New Poetic Work By Ethiopian Immigrant Promotes Respect, Courage And Cultural Sensitivity
July 30, 2008
McLean, VA - “The Healing Conscious” tells the story of an Ethiopian immigrant boy on his fascinating journey to America and adulthood. Author Kifle Bantayehu, a 23 year-old second-generation Ethiopian immigrant, recounts this poignant tale in poetic format. His inspirational collection of poems reflects the final words and thoughts of a dying man who traveled across the world, raised a family and became successful-finally fulfilling the American dream.
These poems, written in a uniquely modern style, reflect a journey of sacrifice, courage and strength. “The ideals of cultural preservation, respect and love intertwine with each person encountered along the narrator’s journey and serve as inspiration to all people, regardless of race religion or sex,” states the introduction of the book.
Bantayehu says there have been very few work works of poetry written and published by Ethiopian authors. And he feels as though he’s breaking new ground for this genre of literature by combining the English language with Ethiopian culture.
“The Healing Conscious” is available for pre-order at Borders and Barnes & Noble. It’s also available online at Amazon.com and books.lulu.com at discounted pricing.
How to Write Bad Poetry
July 24, 2008
"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling."–Oscar Wilde
People write poetry for a plethora of reasons, but this article has a sharpened arrowhead aimed directly at the fingertips of amateur poets who wish to be published yet refuse to learn the attributes of a well-crafted poem. These poets are the ones who plop their pieces, shining with every beam of ambiguity, vagueness and hackney, into cyberspace for review. I have encountered a few of these poets to whom I have given a courteous critique, only to be backhanded in the face by sore comments such as, "You must be too dense to get it," or "Everyone I know tells me how great I am. You’re the only one?"
Of course I am usually left wondering why someone would care to post a poem in a critique forum if any constructive comment given to the poet gets immediately flushed down the cyber-potty. Many new poets seem to think that writing a poem is one hundred percent emotion. They overlook the notion that, as with any craft, poetry entails a good deal of practice and learning as well as desire and talent. So instead of writing about the importance of concrete imagery, figurative language, and the art of minimizing abstractions, I thought it might be fun, (and might even tick a few people off) to write a small compendium of attributes of bad poetry.
Spell of the Andes: (in English and Spanish)
July 18, 2008
Note: written 4-15-05, while driving through the Andes of Peru, from Huancayo to Lima. I sensed I was but an ant, among the mass of stone, earth and foliage of this enchanting, and enduring landscape.
Spell of the Andes By Dennis L. Siluk English Version
This is a song of the Andes,
That reaches unto the sky On the slow warm days, When the Cholos play,
And the river runs low and high.
The towering Andes look down
In the passing of the sun: "I’m one with the Andes brotherhood
I’m a dreamer, with a song."
I came from afar to see her
And how beautiful she really is, With her strong hardness, fresh freedom O God! How I want to breathe her
In the autumn of my life!…
Versión en Español
Nota: escrito 15-04-05, mientras pasábamos a través de Los Andes del Perú, desde Huancayo a Lima. Sentí que era solo una hormiga, entre la masa de piedras, tierra y follaje de este encantador y duradero paisaje.
Revelación de los Andes Por Dennis L. Siluk
(Traducido por Nancy Peñaloza)
Esta es una canción de los Andes,
Thank You To Our Soldiers And A Tribute To Old Glory And A Prayer For Peace
July 12, 2008
Thank you
Dedicated to soldiers and their loved ones
For those who have laid in fox holes,carried guns,marched for hours.
For those who have had cold sleepless nights,endless days of discomfort.
For those who have endured the agony of war for my sake.
Thank you.
For those who have gently kissed a loved one goodbye,
and with a tear looked back for a last time,
For those who have found courageto carry the sword of liberty.
For those who have flown with the eagle.
For those who have landed on foreign soil.
Taking freedom to other countries while keeping freedom in ours,
Thank you.
For those who have lost limbs,lives and loved ones.
For those who have lost friends,sisters ,brothers,mothers and fathers,
For those who have sacrificed and gave their all for freedom’s sake.
Thank you.
For those who have found the courage to stand,
For those who have reached out a hand for their fallen comrade.
For those who give freedom to strangers ,and a hope for peace.
For those who sacrifice all they love, and pay the price for freedom.
Our Home
July 8, 2008
Our home was warm in the shade of the trees or when the sun was not upon it.
It was built on the side of a hill, near a lake where spirits could be free.
On the warm porch ? hummingbirds watched, from branches where they sit, and the cat and the dog lay sunning, as we read ? nestled very closely.
It was made of dark wood and of brick, had green shutters and was designed by our father: as a place to come to rest after a day, a week, or as a refuge throughout the years.
It was a place ? tranquil and safe, warm and friendly ? quite unlike any other.
It was a place for exploring ? the woods, the lake, and yes ? our inner fears.
We welcomed friends unto this place. We called out: come one ? come all, and many hours were spent talking, playing cards, or simply sitting by the fire.
We conversed many times, learning of each other, telling our tales, which then seamed tall.
From life’s struggles, which then seamed unreal, we learned to fight ? and to never tire.
The Treasure of Catalina Huanca (In English and Spanish)
June 30, 2008
Note: written after seeing the little adobe 16th century church San Sebastian, in San Jeronimo, by the mountains of Huancayo, Peru, after being taken there by the Wandering Quechua guide, Enrique (4-13-2005).
