The Early Poems of (1960s):
Dennis L. Siluk
(Newly reedited)
1
"Who"
(Dennis Siluk's First Poem—1958/59)(Slightly
Modified and reedited))
Who made the earth
who made the sky,
who made the clouds,
burst inside—?
Who made the moon
and stars that glow
—He’s my Lord
my love, in my soul.
He gave man light
to live and see;
He gave man dark
for a silent sleep.
He gave us feelings
and choices to use,
and we can plan them
as we choose;
But most of all
He gave simple laws,
such simple things
with great causes!
For when the day comes
and it will sure be:
when flesh and bone
meet gravestone—
Our heart and soul
will be judged as one!
Note by the Author: “Here is the first poem I wrote, to my knowledge, dating to 1958/1959; I was between 11 and 12 years of age. I discovered it after my mother had passed on, in 2003; I had reviewed it I see my notes on it in 1980, so I had not seen since 1980 to 2003, some 23-years. My mother always read my poetry when it was simple and plan, and to the point, when I was young. I was back in 1959, eleven (11) years old, perhaps closer to twelve at this time. In this poem, it expresses I do believe my faith in God, Jesus Christ. It was written while I was living on Cayuga Street; I was I do believe sitting on some stairs leading up to our attic where me and my brother slept; we live in an extended family, with my mother and Grandfather. Perhaps it was my escape from the tough neighborhood I was living in. In 1958, we had moved from 109 East Arch Street, to this new neighborhood, at 186 Cayuga Street, St. Paul, Minnesota. My brother was perhaps fourteen at the time, or going on that age I suppose. So for the first time ever published, here is my first poem, out of 1400.”
2
Mr. Ground the, Hog
(1960; #7) Written During my Jr High School Days
at Como Park Jr. High, St. Paul, Minnesota. Slightly modified and
reedited, 1/2008)
Old Mr. Groundhog
who always seemed
to be around,
playing with us kids
from sun up to sundown
lived long ago, in the city
of St. Paul, Minnesota;
yes, the land of much snow.
With the city’s children
he’d play each day,
in parks, in every kindly way;
a legacy carried over from
his father’s day.
He became well known
all around, plus the envy
of many a parents, who
really didn’t care for him,
or to play with their kids anyhow;
who made no time to play
thus, shunning their kids,
to no advantage, but would say
when the old man came around:
‘…there’s that old crazy clown,
he looks like a groundhog,
why don’t he go back home
where he belongs. ‘
Note by the author: “Here again is a poem from my youth, another poem unpublished, and found tucked away in and among my many papers lying about, and for the jest, or better put humor of it, I have placed it in this collection (of six recently found poems, from my first years attending Jr. Sir High School, and two poems from my Sr. High School days). I’ll publish them one by one (someday), and most likely put those into a future book, but for now you can read them first. This one here, “Mr. Ground, the Hog (1960),” was written I do believe when I was twelve-year old ((12 years old)). This is poem number #7 of #2200 poems to date written. I first started writing poetry at the age of eleven, my first poem being “Who (1959),” which I found three years ago, after my mother had passed on. I will publish that also, which has never been published before and: “Typing (1962 #15),” written in 1962, and published in the book, “The Other Door,” my first book, and the poem, “Beyond Man,” (1964 #17)) written in my Journalism Class, at Washington High School, 2nd year, I was 16-years old then;” also “Old Man Jay,” (1960/61 #8)) written during attending Como Park Jr. High School, in St. Paul, Minnesota. So there is a little history here. During this period I wrote between 17 and 20, poems, the rest I’ve yet to find.”
3
Old Man Jay
(Poem: Written 1960/61; #8, Jr High School Days)
1/2008, slightly modified, and reedited)
Old Man Jay
lived in the trees
Old Man Ja
had ten mph shoes
Old Ma Ja
had a secret
Ol Ma Ja
could not forgive the self
Ol Ma J
had it under control
To different trees
he conveyed each night:
his hopes, and wishes
under the sky’s light
Ol M J
walked twenty mph
O M J
asked for forgiveness
o m j
spent all his time
trying to control
his being out of control.
