if that those were my initial intentions. I was not there to start a smoking habit, that would last twenty-years, but he slid the cigarette into my right hand, as if it belonged there. Teenager to teenager, a mutual crime was now born. At this point I was already saying to myself, ‘What am I doing,’ but I kept it in my hand, and slowly brought it to my mouth.
“All right,” he said smiling. He really didn’t need to say another word, I got the picture but he said something on this order: we are equally involved. And so I perhaps learned my first lesson in self-survival, or was it self-interest. If he was evil, it was I now, because my innocence was really simply waiting to be tested under fire, so it would have happened down the road of life I suppose, somewhere, had he not triggered my so called evil side. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame him, under the circumstances, as Mark Twain once said, and I learned that phrase of his, way too late in life, “A virtue is not a virtue until tested under fire.” I didn’t do very well, did I?

So what did I learn, and what is the premise of this little sketch? Perhaps, we can call it a virtue, or a good quality one has is really a non-virtue, until tested under fire, and usually we don’t even know it.


(Humor) 1/16/2007

Grandpa: the Ole Russian Bear (Minnesota Poetry)

Grandpa: the Ole Russian Bear (Minnesota Poetry)
(Back in the mid-‘60s; St. Paul, Minnesota)


Who was he? I kind of misplaced him when I was young, his rustic voice, broken English, but now and then it comes back to me (the Ole Russian Bear, grandpa). He was kind in his own rude way…funny, but that’s how I remember him; my brother, mother and I, all together on Cayuga Street, in the late 50s and 60s…!

Who was he? I kind of miss him now, the Ole Russian Bear; he cursed a lot, I recall, to whom ever got in his way, in those old, far off days—but now, now that I think of it, he was what he was, the sole voice that stood above the house, perhaps feeling un-thanked, who knows.

Yes indeed, the catalyst of over lives he was, perhaps a tinge of destiny he planted here and there: he counted his money, like honey, and paid the taxes, tradesmen, and utilities, I guess I didn’t notice or care.

A man of a few words, little style, but his presence was huge, manners sedate, faithful as I look back, more so than that old black wooden mantel clock, that sat on top of the dresser, more faithful than most wives.

1/21/2007 (#1628)

An Old Error! (Confessional Poetry)

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 this
And it came to mind ‘one,’ once
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, one that reminds me in the 1980s; while in Minnesota, 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.

Poetic Profile (D.L. Siluk)

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

Three Minnesota Poems: Haiku for MN Winter; MN's Winer Rose & Waiting for Autumn

Haiku for Minnesota Winter

Its mid winter
I wonder how they’re doing
In Minnesota.

#1649


Minnesota’s Winter Rose

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

#1676 2-5-2006

Waiting for Autumn

I was born in Autumn, and will perhaps die in Autumn
(Born in autumn I say, born in autumn, autumn
in Minnesota; thus, come forth with me,
O autumn—a peasant’s fondness, the hour is near).
Why do I long for you ((autumn)), become lost in your leaves?
I can see the rain on your roses, O thou inexorable time
Who passes the soul, the soundless soul—like snow?
I love your shadows bony thin, as the winds gather appearance,
It is autumn of the next year, and I stand alone—waiting
I love thee! I weep; embrace her, her chilled face,
Her sweet breath, known only to the air, crystal at the mouth.
She has a veil, mystery goddess, hast thou seen me!
Promise’s to come again she does, with her thine eyes
but I understand, you must leave for paradise!
To return in another year; yet my unhappy soul, drifts into
a darker world—Thou lovest me? But cannot stay!
With fringing flames, ye are fled! Holy whispers die, fade
Yet murmurs to my heart remain, I did not wish it!
but they remain,--ah! Far beyond these hours! She
Remains captive for a time, time and circumstance, will
I see you again?
Perhaps, if doom does not become my destiny! —come
forth with me, our far adventure waits…!
Should I not somewhat slay thee? If I could I would, then
you hath not me, or need of me to wait for thee!
It little matters which way I go, I drowest in gratification
That I have met you with a peaceful heart.
I was born in Autumn, for autumn, and will perhaps
die in Autumn;
Sorrow or joy, it little matters which comes, as long as
Autumn remains, her fiery-colored wings, to laugh
With me, as we hear the trumpets of God in the wind.

#1691 2-17-2007

The Old Camera (A Minnesota Poem))Cayuga Street Gang))

The Old Camera
(A tribute to old times)

Sometimes I feel
(looking at that old picture
from that old camera—back in ‘58)
feel I’m still that eleven-year old boy
in Como Park (St. Paul, Minnesota)
standing in the sun
with my pal, Mike Rossert
(like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer)
smiling—proud as can be
(over nothing)) just life))
arm around his shoulder
(his around mine)) now 59)).
I suppose there wasn’t a care in the world
(just loose time, romping time—).
That old camera (1840s)
caught it all:
life was so simple
it was a ball…!

#1632 1-29-2007

Note: Dedicated to Mike Rossert. Mike and I roamed St. Paul as kids, between 1956, perhaps to 1959; but we remained friends until I was perhaps 15-years old, then we both lost track of each other. He was perhaps my first real friend, I mean, one I spent any quality time with. We’d roam the banks of the Mississippi River, and wake up the bombs in the caves thereabouts. We run and explore the tunnels under the streets of St. Paul, Minnesota, that went from the Capitol to the Historical Society, and to other such places. And to the top of the hill where the museum used to be, and of course out to Como Park; we’d also run in and out of the elevators downtown, like clowns. I think he was more daring than I but it was—nonetheless, unforgettable times, times that are worth looking to back; thus, it is prudent I do believe, to let ones kids explore the wonders of youth, it is only around for a clap of an eye, than lost to oblivion, unless you can capture it, in a poem.

The Shameless Summer (Cayuga Street, St. Paul, MN)

The Shameless Summer
(And the old mud hole of Cayuga Street)

The street-road was being torn up, to be a highway,
A number of men worked at the end of the street
Where there reside two dead ends, South to Indians
Mound (and ahead)
We all stooped over and under and around the bridge
they were building
The mud hole, where we swam, seem to wait for us
this year of my life
From mud too mud, lumped and cool, we swam in it slowly
Waved our muddy hands over the top of it, feeling the
cool wind
Above our heads of this mud swamp, the highway to be
Here we were all wavering under the shameless sun
I was but twelve years of age, restless like everyone
And as the darkness fell upon us all, a starry darkness
Roger, and me, Mike and Doug, and a number of girls
lay face upward, on this stale mud water
Laughing and playing childlike, unreal, unimaginable
On the blanket of mud on shore, Roger and she lay
floating away, in some starry unnatural way
To me it was just play, play in dishwater broth, I was
Only twelve you see…

1/21/2007 #1629 (Dedicated to the Old Gang of the 60s, of Cayuga Street)) St. Paul, Minnesota))


Note: The mud hole was not there the following year, but we must have gone to it a dozen times that summer. There is nothing like a little swimming pool, half mud or not, that can make the summer more interesting than normal, and it did. I think for Roger, it was a playground for him to seduce his new girlfriends, for me it was play, but then Roger was a number of years older than I, perhaps four or five. Mike, my brother was now fifteen, and I think drinking and a few other things was on his mind, and we did that there likewise, and a few joy rides there after. All in all, it was a brazen summer.

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))