Dispensation/Confessional Poetry of D.L. Siluk
Note: Dispensation Poetry/Confessional: so I refer to the four poems below. I don’t often look back, and process my life into poetic stanzas, unless it is in short story form, traveling, culture and a few other exceptions, and in a different character other than me usually, it seems to make for a better read, but here are for poems that are to the contrary of that rule.
1—Hunting For—
(Why not me?)) Confessional Poetry))
They always thought—said, ‘you can’t’
at the schools he attended, in the
army, to him, by his friends
he’d walk in like whatsoever
he had worked, days and nights, all hours.
Hard times, often broke, steadfast with mule-
like fortitude, he marched on, the underdog turned wolf
as if from underneath some curse
a devils spell that was long planted.
‘You mustn’t tire,’ he told himself, of the dreams and
past efforts he could admire, if only by himself
and over in his mind—he climbed
to the top of the heap, where tired men sleep, and
pushed on, like granite. He wrote book after
book and traveled the worldwide,
and measured his hours he’d spent, building
his kingdom, becoming rich, helping family
and friends, winning prizes,
living in the moment, unafraid—no more pretense,
saving all those attributes, those works of art
that had carved his world so long ago.
#1703 2-27-2007
Note: Sometimes a deficit can be the stepping stone to success. My daughter was told, she’d never be able to read, mentally retarded; my son, Shawn who got 93% in a countrywide intelligence test, way above average, became a bum, and my daughter became a learner. That is to say, she learned to read and write, something her doctors and educators said she’d not be able to do. But day after day, after month after year, she did succeed. Also sometimes where we live the environment we live in, kind of spells out what we are supposed to be. I was raised in a troublesome neighborhood, the only one that went to college, and perhaps the only one to travel worldwide. You got to make a plan, and work it out. I’ve noticed on my way up, and when I was down, people give up. Perhaps that is good, it leaves some gaps open for me. The second insight I learned, was to grab opportunity, at one time I would have said, “Not me”, now I say, “why not me?” And go ahead with the plan.
2—Untangled Shadow (Confessional Poetry)
For three years I lived in her house
not knowing: had I not moved out, I’d had died: our wedding
portrait I threw in the garbage, one suite case in hand
in the car; her face still staring as I left.
You told me, there was no way then, to put
it back; you wanted my house, keeping your’s also.
Sunday at church, your children cursed my name
on the way out, and you kept the diamond ring
safe, hidden with photographs I might have taken back,
and there was no guilt unless you borrowed some
from him. Months later we met, you told me he left
you, he was sick like me, and said “If you can leave him
why not me?” he was already prepared, not like me;
he saw and untangle the blueprint, hidden under your
shadow, moving towards him, and he ran.
#1704 2-27-2007
Note: Today is not like it used to be, and the use to be was in the 40s and 50s, when there was a stigma if you got a divorce, or if you had children, being raised in a second marriage by the husband who is not the father. In most cases, it seems, it can be a thankless joy, and the children do get in-between. And women do marry men for the wrong reasons, and perhaps they are right to them, wrong for the man, in this case, to help with raising them, as in the poem above, “Untangled Shadow.” We don’t need to point fingers, or blame others, but we do need to work out the emotions, the hurt, for people do get angry, or hurt in the process: children as well as the marriage couple. There is no secret formula, only honesty, if that can be laid on the table, before hand.
3—Hospital Visit (Confessional Poetry)
The curtains are half closed around my bed, no one
in the room, only my mother standing. And then
finally, I see a sad countenance, it surprises me,
I see my brother’s arrival, he seems guarded. Only two,
years difference in age, I wonder what happened, have I:
been her long. Empty minutes in my head, I feel absent
but here — behind her eyes — she knows, he knows
they look at the tubes in my chest
watch it rise and fall in my casing, and try
to pretend all is well, nothing but sad eyes
in her throat. Then, finally, she touches the bed railing
to look into my face, deeper, she wants to cry,
and holds it in — she can’t imagined me
dying before her, we are seeing each other, our
humanity, the enduring of love.
#1705 2-27-2007
Note: there really are no words or ways to express certain looks people give you when they are weakened because of their love for you, in the time of disaster. They don’t quite know what to say, and you don’t know quite what to say, and how it should be said, if indeed, it must be said. I was in the hospital dying in 1994, a stroke and heart attack. In 2003, my mother was dying in the hospital, it all was reversed it seemed, 11-years later. I was angry she was going to die, my mother was sad I was going to die. Not sure which emotions are right or wrong, I don’t think any are, they are what they are, emotions, and simple as that. It is how we process them afterwards. I didn’t blame God, and I’m glad I didn’t, it would have been a mistake, I was angry simply because, it was easier than dealing with the hurt of the loss (we will all die some day). But it must all be worked out; I just thank God, he took my mother and gave her beautiful little eyes, and that I could see them in 1994, because I still see them; I hope she saw my eyes when I visited her in the hospital, without the anger.
4— Aftereffects (In Ozark, Alabama)
I think by now it is time for us to move on from here.
I can see the shanty huts, the ones along side the
Cemetery, dilapidated they are, in need of restoration
long overdue. The garbage has filled the air
above our small rented house, and the grass against the
fence can’t hide the cemetery or the garbage.
I’ve walked through that section, when we first came here,
over the gravestones through the tall grass, —twilight itself
shinned on my porch, the neighbor flirted with me from her’s .
I just pretended not to notice and stood outside, smiled.
I saw her move about. She reminded me of me —
when I was single and younger, long ago —
as she moved on, and away from the porch
from the screened-in door with reflections from the moon.
I confess that my insides were dropping, cramping
I kept a pretense. In it, I became different and nervous, not
wanting to crossover to her, shameful she came to me
from her mouth these words came (echoes throughout me)
“You see, my husband wants me to lay with you, and watch?”
that came from her so easier, opening a wishful door,
but I didn’t want a scar, or wound, or being numb; it would
had been the beginning, the second time —closer to the end.
#1706 7-27-2007
Note: I lived in Ozark, Alabama in the 1970s, and have been married a few times, and was there with my wife, and my neighbor was an attractive woman, a few years younger than I (her husband a friend, and both high on pot all the time), and to be honest, I and my human nature was being tested. I am no hero for avoiding the situation, but glad I did, it is simply trading one pot of crickets for another, and who needs that.
Article Source: http://www.fish4articles.com
You may reprint this article in its entirety so long as you do not modify the content or resource box. |