No one noticed
No one knew
that he existed
but, o w j.
And because
he couldn’t
control her,
his heart gave away
he died at thirty-three,
the city’s newspaper read:
“Vacancy!”
Note by the author: “Perhaps this should remind me (rereading this old poem after letting it sit for 25-years, and writing it 45-years ago), that when we are kids, we are displaying our gifts, if only we could see them; here I’ve noticed a pattern of diminishing letters, and the psychological melt down; perhaps that is why I majored in psychology in college, and a minor in literature. We think we are doing strange things, when we are not, we are doing, or writing what is inside of us, what we feel is important. Control is a major power player in any part of human behavior, as in the Army, or family, or place of employment. The Government, the word power never rises as high as control I do believe. Influence is based on leadership, but behind leadership is control, and behind that is power. This poem was written in 1960/61, number #8, and while attending my first years of Jr. High School, at Como Park, in St. Paul, Minnesota.”
4
Lord Canary
(Written while in Social studies class at Como Jr. High School, 1962, St. Paul, Minnesota; slightly modified, and reedited).
Lord Canary—
(Not sure why we call him that)
A teacher at Como Jr. High,
who teaches us students about mirrors,
mirrors, and more mirrors, everyday.
Simply yelping on and on… about them!
Common sense is never given
in this Social Studies Class,
[not in the least].
All us students would like to tell him
“He’s Crazy!”
Yet, he’d simply go on and on
no matter what, about those blasted
mirrors, mirrors, mirrors:
reflections of whatever.
Anyway…
came the day,
(as all days do—)
he yelled with dread,
while looking in a mirror
and said, “Oh my gosh!”
We all (us students) saw him as a
Chirping Canary, and so we drew one
right there on the mirror,
on his blasted old mirror!!
Note by the author: “This poem was written in 1962, while I was attending Como Park, Jr. High School (St. Paul, Minnesota), in my Social Studies class, bored out of my mind, as was every other student. I wrote this poem, until now unpublished (and recently found among my old papers), as you most likely will agree, as it should be, was written with a teenagers hand. But for the fun of it, I have added it to this collection. This is perhaps one of my first twenty-poems (#17); written in St. Paul, Minnesota.
5
Beyond Man
(A poem written before its time)
((Originally written in 1963, and published in “The Surveyor,” Washington High School newspaper, St. Paul, Minnesota)(and first time published on the internet; the poem was originally written while in Journalism Class, at the age of 16-years old, Dennis’ second published work), the poem ‘Typing,’ was his first published poem) Poem # 18
Let’s assume!
People seem to think
It’s far too far,
The darkness beyond the sun;
But it’s actually but a distance
Of the far-off run.
But yet it shields
A shivery chillness,
A warming sense of defeat,
But an ever lasting wanting
Of the far-off victories.
You know,
Imagination can go a long way,
As far as man can see,
And yet beyond the darkness
Man has yet to be.
Beyond he blue of the sky
Man has yet to see
The everlasting oceans,
Which stir eternally?
Note: One must remember, this poem was written before man had landed on the moon. Space was just being challenged, Star Trek, was just beginning to show up on TV. The Universe was a strange and haunting viewpoint of sorts; guesses for everyone. #18/ 1963. Therefore when I wrote this poem, it captures the moment, giving a breath of imagination, for us students at Washington High School. Metaphysics, or the study of the cosmos, was for the population at large, a new branch of study, other than the fictional movies of monsters from the moon or Mars, or ERB’s books on Mars. So it was a poem for the school to be looked at, and the journalism teacher found it good enough for the paper.
Dennis L. Siluk
(Newly reedited)
1
"Who"
(Dennis Siluk's First Poem—1958/59)(Slightly
Modified and reedited))
Who made the earth
who made the sky,
who made the clouds,
burst inside—?
