Out of the eight poems provided here [all previously unpublished], four are Poetic Prose, a few Visionary [what I call Vsionary anyhow], a few Free Verse, and a few with more form and structure, more closely to the Auden style of: stanza, metrical rhythm, and rhyme. In saying that, I do believe all the poems are conveying a rich network of meaning, some of them painfully close bond between pleasure and destruction. They should appeal to the senses and create images in our minds, for poetry is just that kind of language that most complexly and effectively qualifies.
Let me flee from
My vision, my world
My world which is
Now a prison-.
I shall change
My poetic harmony
From flesh to spirit
I shall be? a?
I shall be a poem
Yes, O yes a poem
As the fire goes out
And the moon comes in!
The flickering skies darken,
Makes a ghostly moon-path?
With the moon upon my face
A skull-like grin takes place
I choke the roaring dark,
To save the flickering moon-path.
Life on a Finger
If this is life on a finger
Why do I feel so dead?
Why does my soul whisper?
Life is more than this.
What has my life been plotting?
While the world cringes and reeks
Humanity clinging so tightly-
As it hides and silently weeps.
I love fruit
and she loves candy
he loves beer
and she loves brandy
everyone makes such
are most people,
I just want
Poetic Prose: can be musical, without rhythm or rhyme, and still rugged enough to adjust to the impulses of the soul or conscience; or so I believe, and so saying, here are a few I think may qualify for such a test, four in particular:
First of all, I do not claim to be a critic or scholar of Prose Poetry, but I like writing Prose Poetry when I like to wipe fantasy to the side, for some reason it seems less essential for me during this stage. I'm also allowed-or, so it seems-to be a bit more moralistic, in the brief; my imagination can comb my travels more, people more-spontaneity is fresher with Prose Poetry for me. I'm even a bit reckless or eminently, or vividly uninsightful in the sense of hanging on to-or trying to- make a point. Thus, my prose might be called a critical essay, but it is not.
Even Shakespeare tried his version of Blank Verse with Prose. Victor Hugo, whom I visited his house while in Paris one afternoon, and whom is a great poet, as is Baudelaire-in my eyes, used metrical innovations to create prose, where I use very little. But hope to get the same effect. But I have learned in poetry, and perhaps the hard way, it is what occurs to you, that makes it all worth while, and obviously to the reader, who marks its worth; not what occurs to the other person; we have too much of the copycat crap. So here are a few new, freshly out of the oven poems in prose:
Co merchant Wisdom
[End of a life, cut ups-l997]
"?to glance at me?fine carpets on walls?Fish Fly around the room?the fart?water pills?funerals?age often keeps quiet?order a plate of bratwursts?pass out in the vomitorium?we got old?(and he shit in his pants)?water pills (ease heart stress)?boxer shorts?who is God? (he heard his voice once, it sounded like his)?Ah war bigness addiction?the poet aging on the stool?LSD?MTV?Jackson?Dylan?Elvis?Sushi?FBI? (the poet dies ((l997))?Beethoven?is about one man?Genocide?Skeleton?" In the beginning?:
The Brooklyn Bridge
[3/2000] Prose Poetry
The Brooklyn Bridge: she's on a bike, I'm walking. She screams:
"Get out of my way! Get on your own side! Read the damn Sign!"
I say: "Fuck you!"
It was a burp (kind of)-first words out of my mouth, out of anger?. Then
I moved slowly to the proper side of the bridge, its street like walk; and enjoyed
the rest of the March skies-
A Tired Kiss
A kiss of a tired woman: lips of soapsuds, no lip pressure-; tired so long her mind forgot how to tell her lips to form a kiss?. Now soapsuds dance on her lips: form bubbles-depart like ships on voyages. Her kiss forms into a flabby kiss? then more like a hand-shake. Her husband (firm and frank) no longer looks at them; to him they are like dark-clouds about to rain. At one time her husband said: "You were the best!"
I own furniture that dream-you know,
like it has a life of its own; they speak
their own language-; like everything else
that circles the sun.
There is no soul involved though, only
some, some awareness, with windows and
doors; the cascading of rain and snow;
assignment to a certain room, things like
I don't know what infuriates them,
other than the impudent man. So,
idol they remain, each to its own, I
suppose; waiting for curiosity or
admiration to bloom, anything!...
Poems to come:
Girl and the Ox
Curse of the Toucan Bird
The Lost Ant
The Baggage Room
Dennis Siluk lives in the Midwest with his wife Rosa, and in Lima, Peru where he spends a few months out of the year. He has been writing poetry for over 40-years, and has had his poetry published in a number of newspapers, magaziens,books and in about every corner of the world. In l981, his first book was published, "The Other Door: Poetic Exhortations" now worth several times its original value, as seen recently on Ebay, and abe.books, launched a love afair with poetry. His website is: http;//dennisiluk.tripod.com