Five Mixed Poems,w ith notes
1.
Night in Jamaica
[Peruvianism: 1810]
It was a rainy night they say
When don Simon Bolivar
Slept in the arms of beautiful
—Luisa Crober
(of Jamaica); thus an
Assassin missed his mark
When he stabbed Major Amestoy
Sleeping in the dark
In Bolivar’s hammock!...
#719 6/7/05
2.
Sacred Something
Love for love
curse for curse
what you plant
(in the furrow):
is what you
get tomorrow.
6/8/05 #720
3.
Epitaph in El Dorado
Ride high, ride high
The shade replied
Over the mountains
To the valley
There upon a cliff
You’ll see
A placed called
El Dorado
His madden brain
Was sick with pain
Beholding to the shadow
But he found the gold
And then was told
You’ll never leave
The valley…
And so it was
That he grew old
Sitting there in the Valley
Counting gold
Eating toads…
And
I’m sick of this poem
But it needs an end
So my friend, I must say
This epitaph was is his story.
6/9/05 #725
4.
Epitaph of a Shoeshine Boy
[A Macabre poem]
I cannot sleep, I cannot sleep
In moon struck ebony,
My ghostly hands upon my knees—
The dead are dead you see.
The earth is warm under my feet;
As seasons come and go.
I am, am neither wise nor bold,
But cold, am I you see.
I cannot sleep, I cannot sleep
I look upon a bed
I must still love the living best:
Who hate the ghostly dead?
Whereas, I walk alone again
Wandering, aimlessly
I was a shoeshine boy, you know
But who remembers me (?)
Note: When I was a boy of 11 to 13, I used to go from bar to bar in St. Paul, Minnesota and shoeshine (l958-61). I made money that way, until I was 14-years old, at which time I worked for what is now the “Fitzgerald Theater”; where Garrison Keillor (whom I met twice) has his show, “A Prairie Home companion.”
5.
Lyric Rain [A Minnesota Poem]
Ah! Last night it was a night A night of lyric rain The trees were swaying, swaying— Every which-way…
I so love the wild rain Un-refrained Its cool breezes, sharp fangs, Fangs, and empty-eyed; Replenishing earths strains Washing away all the grime— And secretly, nurturing This rhyme…
Note: It rained out last night (a storm), in St. Paul, Minnesota, USA; 3:30 AM. My mother used to be frightened by such storms, but I cherished them it seems; odd are we not, so different in what we value. #721 6/8/05
Poet Dennis Siluk http://dennissiluk.tripod.com the book, "Spell of the Andes," is almost ready for the public, got a note today saying it is going to press...this is the best of Dennis' poems on Vietnam and Peru, and Copan, Honduras Rosa