Who made the moon
and stars that glow
—He’s my Lord
my love, in my soul.
He gave man light
to live and see;
He gave man dark
for a silent sleep.
He gave us feelings
and choices to use,
and we can plan them
as we choose;
But most of all
He gave simple laws,
such simple things
with great causes!
For when the day comes
and it will sure be:
when flesh and bone
meet gravestone—
Our heart and soul
will be judged as one!
Note by the Author: “Here is the first poem I wrote, to my knowledge, dating to 1958/1959; I was between 11 and 12 years of age. I discovered it after my mother had passed on, in 2003; I had reviewed it I see my notes on it in 1980, so I had not seen since 1980 to 2003, some 23-years. My mother always read my poetry when it was simple and plan, and to the point, when I was young. I was back in 1959, eleven (11) years old, perhaps closer to twelve at this time. In this poem, it expresses I do believe my faith in God, Jesus Christ. It was written while I was living on Cayuga Street; I was I do believe sitting on some stairs leading up to our attic where me and my brother slept; we live in an extended family, with my mother and Grandfather. Perhaps it was my escape from the tough neighborhood I was living in. In 1958, we had moved from 109 East Arch Street, to this new neighborhood, at 186 Cayuga Street, St. Paul, Minnesota. My brother was perhaps fourteen at the time, or going on that age I suppose. So for the first time ever published, here is my first poem, out of 1400.”
2
Mr. Ground the, Hog
(1960; #7) Written During my Jr High School Days
at Como Park Jr. High, St. Paul, Minnesota. Slightly modified and
reedited, 1/2008)
Old Mr. Groundhog
who always seemed
to be around,
playing with us kids
from sun up to sundown
lived long ago, in the city
of St. Paul, Minnesota;
yes, the land of much snow.
With the city’s children
he’d play each day,
in parks, in every kindly way;
a legacy carried over from
his father’s day.
He became well known
all around, plus the envy
of many a parents, who
really didn’t care for him,
or to play with their kids anyhow;
who made no time to play
thus, shunning their kids,
to no advantage, but would say
when the old man came around:
‘…there’s that old crazy clown,
he looks like a groundhog,
why don’t he go back home
where he belongs. ‘
Note by the author: “Here again is a poem from my youth, another poem unpublished, and found tucked away in and among my many papers lying about, and for the jest, or better put humor of it, I have placed it in this collection (of six recently found poems, from my first years attending Jr. Sir High School, and two poems from my Sr. High School days). I’ll publish them one by one (someday), and most likely put those into a future book, but for now you can read them first. This one here, “Mr. Ground, the Hog (1960),” was written I do believe when I was twelve-year old ((12 years old)). This is poem number #7 of #2200 poems to date written. I first started writing poetry at the age of eleven, my first poem being “Who (1959),” which I found three years ago, after my mother had passed on. I will publish that also, which has never been published before and: “Typing (1962 #15),” written in 1962, and published in the book, “The Other Door,” my first book, and the poem, “Beyond Man,” (1964 #17)) written in my Journalism Class, at Washington High School, 2nd year, I was 16-years old then;” also “Old Man Jay,” (1960/61 #8)) written during attending Como Park Jr. High School, in St. Paul, Minnesota. So there is a little history here. During this period I wrote between 17 and 20, poems, the rest I’ve yet to find.”
3
Old Man Jay
(Poem: Written 1960/61; #8, Jr High School Days)
1/2008, slightly modified, and reedited)
Old Man Jay
lived in the trees
Old Man Ja
had ten mph shoes
Old Ma Ja
had a secret
Ol Ma Ja
could not forgive the self
Ol Ma J
had it under control
To different trees
he conveyed each night:
his hopes, and wishes
under the sky’s light
Ol M J
walked twenty mph
O M J
asked for forgiveness
o m j
spent all his time
trying to control
his being out of control.
No one noticed
No one knew
that he existed
but, o w j.
