Article on Poetry and Two Poems

Writing Poetry for Tomorrow

What does a man need to be a poet, or tomorrow's literary giant? Questions many a student has asked, from Harvard all the way to the community college in one's hometown. What is the answer? Well, I can give you mine, and I'm sure if you asked a hundred writers, or a hundred scholars, you'd get two hundred different answers.

I'm sure some would say: hard work, while others might say, the right college, or a break, or it is who you know. Money can play a part in it others would say, and timing, I mean, given the opportunity. And it may very well be all of these, but let me iron out what I think might lay underneath the cellar, for its been cleaned out pretty well above it.

What is genius to you? Well, to me it is when something comes natural, easy. And so it should be in the premise we are now talking about. How about experiences in isolation, seclusion (be it in a willing environment or not: like engulfed in drugs or alcohol or prison, war, or some melancholy hole, or illness. How about exquisiteness or beauties per se; let's try a good sense of humor when the chips are down especially-wit might fit better; and how about strong, if not strange empathy and passion. All the schools and brains in the world cannot replace these requirements. Should you have these, and the money, time and schooling all the better; should you not, your possibly going to get tired of writing anyhow, you have nothing to say; rather report, it would be better.

Hollow-eyed girl

Little hollow-eyed girl
staring-up at the big world
wearing a pink flannel nightgown-
barefoot and all?.

Sleeping parents unaware
she slipped out of bed (to somewhere)
whispers a voice, unexpectantly
(a thin mouth quivering):

"You do look kind of like a
picture that might have been?."

The mother reaches out to gather
the child into her embrace
?

"Poor little thing," she thinks
(still in her dream).

The child stands back-
Deserted once by her mother
Tossed back to oblivion.
Yet the echoes of

"Mommy?"
Is heard-over and over
(like the humming of a train on tracks).

"But aren't you cold?"
Asks the dreaming woman,

"Come, take my hand!"

The child stern-: now stares
With pale lips-
Puckered with disappointment
She whimpers a tear.

With pathetic eagerness
She asks again (the child bemused)
Says:

"I don't know the way?and
You don't have time?"
And as she wakes up, the child
Disappears!...

#585 [3/24/05]

3rd Day of Spring

Birds shit while in flight
Male bees screw, and then die
And People, they just lie!

#586 [3/24/05]

Mr. Siluk is a poet, and short story writer for the most part. Althogh he has done many political articles, and received a personal letter from President Bush for his contributions in support of may of his policies. He lives in Minnesota, and Peru, and recently has finished a new book called: "Cold Kindness," which will be out soon. Website: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

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