Poem - A Poet's Love, and a Commentary to Stone Heap of the Wildcat

By Dennis Siluk Ed.D.

A Poet's Love

In the mist of life something led you to be my wife

(late in life, aging as we were)

Thus, you were chosen to walk through ice and fire

with me, not knowing where next we'd be

You didn't know where you were going-dancing

all the way-yet,

You seen that your life was to go with me-even if

it meant leaving your home country

and that behind

And in the process you wore out your shoes, several

sets of them (especially on this most recent pilgrimage)

But you grew on the way, through thorn and lilac

bushes, and at times, calm seas;

Always kissing me along the way: always ready to be

what you were meant to be, knew and felt:

you were meant to be: my sidekick, my wife, my

last part of my life.

Note: It would be unkind of me to finish this book without a word of appreciation to and for my wife, of ten years-actually she's been more a sidekick, and comrade, and then my help or my wife as the Good Book says. And I figured what a better way of expressing my appreciation for her than by giving her the last poem of the book ('A Poet's Love')

No: 2768/8-2-2010

Dedicated to Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk (Written in Lima, Peru)

In Writing the book "Stone Heap of the Wildcat" with Poetry and Prose

In writing this book of poetry mixed with prose, there was a reason, more than a reason, a goal-let me explain: the poet is usually able to transcend the particularities of a story, without writing a story, which poetry being of many elements, one is that it is a story in essence, one that I end up questioning and stretching out in my own personal lot, but also being of all human nature if not life: if that makes sense. In short, psychology and philosophy and economic conditions and political issues are all mingled with profound reflections, imaginations, sometimes to make a point with complexity as I write (although I try to simplify things, so I do it with poetry and prose, instead of density and complexity)-at the same time, poetry cannot do certain things, so we must depend on something else, lest we be helpless at sea.

In this respect the short story, notes, articles (or perhaps even a novelette, or novel-and in my novels I've used poetry, in this case, just the opposite) or the variety of one or the other, must be written to take some of the attributes poetry cannot give, which will give the relations of man-or fill the gap for man along with: fate, imagination and his dreams that poetry cannot fill in its present form. It will take the mould of this odd form-the conglomeration of all this to give what the modern mind wants to give to the reader, or what my mind wants to give in the case of this book "Stone Heap of the Wildcat". Therefore, this is why in this book you have what you have, as I have in most of my poetry books-the precious prerogatives of poetry and prose, its freedom and flexibility to get the most minute fragments of mass through the subtle labyrinths to the reader.

A third thought, on why I do what I do. Too much time is wasted-for the reader in trying to figure out what the poet is trying to say or do. Every bone in my body tells me this, and days and hours are precious. I am not sure what the world thinks of this ejecting of old rules for new aloof poetry with prose, and I suppose to be honest, I don't give a hoot, as long as my poetry can easily fit-and naturally fit with prose, and accordingly, change what might have been in doubt, had I not used the combination-sometimes you cannot build a bridge with too few of tools, the only thing worse is trying to carry too many while climbing it.