Poetry
El Tambo Spiders
(Inspired by living in El Tambo for eight years)
When it's cold in Huancayo
The spiders know
They crawl on the walls...
Along my window sills
(in El Tambo);
Along the seams within my rooms
Under my bed,
Making cobwebs...! (and when)
I'm asleep they swing on hinges
Fall and crawl on my brow,
And bite me somehow,
Especially on rainy nights...
You'd be surprised how much
They know-
About my apartment, and its
Few rooms...:
Looking and prancing about,
As if they owned the house-
Bodies brown, black and gray...!
Wish they'd leave me alone
At least on the weekdays...
No: 1845 (5-26-2007)
(Dedicated to the dwellings in El Tambo)
The Great Wings of the Condor
(Poetic Prose)
The Condor looked straight into my eyes (three feet away);speed out its gothic like wings, that stretched from heal to brow and beyond me...and said to my brain, with those deep piercing eyes: "What winged creature is greater than I?" And I knew of none-then he lowered his head to embrace his breast-as if to say: "Go one now" -then lifted his brow, tall he stood, and proud.
No: 2946 (6-5-2011)
Old Man and the Lion Cubs
(Poetic Prose)
A quiet morning, dim light (sublime, with the sun breaking through the chill),and then not even that-
He stood with two lion cubs round him (three-months old) at a loss(at first) and having sacred feelings under his breast...!
The old man scared the cubs a bit (unintentionally, with his slight movements) which produced deep-rooted sounds, familiar sounds, like a common roar from a jungle-that in time these two lion cubs, would crack branches with.
Now the old man held the cubs (first the female, than the male);undisturbed, and it eased their heavy breathing.
"One aged old man-and two new born lion cubs can fill three restless hearts-" the old man whispered to himself, holding one of the two fluffy little lions, that was exploring its new world.
It's so; they did it on a cool summer's morning, once upon a time, in Huancayo, Peru.
Note: Written eighty hours after visiting the Huancayo, Zoo, on a Saturday morning-the author, Dennis L. Siluk, held, played, and familiarized himself with the two lion cubs, three months old: written at 4:30 p.m., no: 2945, 6-4-2011...
Puppet to the Little Gods
((Poetic Prose)(The Case of Clinton Alexander Hamilton))
Clinton Alexander Hamilton, in his mid-twenties started to read books of all kinds, hundreds and hundreds of books. First historical, and then he became absorbed in anthropology, psychology, zoology, archeology, biology, sociology, the cosmos, philosophy, theology, military science. You name, he probably read on it-each decade he read more and more books.
Then he got into studying and reading and contemplating the great figures those who he figured were great figures, of what he considered were great men and women, certain men that applied to his character, like: soldiers, leaders, artists, all who appeared to stalk across the pages of books, newspapers, television, radio, talk shows, heroic figures-such as: Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Sherwood Anderson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, Robert Bly, General Pershing (WWI), General Ariel Sharon (Israel), Alexander the Great, Napoleon, even devilish figures, like: Hitler, and Stalin, Caesar and Pompeii.
As for the actors, it was a flash, he couldn't think of any that were great, perhaps Humpty Bogart who might live on in history, other than that, it was no more than a passing thought for him, but he got thinking of singers and artists such as might fit the bill: Elvis Presley, the Beatles, Johnny Cash, Rick Nelson, Nat King Cole. Even Picasso, Dali and Rembrandt fit his bill for heroes in the art area, and Yang Yang; they all seemed to stand out, even Hitler, whom was a great artist besides his dementia. They all seemed to stand out among the following flock, a little taller than the average goat; they all seemed to stack starkly up among the other figures in books, even in reality or at least stand out. Even Bin Laden, Saddan Hussein, Poll Pot, heroes of the damned, like Nero, Timberline and Ganges Kong.
And then into the embellished sciences, books written by Darwin, Carl Sagan, and Stephen Hawking, until his mind went in circles, as their theories did-so he felt.
He read books on all these figures, men of their times, of his time, devoted himself to studying them, their personalities. What made them tick, who they were; most human beings live and die, and that is that, no one ever knowing they had existed, but these few, these few people would be remember for awhile, like Honor and Plato, Aristotle, Einstein, thinkers, and his kind, and those we just mentioned. What made them godlike? Why were they hungry to become little gods among men? They, like him all had committed the seven deadly sins. Was it better to be plain, or was it better to be remembered as a little god among men, not a question, just a thought he felt seeping out of his characters like osmoses.
There was something beautiful and ugly about all this, about him, he lived in his own state, he had to-who could live in peace inside such a mind, and he had a furnace burring inside that head of his, burning stronger than the sun. Perhaps better trained minds could have answered his questions outright-if indeed he had them, but he was looking for answers, not knowing the questions, just a pure task of thinking over and over, endlessly, trying to dot all the i's in all the books he was reading, trying to put all those thoughts into cages if indeed they'd fit.
"It is a troublesome thing" he deliberated out loud, not talking to anyone in particular, just mumbling to himself, standing on the street corner of Real and Puno Streets, across the street from the Plaza de Arms, in an Andean City. "It is troublesome," he repeated, adding "on how man works against himself, defeating the great bear for his hide, something he no longer needs, and perhaps never did need. Walking about with certain nobility for himself, as if he himself is the God of the earth, it's all garrulousness..." so he told himself, "one half of us are leaning over the edge of the world laughing at the other half below, marked for their barrenness; just a hubbub of voices."
Verily within himself, he told his second self: "It might have been better had I never read a book," thinking of the thoughts of other men. It all became too toiling-too word consuming; hence, a puppet to the little gods.
Perhaps the best ending I can think of for this prose ditty, is this: if we have contempt for mankind, we must also have it for ourselves, otherwise it's all futile pride. He, Mr. Clinton Alexander Hamilton, never read about that.
No: 2954 (story: 816) 6-10-2011
