The Mother Grotto (Gruta de Huagapo, Peru)

By D. L. Siluk



Massive walls of stone left beautifully from a past age.
Images appear over the slim river, images with a thousand
shadows.

Pivoting, rushing sounds of water, a million gallons
sweep through this endless dirt, rock floor.

One can feel a new unease, deep in the pits of this grotto.

Granite images flutter overhead, death
shadows are coming, hanging
like long knots of wild energy,
they twist in triumph.

Now the time comes to look into the dark-tunnels,
the long past, it scuffles my brain;
I leap down into its nostril,
now, now I climb up with a rope on the other side
to the mouth of the dead,

look inside this dying hollow, my guide holds my hand,(to keep my balance) there is little time for talk,
my wife, and two other companions, wait across the empty pit,
I am, now…inside of its mouth, thinking:
‘…why did God created this?’

In here seasons never change, the pillars of stone,
shapeup like trees,
and the domes overhead, drip ice water, like
leaky teeth…!

Down in the pools of water, fish heads splash,
then jump deeper, their tails swirl, and they hide
in the shallow reeds, foliage, and rocks….

Old Man I say: ‘Grab the moment!’




No: 2045 11-8-07 ((Partly written 3-hours (5:00 PM, in a car) after visiting the largest grotto in South America, Huagapo; the rest of this poem was written when I got home to my apartment, about 7:00 PM, in Huancayo, Peru; the grotto being about 150-miles away.))


((Gruta de Huagapo (Peru))


La Madre Gruta


Enormes paredes de piedra legadas perfectamente de una edad pasada.
Imágenes aparecen sobre el río delgado, imágenes con unas mil
sombras.

Arrollando, sonidos de torrentes de agua, un millón de galones
barre a través de este interminable piso de tierra y rocas.

Se puede sentir una nueva inquietud, honda en los hoyos de esta gruta.

Imágenes de granito se agitan por encima, las sombras
de muerte están viniendo, colgadas
como nudos largos de energía desenfrenada,
ellas se retuercen en triunfo.

Ahora el tiempo viene para examinar los túneles oscuros,
el pasado largo, esto ataca mi cerebro;
salto abajo en las ventanas de su nariz,
ahora, ahora subo arriba con una soga al otro lado
a la boca de los muertos,
miro dentro de este hoyo agonizante, mi guía sostiene mi mano,
(para mantener mi equilibrio) hay poco tiempo para hablar,
mi esposa, y otros dos compañeros, esperan al otro lado del hueco vacío,
estoy, ahora...dentro de su boca, pensando:
“... ¿porqué Dios creó esto?”

¡Aquí las estaciones nunca cambian, los pilares de piedras,
en forma de árboles,
y de los domos por encima, gotean agua helada, como
dientes goteando...!

Abajo en las pozas de agua, cabezas de pescado chapotean,
luego saltan más profundo, sus colas se arremolinan, y ellos se esconden
en las aguas poco profundas, en los follaje, y rocas...

Viejo, digo: “¡Aprovecha el momento!”




# 2045 (8-Noviembre-2007 (Escrito en parte--3 horas—5:00 de la tarde, en un carro) después de visitar la gruta más grande en Sudamérica, Huagapo; el resto de este poema fue escrito cuando llegué a casa a eso de las 7:00 de la noche, en Huancayo, Perú; la gruta estaba aproximadamente a 150 millas de distancia.))

“In the Nick of Time” By Cindy White

I met Dennis at B&N
Café—a decent place to
write and draw. To
set one’s creative juices
among the crowd. Among
the roar of the blender that
would wind up words for
a poet—any poet.

Dennis is an inspiration,
for this lowly poet, as
I sit in the same B/N
café without him, thinking
of his new life in Peru.
Thinking I might catch
his spirit, his muse and
sprout my words.

It was an honor; still
Is an honor to sit
in this space, where
one poet met another poet
in the nick of time.

Note: to be published in the forth coming book, "Silence in a Restless Valley," in July of 2008

Ode:
To Opening of a
Chicharron Sandwich

Memo: for those who do not know, Chicharron is pork at its best in Peru; it is cooked in hot oils, and often put in-between two pieces bread and this, called a Chicharron Sandwich.

We think of Alexander the Great
As we open up a Chicharron Sandwich
Looking down, we see
Two bodies slapped on top of something
In-between— chicharron;
A brainstorm begins
(still looking down)
Miles of thoughts pass us
Like a roadrunner…!
What is in-between—peeks at us
(like a mouse to a nearby cat).
Your eyes go around the sandwich,
as if you are spying:
Likened to a mammoth toad;
Then they melt into the entire sandwich
(drowning your previous brainstorm).
Toads, mice and brainstorms
everything drowning…!
In the attic of our minds
We murder the sandwich now,
Like a great prince, at a feast!...


