Hobbies

Bells for Belphegor!…

Where immortal veils never meet Belphegor, Arch devil speaks: In vagaries form, With signs and signatures not yet born-; The Tagaririm, order of the demon: They come to meet, the King Of Hell, and Demons, They come from different worlds- With scrolls, spells, untold powers To hell, to hell to meet-Belphegor..

?and ring the bells, the bells? To ring the bells for Belphegor!…

#735 6/2005

A Reason for Existence

The reason for existence was just to exist and enjoy the miracle-the answer always in His palm; if you seek you will find; so I read one time. My mother knew it. Me, I was always disheveled with its conspiracies and secrets?how foolish.

#734 6/22/2005

Commentary: here are two different poems with different jolts, "Bells for Belphegor!…" and "A Reason for Existence"; one macabre in nature (where I walk under the blackened moon and paling sun); the other I call select, of a sacred nature; one of a devil (where necromantic arts are reborn); one of God, where existence rests. Sometimes in poetry (for me anyways) we must go behind the devils shadow; where subtle shades and nuance of meanings linger; but always seek the palm of God; and with a muster-seed of faith, one will be able to unlock the gate to the pit on the way out.

Asha of Darfur

Cry, cry-oh little Darfur woman For your sister Janjaweed- [in Sudan’s merciless region-

who was raped to death); Where rape and death run ramped;

And Asha prays the Arabs don’t’ hear Here sobbing little black tears? ?in fear she will be chained to a bed

In Darfur, by the insidious justice Of the Arabs, who run ramped?

Ah, yes! In Darfur you’ve guessed, It is not a crime to raped and arrested; By the very one who raped, and terrorized

You; it is the conquest?Satan’s ribs!… Where rape and death run ramped.

#733/6/19/05

Commentary by the author: again we see a political poem, or one taken out of current events. As I read the paper a few days ago, I saw the tears of Asha, and the double standards in this African location, as it plays on the black citizens. It is a shame. There is not much symbolism in this poem, it is not needed. A few lines tell the whole story; as it does throughout the whole poem. In this poem there is nothing for the reader to discover I fear no metaphors, just death, and its current events taking place in this Genocide of rape in Darfur. My symbol if anything, is not private, it is public. Where in many cases a skull stands for death, here rape stands for death. Perhaps I’ve created in this poem my own private symbol of that nature, for many have survived the rapes and the genocide [or killings]; I connect them together to mean the same thing though. For once we have been violated so badly, we die slowly anyhow, or so I feel.

Says Mr. Dennis Siluk, when asked to review his poetry somewhat, for he hesitates all the time when I ask him to so; I can tell you. Anyhow, he said to me (responding more on poem #728, “Derivative Echoes”): “Figurative language, meaning words used to refer to something that you don’t really mean, is used here to make noises, as are metaphors sometimes. Probably the reason I used figurative language imagery here was to tie the ideas and feelings my poem [s] expresses [ness] to the physical world in which I want it to exist.” He lost me somewhere along the line, but it sounded good when I read the poems. Rosa Penaloza.

The Bear-men of Qolqepunku
(or: the magical ice of Peru)

(Foreshadow)

High up in the Andes of Peru
The Ukukus wander on

Glacier, frost and snow

Dressed in furry clocks and masks
They trek to find the mountains ice

Of sacred healing powers

The Bear-men, they are called:
In the old language of the Quechua;

Guardians of the ice

They cut the ice in solid blocks
Carried on backs, down mountain paths,

To family, friends, and livestock

What’s a prisoner to do when justice fails
and the innocent is escorted off to jail?

What’s a prisoner to do once stigmatized,
caged and abandoned and ostracized?

What’s a prisoner to do there’s no one to trust;
the system fails and the outcome unjust?

What’s a prisoner to do when family decide
the punishment is warranted and justified?

What’s a prisoner to do while confined in a cell;
the perpetrator’s free and faring quite well?

What’s a prisoner to do once his reputation is dead
and his life has been ruined because of what someone said?

What’s a prisoner to do when he’s not believed,
though he’s telling the truth, he’s thought to deceive?

What’s a prisoner to do as he sits all alone,
no one seems to care; former friends all gone?

What’s a prisoner to do sitting lost and idle
and most of one’s thoughts become suicidal?

What’s a prisoner to do when freedom’s taken away
and the will to live diminishes each day?

What’s a prisoner to do when hedged in by strife;
with no escape possible; no chance for a new life?

#25

The King and Delka [Split Mawkishness-on Moiromma /Part V]

Sickly Sentimentality

I have sought out friends Only to find rawness Of their passion; And the uniformity Of their vision.

Who out there can know My cerebral verve?

(Only the long dead)

By King Moir I

[Of Moiromma]

Ah! the aimless cosmos come back to his mind as he stands on his balcony looking up into he eerie dark. This he proclaimed to the ski: that evil and ugliness are simply ornamental bells attached to a being’s backbone; his tail in old age [he is now 500-years old]; crude as old age maybe, ‘?it has its frightful indisposed pride,’ he mumbles. It all gives him reason to love with hate, mix it up, mold it together, revolt with it; thus it turns into abhorrence and envy; flimsy as it may be, it wasn’t so in the beginning of his youthful kingship-he reasons, but it is now. Hence, he made a judgment, which ended up in his dramatic interest in Delka, the general’s wife, young and beautiful wife (the general being his old and faithful friend). And so he told himself all this, as he stood there looking into the bleak eldritch dark skies, becoming more nauseous and repulsive with a bitter filled mind.

