The World That Was

When I traveled the world from continent to continent

       seen all the fossils, high and low:

Animals and our ancient ancestors buried in muck and mud;

       walked on glaciers, seen the ocean’s floor;

Been to the peaks of the Andes, and on Cape Horn;

To the ends of the earth, North and South—

To me it becomes quite obvious, it is God’s testimony

       to man, should he feel he’s alone!

On the other hand, should He not be feared or revered…

One who is able to destroy the earth and nearly all that

       is on it, with a twist of his finger with water and sand:

Once angered by the filth of man, has something coming!

Thus, he can surly destroy the earth and man and his

       soul, ONCE again.

Incasing all man, back within the sediments of earth

       and sand, once and for all, from whence he came from.

There awaits an even more terrible fate for man, of this

       present age, who refuses Him respect,

       who disregards His warnings from the Heavens:

What is eternal fire, what can be compared to it?

Of that day, the heavens will pass away— with a great

       roar, with intense heat, and the earth will be

Scorched, and melted, like a candle and burnt meat…

#3439 (10-4-2012)

Note: Ref:  11 Peter 3:10/Ps 66:3/Heb 10:31/11 Cor. 5:11

The Peasant

  Anton, at the age of 75-years old (1969)

The sketch was drawn by the poet- author, Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

(1891-1974)

My grandfather, he grew up near Grodno, Russia, in 1891, near  

       great estates and untilled land, a peasant’s son of peasantry

A farm worker of no degree; whose father lived without land, and

       very little bread, died one afternoon by falling off his roof top, Trying to mend a hole in the wooden tile; he was buried like many,  

       without much style.

Back then, back in 1914, unbreakable men fought thankless Struggles to gain a living from the harsh soil, and long toil, which

       was all fruitless, in the end, and then war came; and my Grandfather went to America, only to come back and fight again,

       this time in the trenches of France.

He was bred from a race of men who were rough, willful and

       stubborn: men of action: smiling was contempt, showed a

       weakness, I know: my mother and brother, and even I—to a

       small degree, inherited that trait—if not sin.

He could neither read nor write, but he had pride and a fierce belief

       in human dignity! 

Such is the person from which I came; we were born an ocean

       apart and then some, again—again in the humblest of families: But Russian we were, and proud to be, not a cringe when we said it.

Thus I carry it, on my side, like a pistol in its holster. Against  

       oppression and unauthorized influence, rebels along my life’s

       road.

Like so many Russian-Americans, I was impatient of restraint, at  

       times hostile to authority, a believer in direct ardent justice;

Went to war when I was called, under the American flag, sacrificed

       myself for the sake and good will of my land, like so many.

Now at sixty-four, no longer in those ceaseless years of struggle, 

       nor the bitter hatred of the servant, I recall my grandfather’s

       roots: long overdue.

In the past, my mind said: “Silence, step back” now it says: be

       proud, step forward, acknowledge your heritage. 

In life I wanted to strike a real blow, thus I became Poet Laureate of

       Peru with a doctorate degree; you see Grandpa, what you Helped make me?

Note: Dedicated to my Grandfather, Anton Siluk, WWI, Veteran; Russian-American, and Vladimir V. Putin, President of Russia, may the world be safer because of Russia and America, and my Grandfather.

#3432 (9-25-2012) in Classic Narrative and Natural Poetic Prose

The World That Was

When I traveled the world from continent to continent

       seen all the fossils, high and low:

Animals and our ancient ancestors buried in muck and mud

       walked on glaciers, seen the ocean’s floor,

Been to the peaks of the Andes, and on Cape Horn

To the ends of the earth, North and South—

To me it becomes quite obvious, it is God’s testimony

       to man,  should he feel he’s alone!

On the other hand, should he not be feared or revered…

One who is able to destroy the earth and nearly all that

       is on it, with a twist of his finger with water and sand:

Once angered by the filth of man, has something coming!

Thus, he can surly destroy the earth and man and his

       soul, ONCE again.

Incasing all man, back within the sediments of earth

       and sand, once and for all, from whence he came from.

There awaits an even more terrible fate for man, of this

       present age, who refuse Him respect,

       who disregards His warnings from the Heavens:

What is eternal fire, what can be compared to it?

Of that day, the heavens will pass away— with a great

       roar, with intense heat, and the earth will be

Scorched, and melted, like a candle and burnt meat…

#3439 (10-4-2012)

Note: Ref:  11 Peter 3:10/Ps 66:3/Heb 10:31/11 Cor. 5:11

Iran Nuclear Threat

(Silly Views by Silly Commentators)