And because
he couldn’t
control her,
his heart gave away
he died at thirty-three,
the city’s newspaper read:
“Vacancy!”
Note by the author: “Perhaps this should remind me (rereading this old poem after letting it sit for 25-years, and writing it 45-years ago), that when we are kids, we are displaying our gifts, if only we could see them; here I’ve noticed a pattern of diminishing letters, and the psychological melt down; perhaps that is why I majored in psychology in college, and a minor in literature. We think we are doing strange things, when we are not, we are doing, or writing what is inside of us, what we feel is important. Control is a major power player in any part of human behavior, as in the Army, or family, or place of employment. The Government, the word power never rises as high as control I do believe. Influence is based on leadership, but behind leadership is control, and behind that is power. This poem was written in 1960/61, number #8, and while attending my first years of Jr. High School, at Como Park, in St. Paul, Minnesota.”
4
Lord Canary
(Written while in Social studies class at Como Jr. High School, 1962, St. Paul, Minnesota; slightly modified, and reedited).
Lord Canary—
(Not sure why we call him that)
A teacher at Como Jr. High,
who teaches us students about mirrors,
mirrors, and more mirrors, everyday.
Simply yelping on and on… about them!
Common sense is never given
in this Social Studies Class,
[not in the least].
All us students would like to tell him
“He’s Crazy!”
Yet, he’d simply go on and on
no matter what, about those blasted
mirrors, mirrors, mirrors:
reflections of whatever.
Anyway…
came the day,
(as all days do—)
he yelled with dread,
while looking in a mirror
and said, “Oh my gosh!”
We all (us students) saw him as a
Chirping Canary, and so we drew one
right there on the mirror,
on his blasted old mirror!!
Note by the author: “This poem was written in 1962, while I was attending Como Park, Jr. High School (St. Paul, Minnesota), in my Social Studies class, bored out of my mind, as was every other student. I wrote this poem, until now unpublished (and recently found among my old papers), as you most likely will agree, as it should be, was written with a teenagers hand. But for the fun of it, I have added it to this collection. This is perhaps one of my first twenty-poems (#17); written in St. Paul, Minnesota.
5
Beyond Man
(A poem written before its time)
((Originally written in 1963, and published in “The Surveyor,” Washington High School newspaper, St. Paul, Minnesota)(and first time published on the internet; the poem was originally written while in Journalism Class, at the age of 16-years old, Dennis’ second published work), the poem ‘Typing,’ was his first published poem) Poem # 18
Let’s assume!
People seem to think
It’s far too far,
The darkness beyond the sun;
But it’s actually but a distance
Of the far-off run.
But yet it shields
A shivery chillness,
A warming sense of defeat,
But an ever lasting wanting
Of the far-off victories.
You know,
Imagination can go a long way,
As far as man can see,
And yet beyond the darkness
Man has yet to be.
Beyond he blue of the sky
Man has yet to see
The everlasting oceans,
Which stir eternally?
Note: One must remember, this poem was written before man had landed on the moon. Space was just being challenged, Star Trek, was just beginning to show up on TV. The Universe was a strange and haunting viewpoint of sorts; guesses for everyone. #18/ 1963. Therefore when I wrote this poem, it captures the moment, giving a breath of imagination, for us students at Washington High School. Metaphysics, or the study of the cosmos, was for the population at large, a new branch of study, other than the fictional movies of monsters from the moon or Mars, or ERB’s books on Mars. So it was a poem for the school to be looked at, and the journalism teacher found it good enough for the paper.
6
Typing
Advance: Originally written, 1963, at the age of 16-years old. This poem was put into the Washington High School newspaper (St. Paul, Minnesota), my typing teacher spotted me writing this poem, and not doing my required work, and gave it to the journalism teacher, and it was published. My first published work/poem #19. It is funny, as you read it, near the last lines it reads “You may know it from the Twentieth to the twenty-first century.” Written 44-years ago, I was predicting my future, and I still do know how to type. This poem was also put into my first book, “The Other Door,” written in 1980, and published in 1981, no a classic and hard to find. During my High School days, I didn’t write all that much, perhaps 17-poems total, from the age of 11 to 16, and then several more thereafter.