The Treasure of Catalina Huanca
Written by Dennis L. Siluk
There, by the lofty mountains fair
Hidden under the earth by Huancayo In San Jerónimo de Tunan-
Is Catalina’s treasure of gold!
Whereupon, the Spaniards killed
Atahualpa, the Inca King–; Hence, Catalina turned around to seek
And found-her new, sacred ground!…
And, a glutted stream swept-
This little adobe church Called San Sebastian-ever since
In the lofty mountains by Huancayo!…
Spanish Version Por Dennis L. Siluk
Translated by: Rosa and Minerva Peñaloza
Note: Escrito después de visitar la pequeña iglesia San Sebastián construida de adobe en el siglo 16, en San Jerónimo de Tunan, por las montañas de Huancayo, Perú, después que ser tomado allí por el Peregrino Quechua guía, Enrique (4-13-2005)
El Tesoro de Catalina Huanca
Allí, por las altas montañas
Ocultado bajo la tierra de Huancayo En San Jerónimo de Tunan-
¡Esta el tesoro de oro de Catalina!
The Gaul of La Laguna de Paca
June 24, 2008
Part One
I tell you a legend of long ago Of the sunken city of La Laguna de Paca, (Where I had met a lingering ghost) Within this region of Huancayo–Peru; Truth lies, but only the soul knows.
Part Two
So the legend goes, of long ago: During the rising of the full moon The Mermaid of La Laguna de Paca, appears And to the nearby towns folks, she echoes… Echoes: her cries and moans!!
Then when one thinks all is well– The enchanting rings, the rings…! Of the bells, the Great Bells, bells Of the sunken church of La Laguna de Paca Are heard by the folks of the town.
Part Three
But there is more to this legend: For it is said, wherein the dark night (The ink dark macabre star-lit nights) Wherein the Errieness of the full moon Ebbs across the Laguna Paca, gives birth, To the Great Bull,who scrotches the hillside
Scrotches the foliage to its bones…! Scrotches its with fire and brimstone.
Part Four
And now I tell you of my tale– A tale of that took place but a few days ago, By an embankmnment along the Laguna de Paca.
Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Dog
June 18, 2008
Emlyn Williams Theatre, Mold, North Wales: 20th February 2003
Clwyd Theatr Cymru commemorated the 50th anniversary of the death of the Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) with a superb run of performances by a small but accomplished cast of actors.
Described in the programme as "A theatrical journey through the prose writing of Dylan Thomas", the production was created by Tim Baker, an Associate of the Royal National Theatre, who won the Manchester Evening News Best Visiting Production award in 1992 for the highly acclaimed To Kill a Mockingbird.
Although Thomas is best known for his ‘play for voices’, Under Milk Wood, his evocative poems such as Fern Hill and Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night are rarely overlooked when anthologies celebrating 20th century poetry are put together. Indeed, this mesmerizing interpretation of Thomas’s short stories could well be described as a rich fusion of prose and poetry. For example, in a scene crossing a river he speaks of, "slipping stepping stones" and early on in the piece he describes his "love" of words thus:
Death & the Supernatural: Poetry/Five Poems
June 12, 2008
Supernatural Poetry
Here are five poems,-what I call-death and supernatural poems. Perhaps a bit bizarre, a few stanzas may be, but with unfailing subtlety of course, and a ting of acuteness, but we have to hag on if we want a good ride:
1.
Evil’s Creation
Thou knowith evil clings To tender peace-; Nor does it heed one’s drowsy Un-enthralled grief?
But softly it darkens Twilight’s dunes-; With sprinkling shadows Straight from the moon.
O Night! Who giveth birth? To Evils plight? As mighty murmurs Reached my breast?:
"His name has no beginning And no end?!"
But why?! O why? Everlasting King, Have you created?! Such a thing?
As mighty murmurs Reached my breast?: "To see, whom you love The very best!…"
#609 4/1/05
2.
The First Depth
Struggling against unrestful skies The warlords of eternal darkness -unseen to life’s obvious eyes- Ebb and seek the prize, dominion!
‘The First depth,’ the silence of the deep Eternal legions with unrestful eyes The Abysses storm, uncircumcised The colossal ramparts now untied
‘The First Depth,’ with rival skies Here, gathers demonic and divine Now with storms, once hidden beyond Armies of defense, build their saga
Man Unbowed [A poem]
June 6, 2008
Man Unbowed
Unbowed by sin, the world of man, stands Upon his feet he gapes into the sky, The indifference of centuries within his eyes, And in his heart the curse of the old world. Who made him dead to love and God? A thing that breathes only for wants and needs, With a lack of emotion, a brother to the fox? Who tightened and pushed up his jagged brow? (To make him look so grand, so proud-so tall.) Who was it that produced his naked pulse? Who sucked out his soul from its frame?
Is this the handy work Satan made and gave? To have command over man as slave; To have him chase stars that never reach heaven; To have him cursed for time without end? Is this the revenge he dreamed for God and man? The one thrown out of heaven, into darkness: Down to earths ground and Hades, Hell?? There is no morbid thing worse than he More greedy with condemning man to Hell’s eternity More blind-hate with leaches and spells for mans fate- More filled with demonic revenge for him.