It is hard for these folks, journalists, writing commentators, and surely those who have never faced war, like Bill Keller, and James Carroll, for the New York Times, to give cheap if not silly advice on Iranian containment, for Iranian containment that is, or at least advocating it. What I believe America or Israel should do, of which Israel perhaps can no longer do without the United States because they’ve delayed too long, is stop thinking like Americans, think like Islamic- Hitlerism, that is to say: don’t think rational, logical, they think in impracticalities, Saddam would rather drain all his oil fields, or burn them up than give them to his people or let the world have them.  Is this practical thinking? Napoleon would have rather seen half his army decapitated than give one inch of ground. Stalin killed 40-million citizens without a blink of an eye. Hitler was responsible for 80-million deaths. What makes these commentators think Iran will not use the big bomb? Thus, we should do what we did in Iraq, knowing this time, there are nuclear substance laying about, we should make a full-scale invasion of Iran, occupy it, blow the daylights out of their nuclear program, Ike would have done that, actually he threatened  to use the big bomb on Iran if they’d not step in line, check your history books.  We have a real threat here.  In consequence, we’d additional solve a few more of the world aches and pains: Hezbollah would dry up some; a nuclear arms race in that area would halt; Israel could step down from being on a 24-hour alert. Obama-ism, which is really, passivism, is simply because he is out of sorts, a man of no military rank, who said “Hell with America,” what can you expect with such a man; a man whose Christianity is no more than a Voodooist.  Plus, Syria would stop getting their military rations from Iran, and there’d not be anymore clashes across the border with Americans in Iraq. To put it into a theological tone, had Satan, or Lucifer, not been harnessed by God, that is to say, had he completely been let loose to do at will whatever he wanted to or was capable of doing: man would have been destroyed—totally, and that is how we got to think of this kind of mindset with the leaders in Iran, that runs through Iran veins, and perhaps those that think like Iran: lest we want to be back in the trees with the monkeys.

By Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

Commentary, Journalist (Peru)

Vietnam Veteran 

Uni's Street Corner

Dr.Siluk's second Prose Short Story, ever written by the Author, 1984)

 

It was a chilly morning in early winter 1933, and as usual, Uni and Grandpa Walter readied themselves for their journey to Uni’s snowbound street corner in downtown Minneapolis, where Uni would sell her pencils. Uni who lived with Grandpa Walter—now aging with arthritis and light symptoms of forgetfulness—was always pleased to have her Grandfather accompany her each morning, although he could only walk her part of the way. And when evening came Grandpa Walter would be waiting—promptly at five—right where he left Uni that morning to walk her back home. And although Uni was blind from birth, with her cane and keen senses she never lost her way.

       This morning as they were walking Uni made a request. She asked her Grandfather to keep her company that day, saying (with her broken English):

       “I vant all my friends to see my very special Grand-Papa.”

       Grandpa Walter hesitated with an answer, remembering Uni had asked so many times before: could he turn her down again?

       Walter walked silently, rubbing his arms for warmth from the brisk winter wind and shifting cold snow. He waved to Ernie the milkman and Tony the mailman on his horse drawn sleigh, and Orve (a rag collector during the summer months and part-time janitor during the winter ones) walking towards downtown on the opposite side of the street. Walter thought, mumbling out loud: ‘Orve is on his way to pick up some sausage at the meat market, he does every Thursday.’

       Uni, with a somber voice, requested again: “Grand- Pa Pa Vaulter, vil you stay vith me today?”

       Grandpa Water wanted to say no, but just couldn’t. “Yes, Uni,” he replied, “if it pleases you I will.”

       With a cry of delight Uni quickly hugged her Grandfather.

       “But” said Grandpa Walter, “I will have to finish some chores at the house first. I will meet you at noon.”

       “Dat’s fine Grand-Pa Pa,” chuckle Uni with pleasure.

       As Uni stood on her street corner that morning awaiting for noon to arrive (pencils in one hand, a tin bucket half filled with pencils in the other, thus, allowing folks to drop coins into the bucket while taking a pencil), she talked to a few regular customers that stopped on by: and upon their departure, asked them for the time. But to her disbelief, it was only 8:20 a.m. ‘Gosh,’ she thought: ‘when you’re waiting for something special to happen, as having your Grandpa to keep you company for the day, time sure goes slow.’

       As Grandpa Walter readied himself for his journey to Uni’s street corner, he thought about how his son had stayed in Oslo, Norway after being stationed there in the American Army during World War I: and married Anna, Uni’s mother (a Norwegian citizen). It was just four years that December when he had traveled to Oslo to attend their funeral: a fatal train accident had taken their lives, whereupon, he decided—during his stay—to take Uni back with him to America.

       He thought—putting on his jacket—how retiring from the South Saint Paul stockyards two-years earlier gave him time to enjoy life, and his granddaughter: and how his small pension and two-bedroom house (paid for) on Glenwood Avenue made him feel secure, and his golden years brighter.
       Uni, awaiting Grandpa Walter, asked everyone she knew—or thought she knew—to be sure to stop by and get introduced to her grandfather who would be with her that afternoon. Most of Uni’s friends replied with a warm yes. A few strangers, who were mistaken for acquaintances, were promptly apologized to and they went on their way.

       There’s the judge, thought Uni. He’s on his way for lunch like always at 11:15 sharp. Uni knew it was him because he would always tap her bucket before dropping in a dime and taking a pencil from her right hand. Before he got too far, Uni cried: “Mr. Holms! Mr. Holms!”