In the midst of darkness, there is light.
In the midst of evil, there is virtue.
In the midst of war, there is peace.
In the midst of agony, there is ecstasy.

In the midst of night, there is day.
In the midst of illness, there is health.
In the midst of winter, there is summer.
In the midst of hate, there is love.

In the midst of grief, there is healing
In the midst of hunger, there is Bread of Life
In the midst of thirst, there is Living Water
In midst of loneliness, there is companionship

In the midst of sin, there is redemption
In the midst of catastrophe, there is restoration
In the midst of rain, there is a rainbow
In the midst of adversity, there is privilege

In the midst of decay, there is renewal.
In the midst of hopelessness, there is possibility.
In the midst of poverty, there is wealth.
In the midst of pain, there is joy.

In the midst of tears, there is laughter.
In the midst of anguish, there is pleasure.
In the midst of disappointment, there is satisfaction.
In the midst of futility, there is hope.

Ah! Leave the gold, wealth and land

Says the Inca King?;
In Spain, they leave the bustling streets,
For sail to Peruvian shores;

The murmur of the gold is sweet,

It glows and glistens like the sun
A mountain of gold, or the grave
Awaits the human, Inca-god?!

Spaniards sing their songs of victory

Where breaks the green Peruvian sea;
Who now, worships the Inca King (?)
Guarded behind prisons doors-?

They chatter about his golden rings

They watch the winds cross the shores?
They count the days that idle by,
For gold they worship and will die.

Envoy.

Another spring will never pass,

Swallowed up by death, and death-
The Spanish voices combine-:
Will kill the Inca-King in time;

Before the gold arrives I fear?

It all will be hidden low, low
In the hollow of the earth, in the
Moonlit tunnels of Peru!?

#731 6/13/2005

Advance: Mr. Dennis Siluk’s poetry can have its fire-hearted twists: as with ‘Lovers’…’, and ‘Death…’ and the ‘Loves’s Curse’;but love can carry with it, luring assets, especially in these three poems, as you will soon see; two of which he calls sonnets. He sings a dim song, but it all seems to fit in the river of bitter waters; or salty waters. Be that as it may, they are worth the adventure in reading them, weary as they may be. For those interested, his new book of poems will be out in weeks, “Spell of the Adnes,” it will be a charming book. Rosa Penaloza

Loves’ December
[or: December’s Sonnet]

Love died here

Songs ago;
O’er her breasts,

Two-faced soul,
Roses throw;

No more tears;

By and by,
Poppies near!

By and by,
De’cber ?tears

To Death’s King-

Does not die!
Wakes when white

December’s high!

#731/ 6/12/05

Death’s Sonnet

Day has flown!

Dim with gray
The winds sway

The Hell’s moan
Stand alone!

For this day

Is your repay
And atone!

Rare I know,
Life was so

Through the halls

Have you ever read the lyrics of a Simon and Garfunkle song? Pure poetry. Want to write poems like that? Start copying them. Let me explain.

The Myth Of Creativity

Creativity is somewhat of a myth. It isn’t that it doesn’t exist, but people’s ideas about it are mis-informed. Many believe that to be creative is to come up with something completely new. There isn’t an artist or inventor out there who has done this.

Somebody had to write the first four-line verse or haiku poem, right? Now is everyone that uses these forms an uncreative copy-cat? No, of course not. We must copy forms, general ideas and techniques, so why not do it more systematically?

Poem Writing Tricks

Copy a poem you like, and then play with the elements. Part of the beauty of a poem is in the structure and the rhythm. Why not insert your own words into that, to see what happens?

Here is the last part of a poem titled “Gratitude.” It started by painting a picture of the mountains,and then;

Words fail, as they should…

So there is nothing to say
There is nothing to say
There is nothing
Is nothing
Nothing…

Fair Andes! Thy arms reach high

Of iron-woven solid stone
Thu art a condor to the sky

Of glory hidden in thy heart

So many paths, a maze of art?

In thy old, Mantaro Valley

Where adobes, breathe and tremble
Beyond your rustic shadows

There lays the prettiest of brooks

Is my heart, within its stream!

My image deeply carved, rippled

In its undiluted shallow waters

Waiting, just waiting for me?

As it opens up, opens up my soul

My rippled soul-searching-eyes!…

Note: Between Lima, Peru, and the Andes, and just beyond is the Mantaro Valley; therein, lays the area and village called San Jeronimo; tucked away within its foliage, and rustic background, is a brook, a stream that runs down form the mountains. It is a lazy and peaceful place. It glistens with the sun. What more can I say. #725 6/10/05

In Spanish

A las Montañas
[ o : Arroyo de San Jeronimo]

¡hermosos Andes! tus brazos llegan alto.

De piedra tejida por hierro sólido
tu eres un condor para el cielo

De gloria ocultada en tu corazón.