No: 2013 (10-10-207)

Disappearing Life

When will you speak up?
When images of death appear?
When your grave is filled
(when it is too late, that is)?
When you look back in life
do you say:
“A worn-out life?”
“A life misplaced?”
“A life ruined?”
When it is too late, it is too late:
it will be the time for silence
(no escape)!

Note: We have a right to die, but not simple because our life is worn-out, in saying that I mean, we do not have a right to take this life, this is different. Suffering is part of life. Life is sacred and given to us by God. He did not give it to the angels, or to other beings, not like he gave it to us, for that reason alone, life should be sustained by medical measures if possible. We need to remember there is a difference between the postponement of life, to death and prolongation of life. My mother was dying in the hospital, a normal old aged death, and a death inevitable: we allowed the natural process to run its course. No: 2014 (10-10-2007)

Decomposed Peace (The Seeds of War and Peace with Death)

They bill it peace, in the process destroy,
That natural fiber is declining, now cursed;
They quay the secret seeds that decompose;
The barriers no longer provide peace:
Nor the mountains nor the seas, the stars;
Now tantrums dictate who will be harmed.
Satan built our peace, planted it with wars,
The little peace we had flew off like a fawn:
Before dawn, before light was set in motion.
Now we lay in our cold and worm-like tombs,
As it has been, so it will end for man,
Where under life, families reep ardent wounds;
Sterilize the cities, too many mouths to feed,
No more babies, no more life, no more crying.

They bill it peace, lies can burn, long and hot
They come like eggs, hard and soft, in frost;
A suffering pot of crickets, are they not?
You can ease their plotted minds, with ecstasy
Providing you have breasts and simplicity,
But they will swallow you like a pig in mud,
Cut you up, peer you, suck out all your blood.
There is no glory in peace or war, only trinkets
Solitude is in God, as is time and truth…
So we buy peace, with war, a childhood toy—
And one hundred million lives destroyed:
In less than a century; wars live on, not man
Beauty resides always, in the Creator’s hand.
No more babies, no more life, no more crying.

# W1864 6-2-2007

Note: Around the world everyday we see war, and people trying to make peace, a silly combination. Take any day, and look at its contradictions of peace for war, or war if not peace, watch the hypocrites in motion, in Iraq, we fight for peace with war, in Germany today, the G8 says they want to make a better world with Globalism, and 30,000-hypocrits fight with war, and hurt policemen, because they see things differently. And the police want peace, everyone wants peace, with a gun in their hands, or a bomb, or a stick. Lebanon, rages with war again today when the UN is there trying to make peace. NATO is at war in how many countries? Trying to make peace with guns; Nigerian rebels have just decided to have peace for a while, instead of attacks on the oil wells of that country. Tomorrow things will change, but only the face, not the guts and the hormones, they remain the same, war or peace, and peace cannot be without war. And we continue to dance in the circle.

Friday Haikus: Over Fish and Onion

[At El Parquettos, Miraflores, Lima Perú]

Part Three (5-11-2007)
Youth

Lovely young girls walking by
Along the park sidewalks
With tight pants on

#1831


Osama


Osama bin Laden
Looks fiercely west
Hungering for inter vengeance

#1832




Lima Ball Game

Looking forward to tomorrow
Feeling great!
Ballgame, I’m Godfather

#1833




A May Afternoon
(at the park by Miraflores)

May, afternoon
Can’t find the sun
Must be in the rest room

#1834



Autumn’s Chill

No rush, but its coming
Winter’s chill on my
Autumn’s table

#1835

Comments: For some poets in the early 50s, writing Haikus was a study in nature, and speculation on the form of the Haikus, a practice you could say, thus, perhaps losing some of the essence, the fresh lake aroma they usually have, for the reeking sweat of mountain climbing, turning the diamond shaped Haikus into rhinestones. Many tried to produce a fancy free expression in them, not sue if this was good or bad, just new. Not sure if I can call those Haikus’ either. The Japanese artists of course do the best job for the Haikus, but somehow one can also lose the affect in being too rigid. Sometimes it is a compromise. In ‘Fish and Onions’ we drop the normal 17- syllables, for affect.


Fish and Onions

I felt like a cat today—
Eating fish and onions
Almost licking my saucer

#1836




Saturday Haikus: At the Game

(5-21-2007)


At the barbershop

For an once of fame
The youth of today
Will do almost anything

Even part the waters of heaven
To swim in hell—!

#1837

Comment: Watching T.V., while my wife is getting a haircut, brought some deep thinking to my head, it is 11:52 AM, and the ballgame just got over, about twenty-minutes ago. (5-12-2007)
The Toilet

Ballplayers are still arriving
—wonder where the toilet is
I’ll wait.