Typing is fun
With a little play
I could type
Almost all day.
Look at your book
Sit up straight,
It’s just as easy
As baking a cake.
Of course it takes time
But what does not?
Everything takes time,
Even a clock.
Just think of the fun
Watching your fingers go ‘round,
Or looking at the book
Go down, down, down.
And when you’re at the bottom,
You might feel like me—
Tired, worn out,
Like ancient history.
But still you’ve learned
What you’ve done that day,
And you may know it
‘Til Tuesday.
Of course, if you’re good,
I mean, like me,
You may know it from the
Twentieth to the twenty-first century.
Well, do some typing
It won’t do any harm
Give you a grade
With a little charm,
And even a little muscle
In your arms.
7
The Unattested Echo
(The Threshold) Poem #20
Advance: In 1964, being 17-years old, my poetry had changed a little, to a more profound philosophy form; in that year I can only find two poems left, that I wrote, where the rest are, no one knows, anyhow, #20 “The Unattested Echo,” and #21, “The Master of a Hundred Hounds.” These two poems were put into my first book called, “The Other Door” (1981, reedited and revised) The poetry after these poems, came slow, a few in Vietnam, and then I started back up writing again in the 1980s, a newspaper in Minneapolis picked up about ten of my poems, published them, and then onto the 90s, but I didn’t reach a large amount of poems in those years, up until 2001, I had only written about 250 to 400 poems (many of them misplaced), in comparison to the 2200, I have now (1/2008). .
Am I the water of the seas,
The copper-pointed tides?
Is he the rain that falls on me,
The wetness that subsides?
Are we the tumult in the ice;
The streaming glacier’s glow?
Is he the dampness that frostbites;
The trench, its flowing echo?
Were we the tempo of all chants,
The chimes that dwell—befriends?
Was he the weather among their rhymes,
The meter that begrimes?
He is the tempest in the rain,
A shadow in the snow.
We are his lust to shame;
A blasphemous thirst; echo.
8
The Master of a Hundred Hounds
(The Vine’s Soliloquy) Poem # 21 (of 2174-poems)
He swam with his kind,
Sighed when they sighed,
And had become the master of a hundred hounds,
—a pilgrim of Evil—
As the masters before him.
As he walked, others carried his load—
this was not uncommon of his foe, yet
Forward he trusted oppressed,
Insidious, more entrenched;
Forward he became repugnant.
He slept then with toiling thoughts,
Hoping for their extinction,
But they did not (there was little time left).
Then the master upon awakening apostrophically cried:
“Oh, but there is no God.”
Then talked of days past:
the wars he never fought,
the heroes he never knew,
the ideas that were just there.
With all of this—He
hallucinated,
burdened with logic;
Yet he could not conceive nor digest,
For he knew, he lived it!
Then boasting of only one regret—that being,
The loss of breath,
He emphatically screamed in a personifying characteristic:
“I, the master of a hundred hounds—I am!”
The standing sullen and erect, he wept (there was so
Little time left).
Thereafter he removed the dirt from his eyes,
Wiped he dew from his lips,
And with a murmur, substantiated his deterioration.
He knew now he had run before he learned to walk,
for his legs did not obey,
And on reflection had followed teachers who never
taught;
He knew now hey were the thinkers who never walked,
(He knew now, time was very short).
Ensuing, a tempest of catastrophe flooded his cerebrum;
Insofar as his title became an overtone.
There remained nothing of his own.
He then called to the dawn and daylight; as a result,
light was laced upon his dynasty; now,
Opening his eyes for the very first time,
He knew for he very first time
The dreadful closing of them.
And to his descent he left:
the dampness shed upon is lips,
the blisters that swelled upon his thighs,
And the sand that covered his eyes.
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