The Butcher of Lima and Footprints to Mantaro Valley (Two Poems)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley
In what retreat art hid?-
Where falling mountains groanIn shadow and among
The rapids of the Rio?Is not your name Mantaro Valley?
Beyond the footprints of the Andes--?
I can hear your voice in echoes
I can hear thy voice, divinely low.I do but know thy by a glance
As the clouds above me know? .Ah! Gone like that, but love-love!
Hath found my naked soul!
4-20-05 (#627) Note: written after seeing the Mantaro Valley, beyond the Andes.
The Butcher of Lima(Dedicated to: Mario Poggi)
Prologue: I do not wish to judge anyone, lest I be judged, and God forbid should I be judged by anyone but He. Thus, I write this following poem with a word of discretion to the reader likewise, that all is not as it seems, is it. Having said that, it has been said the Psychologist Mario Poggi-whom I met on three occasions and purchased a sculpture from, and received one from him as a gift-has learned the hard way-that is, the curse of revenge has long wings; hence, revenge is for the Lord. Why? Because both the avenger and the victim are cursed thereafter (one does not have time to make amends if that is indeed his wish; the other, loses his life slowly as he lives on). Thus, "The Butcher of Lima," is really a picture of the sculpture Mr. Poggi calls, "The Face of Anguish"; or at least it is to me. During our three meetings, I did not find in his eyes guilt for his murderous deed, for he rid a city of a maniac who was cutting up bodies and burying them,-and perhaps saved a few lives, did he not? But rather a sadness that he did not close his eyes during the process of his slaying of man called "The Butcher," and now the sculptures he has molded with his hands are the eyes of his soul.
The Poem"The Butcher of Lima"
The Psychologist, he killed
"The Butcher of Lima,"So it has been said?
With a belt around his neckHe strangled him to death!
As he sucked in his breath--Head carved like a fish!?
He died a purple death
The "Butcher of Lima?."And no one wept.
And the media cried the name:"Poggi! Poggi!?you're insane!"
It is as fate would have it
Motionless and forgotten Are the cold blades of redemption.
Poet, Author Dennis L. Siluk, is now traveling throughout South and Central America and when given the chance, is stopping at Internets to send back some of his poetry, as he creates his poems. His site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Catherine Daly reviews Antidotes for an Alibi
Amy KingAntidotes for an AlibiBlazeVox BooksISBN 0-9759227-5-02005
Poetry in Turbulence
To many non-specialists of literature, poetry is deeply unsatisfying. There are several reasons for this, but two in particular come to mind. The first is that most poetry is overly descriptive, leaving little to the imagination; the second is that the rest of it is abstruse. This presents the non-specialist with a dilemma: either to persevere in the thankless task of attempting to unravel an increasingly unrewarding literary crossword; or to make do with the superficialities of descriptive verse and the resultant ennui. Both projects would presumably confirm any prejudices that these readers entertained about the relevancy of poetry to their lives. In circumstances such as these, I think it would be appropriate to introduce a method of poetic appreciation, which, although unorthodox, would encourage the non-specialist to revise any negative opinion of poetry held.
In the Mountans of Haiti [A Poem: in English and Spanish]
In the Mountains of Haiti
A Hundred and Fifty Dead [Korean War--l952]
There I sat, ninety-five degree weather
The Dead God of Copan (in English and Spanish)
My Final Defeat - Fixed Competition
She probably can't remember and I know I can never forget...the first time I saw her like that I was only nine years-oldnot naive by any stretchhaving seen my share of tragedy-my parent's bitter battles in my first five years of lifethen the inevitable end of their marriagebut not before 700 days of devastation called divorcethat destroyed dreams and deeply damaged heartsI had no idea life could get worse...
AFRICA(to africans in diaspora)
Tale of the: Old Hunter and the Golden Hare [In SPANISH and English now]
There once lived an old man and his goodwifeOn the edge of the thick of the woods;They lived in an old run-down shackFor forty-years and some.The old man hunted for his living,And his wife sewed on her lap.
I never thought I would have to say GOODBYE to my best friend? But that's what I had to do today I had to let go of her forever ?
It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,
Man Unbowed [A poem]
How wonderfully sweet to be a dwellerdwelling on the road of goodbye.Bittersweet tears fall as I thinkof all the places I'll never see,all the faces I'll never know,all the joys I'll never share,as I head for the unknown.I have lived life as best I could,met challenges head on,drawing strength from an unseen source.You cannot come with me on this journeyyou can only stand and watch,sometimes the more difficult task.I know what I must doand I will give myself a voicedrawn from the inward depths of my being. For KenJune 1, 2003copyright Fran Watson
Walt Whitman, Romance With a Stranger
The concept of brief encounters, even romantic encounters, with a stranger recurs often in the verses of Walt Whitman.
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast
Storm Rising along the Lima Coast [Summer of 2002]
Three Poems: Liberty, Death, and a Frog [with Commentary on Liberty]
Two Poems: San Jeronimo Brook & [in English and Spanish]
Fair Andes! Thy arms reach high
Africa - Wheres The Profit?
A poetic comment that just welled up inside my head ? why cant we just do something ? before many more are dead?
A Ship to Remember
Hammers. Timbers. Iron. Steel.
Take some time to stop and look at nature. Pick up a rock or two and think about where it might have started out and what it might have gone through to end up where you found it.
Exalted Poetry; Two poem [and commentary]
Bells for Belphegor!...
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