#1838


We Won 5 to 1

Howl like a hoot owl
The ballgame goes on
Like a dust storm

#1839 (4:53 PM)

Thursday Haikus: Lunch at the Café
[At El Parquettos, Miraflores, Lima Perú]

Lima Sun

They say, sun until June
—In Lima, Peru
What if they’re wrong?


#1823 (5-10-2007)) When we count on something or one too much, we normally get disappointed somewhere down the road; expectations unmet I call them, and sorry to say, we become disappointed in others and suffer for that, perhaps we need to look at things and people as less than perfect.))


Lunch at the Café

Worthless! Worthless!
— Spaghetti today
Like a lake full of rain

#1824


Silverware

Silverware clashing!
Behind my back
Like birds out of tune…!

#1825
(at El Parquettos)


Commentary on From: Here we see the use of Haikus as (almost) epigrams, yet within keeping the grace of the haiku, and close to its form (the three lines, syllables are relatively close, if not 17-sylables, but the stress is not in keeping it uniform with the Japanese style Haikus, it is in keeping with the simplicity of the glorious day God has given, just one Thursday in so many.




Time Travel

Well, here I am again,
Its 2:35 PM (at the Café);
What month is it?

#1827


Sleep

One of the greatest gifts
God has given me—!
Is sleep! Beautiful sleep!

#1828

Rotten Poets

The minds of Ginsberg and Burroughs
Was full of nasty thrills
With young boys

#1829


Café Blues

Soupy Skies—
Crossing over the open café
Becoming too pale to write

#1830



Allen Ginsberg spoke of Kerouac as the master of the Haiku, I now care to refute this; first of all Ginsberg was perhaps the worse and most unclassy poet that has ever lived, and Kerouac, although good with spontaneous prose, was far from a master of the Haiku; the best I can say is he was the master of his own style of Haiku, and that alone. If he did anything, he lowered the Haiku to a windmill, where at once it was a skyscraper.

Poetic Tender Riffs (three poems)

Here are a few poems I wrote today, in the process of writing them, I wanted to give them all one common name, because it all came out in one long afternoon chain of thoughts (so I named them: “Tender Riffs”), as I sat under the sun, my coffee in hand, and eggs and steak nearby, at my favorite outdoor restaurant, in Lima, and the waitress (Sarah, brought my food, said “Mr. Siluk…” meaning stop whatever you are doing and let me put your food on the plate, that is what she was thinking, not saying, and what I was reading, eyes tell a lot. Her hands patiently hoping I’ll finish my stanza quick so she doesn’t have to hold the tray much longer. I have to always finish the sentence you know, or the stanza. My wife, Rosa, is under the big yellow umbrella, I sit under the sun—she likes the shade. Then after I eat, finish eating that is, back I go again to see if …whatever is needed gets it (2-18-2007):


1) Angel or White Shadow (Surr’el)

My guardian Angel—
I’ve named you—Surr’el
I hope you don’t mind

I’ve never heard your voice
But I’ve seen you—
At least one time.

I’m the one you’ve protected
For so many years,
You stood, beside my bed once…

(when I was dying, almost gone…
and I got a glimpse of you—
tall and white and broad:)

You are my white shadow
Who I wish to meet someday,
I have thought of you often…!

#1696


2) Flyover

An F16 Jet, flew over our heads
(on my way to the café, today))
Several times, like a Roaring lion))
The earth moaned under my feet,
As I walked the neighborhood,
Lima, streets…folks were outside
Sitting, watching, listening…numb,
Women, with hands over their mouths,
Absorbing the terrifying sound…!
After the flyover (a military air show I hear),
The jet now out of sight, I look back at the
Two women, still they remain in fright…
And the others, speechless…!

#1697


3) Rosa’s Newspaper

She tucks the newspaper—tightly
against itself,
Taps it on the table, to insure one section
Is even with the others—as if she’s going
To give it a rest (and drink her coke,
Perhaps talk); then she—Rosa, my wife,
Opens it a second time, and reads it
Again (not sure what the tucking
And the tapping was for) but now she
Adjusts her eyes to the small print,
With her new glasses—‘Guess’ (squints)
And grips it as if the wind may move it
(what wind, I ask…myself); She’s firm
in her posture,
Glances onto the next page (doesn’t notice,
I notice her)) I think…?). I ask,
“Anything interesting?”
“No,” she comments, and then adds:
“There is a man in Pakistan he blew
himself up….”
She glances at me now (as I write
this down (stoned faced) unaware;
Then she shifts her eyes back to the paper
and continues to read again….

#1693Three Poems) "Angel...." & "Flyover" & "Rosa's Newspaper"