       “Yes, Uni?” replied the Judge.

       “My grandfather is going to be vith me today; maybe you’d like to meet him?”

       “Well Uni, if he’s here on my way back I’d be delighted to. Bye for now!” replied the judge.

       “Boo!” said Grandpa Walter behind Uni in a soft way as to not scare her.

       “I knew it vas you Grandpa,” replied Uni with delight.

       “Well—how is my special and only granddaughter today?”

       “Oh fine,” said Uni nervously. “I’ve been telling my friend’s dat you are going to be vith me today.”

       “Yah!” said Walter unexpectedly, “Do you think that was wise?”

       “Oh! But vhy not Grandpa? I vant them all to meet you,” answered Uni.

       With a smile Grandpa Walter replied: “And I’m very please you do; and so they shall.”

       About twenty minutes elapsed. “Well,” said Grandpa Walter, “where are all these fine friends of yours?”

       “They’re out to lunch Grandpa,” answered Uni.

       Then just that moment appeared Mr. Holms the judge: thereafter, Viola and Mr. Solman; then came Ted the barber, and Mrs. Branch the seamstress, one right after the other. Uni introduced all of them to her Grandfather but something was wrong, very wrong. They all seemed somewhat uncomfortable, unfriendly—not like they usually were. And surprisingly to Uni none purchased any pencils as they normally would before leaving.

       On the way home that evening, Uni—bewildered because of her friends’ attitudes—questioned Grandpa Walter saying: “I just don’t understand. All my regular customers came by and they were so unfriendly. I just don’t understand.”

       As they walked further up Glenwood Avenue, Grandpa Walter hesitant replied: “Uni, I know why.”

       “Oh tell me Grandpa, did I do something wrong?”

       “No Granddaughter, you did nothing wrong. It’s simply because—because your skin is a different color than mine.”

       Uni stopped walking, stared in the direction of her grandfather, hesitated a moment, and said: “Oh Yaw?” She took Grandpa Walter’s hand in her’s. “I never noticed. In my world Grandpa, everything is dark. Is there a difference?”

       Grandpa Walter answered: “I guess it depends what world you wish to live in. I myself prefer yours.”

       With this Grandpa Walter squeezed Uni’s hand. Uni hugged Grandpa Walter burying her face into his coat. “I love you Grand-Pa Pa.”

Note (Background): In 1984, the author switched from poetry to see if he could write short stories. He had written five short poetic short stories between 1981, and 1984, but never a short prose story. He wrote in 1984, two short prose stories the first being, “The Little Russian Twins,” which was selected to be published in a book by “The Little Peoples Press.” The one not selected, the second story, was “Uni’s street Corner.” Both these stories were put into a ten-page chapbook of 100-copies, of which only a few are left. “Uni’s Street Corner,” was never seen by the public other than within the 100-chapbooks, this is the first time ever the author has allowed it to be reprinted. The Chapbook carried the name “Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant Life,”© 1984

A View on Poetic Style

A View on Poetic Style:  “I was told once, perhaps many times, but this one time in particular: I was told I had a nice style, different style of poetry.  I guess I never think of style for the most part, when I write what I considered freedom of poetry. Let me explain: I’ve felt perhaps from the first day I wrote my first poem, in 1959 at the age twelve “Who,” poetry must reclaim substance and sense, social, psychological, and cultural realities, religion, in place of unreal ones, eccentric and abstract ones, which do not save the soul, give insight, produce a story, nor can be understood by the mind. I understand there is a borderline between prose and poetry, which comes pretty close to poetic prose, but between that there is even a finer line, it is an old line, reclaimed.

       “What this really boils down to, is: poets must represent the world of nature and men as they see them, full of color, mystery and emotion; this takes a reassertion, it is a right of the poet, and one need discard all the romance and passion for more mundane themes, if indeed this is his style approach.

Multi Meaning Poetry

Using multi meaning words in poetry seems to be, or has been a universal trait for the majority of poets…this in itself can be a hindrance, it eliminates a wide social-economical section of the population, to include several age groups, young and old alike; it produces obscure images for the reader, ones only the poet or the well developed eye of the reader can decipher. Thus, the poet has to decide, who he wants to write for or to, if it is the wider population, he needs to take into account his readers. I would not read Robert Browning’s poetry to anyone under eighteen with less than a high school education, and would prefer they had at lest two years college, and a course in literature, preferable poetry. Yet I would say anyone could read Emily Dickenson, who is considered the lesser poet, according to our Higher Educated instructions. 

       So, my objective is to affect the majority of people reading my poem (s) within the audience, if I can, then I feel I’ve done a service.  Although perhaps less praise from the well established Poet’s Journal, Cota, in the United States and England, it’s a magazine I used to read, years ago, and study their poetry styles, then figured out ninety-five percent of it was not usable for me. No discredit to them, it was not my cup of tea.  Whenever you confine yourself to a formula, you limit yourself in a one way or another. It is like taking medicine, it might be good for you, but they all have side effects.  In poetry you need to find your own voice.

#912 (5-5-2012)