Peru: Poems, Stories, Articles and Commentary [English with Spanish]

Days (...on they Dying of a Beloved Motgher) a book in the making

2007-12-17T12:18:00.000-08:00

By Three Time Poet Laureate, Ed. D.
Dennis L. Siluk

Days
(…on the Dying of a Beloved Mother)

(Translated from English into Spanish by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk)

Poems

Recent Awards of:
Dennis L. Siluk

Awarded the Prize Excellence: The Poet & Writer of 2006 by
Corporacion de Prensa Autonoma (of the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture

Poet Laureate of San Jerónimo de Tunán, Perú (2005); and the
Mantaro Valley (8-2007) (Awarded the (Gold) Grand Cross of the City (2006))

Lic. Dennis L. Siluk, awarded a medal of merit, and diploma from the Journalist College of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment

On November 26, 2007, Lic. Dennis L. Siluk was nominated, Poet Laureate of Cerro de Pasco and received recognition as an Illustrious Visitor of the City of Cerro de Pasco, and Huayllay

“Union” Mathematic School (Huancayo, Peru), Honor to the Merit to: Lic. (Ed.D.) Dennis Lee Siluk, (Awarded) Poet and Writer Excellence 2007, for contributing to the culture and regional identity, Huancayo. December 1, 2007, Signed: Pedro Guillen, Director

The Sociologist School of Peru, Central Region granted to
Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk, Writer Laureate for his professional contribution in the social interaction of the towns and rescue of their identity. Huancayo December 6, 2007 —Lic. Juan Condori –Senior Member of the Sociologist School

The Association of Broadcaster of the Central Region, of Peru, nominated Dr. Dennis Lee Siluk Honorary Member for his works done on the Central Region of Peru; in addition, the Mayor of Huancayo, Freddy Arana Velarde, gave Dr. Siluk, ‘Reconocimiento de Honor,’ and ‘Personaje Ilustre…’ status (December, 2007).

Days
Poems (…on the Dying of a Beloved Mother)
Copyright © Ed. D. Dennis L. Siluk, 2008

Back Photo by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
(Taken 42-days before the death of Elsie T. Siluk)

Front Photo by Elsie T. Siluk, 1939
(She was 19-years old)
St. Paul, Minnesota, USA

Love says:
I don’t want anyone else;
and I never wanted any other mother.

Dlsiluk

Index

Poems on Days
(Part One)

Lost Days
Final Days
Forty-two Days
Last Day
A Day of Recovery
Days Grew Heavy
Day after Day
Days of Protocol
Today
A Day Late
Day Zero
Days of Depression
A Pretty Good Day
Days of Cleaning Out Things
Trying Days
Day of the Dead
Day of Cremation
A Day After the Wake

Poems without Days
(Part Two)

The Sofa Chair
Dying
Goodbyes
“Would you like to live like this?”

Two Dedication Poems
(Part Three)

Love and Butterflies
A Long Glimpse

A Letter

After Four-years

Books by the Author

Prolog: Most folks, to include poets, prefer poetry on death to entail (to a high degree) courage and strength; I don’t disagree completely with that, only partly, for submissive suffering is also involved, most folks just do not want to look at it. Nowadays things are changing though, and it is more permissible, if not bold, to mix them together, and thus, here we have just that. I prefer them both together, for what else can one do, to find the true and aggressive and passive emotions one voyages through during a paramount loss: especially while another is dying, day by day, especially, one’s mother. Having said that let me add a note on emotions.
Emotions are neither right nor wrong, they just are. Therefore, we weep, behind or in front of the curtains. We weep often to heal and let go, to go forward in life, as it was meant to be. Some folk’s scream, as to be able to endure the pain of a loss (loved one). Some grieve long and hard, some not so long, or hard, perhaps they are more durable. In any case, the periods of grieving are different for everyone, and we grieve like it or not; and one-way or another, it will come out, if not smoothly, conceivably sideways.
This is a daring book—to say the least, if I may say so, on what I consider poignant poetry; based on a fact, a dread fact one must face sooner or later—dying or death of a much loved person. It really involves all the readers whom are going to scan this book, or read it word for word—; in a way, this is my poetic testimony, to a beloved mother (dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk).

Note: I tried to write this book several times in the past four-years, I have not been able to do so, not until now, and they had to be done in a moments breath, I wrote it in three days, and have not changed the poems except for a few words here and there, and for a good reason, I wanted to leave them as they had flowed in and out of me, the two days I wrote them: feeling if I changed them to read better, or clearer, or more explanatory, they would only end up being an abnormal vague picture of the times for me and the reader, perhaps also with less effect.

Poems on Days
(Part One)

1

Lost Days
(The dying of a beloved Mother)

She was getter weaker
the last months of her life;
her blue-eyes lost their
rapture, their venture.
A congestive heart helped take
her vigor away…!
And then, then came, those
long lost days.

12-15-2007 No: 2104

2

Final Days
(The dying of a beloved Mother)

I sat by my mother’s bedside
as death drew near,
and saw her white skin,
turn pale (while in the Hospital).

I wrote a poem a few days
after she passed on….

The first twenty-seven days
of her hospitalization
she talked a lot,
the last words to come,
before the coma.

Out of a window, near her bed
was a July summer blooming…!

In those last days—so honest
she was, she saw angels
in her room.

Each day (almost every day)
we talked together—
I, in my droopy melancholy despair;
her, with smiles and laughter,
which filled the room…(with)
butterflies, as she dwindled away.

No: 2101 (12-15-2007)

3

Forty-Two days

After my mother’s death
I looked back at the calendar,
it was forty-two days—forty-two days had passed
since we ate cake and ice-cream at the restaurant,
along the banks of the St. Croix River.
Stood out by its fence,
waved our hands at the camera;
my mother seemed to stagger a bit.
I wonder now,
now, if
she knew
she only had
forty-two days left?

Notes_ 12-15-2007 No: 2102: In this poem, the author is referring to the St. Croix River, that flows through the town of Stillwater, in Minnesota, USA.

4

Last Day

This morning Rosa woke me up
“What for,” I asked?
I put my cloths on, went to the bathroom,
took a pee, cleaned up (quickly).
I sensed something was wrong,
something, starring back at me…
my mother had died.

No: 2103 12-15-2007

5

A Day of Recovery

After the surgery,
after they cut out half her insides,
she started to recover,
but she would relapse, after a day
(in the interim,
I checked on how much morphine
she was being given).

She wanted me to bring her home,
had a dream she was in a taxi,
and it wouldn’t stop at her house.

She was a breathing, observing coffin,
just waiting in the bed to die;
she didn’t worry though,
she said: she had lived longer
than she had expected.

Her ardent last awaking days
were full of power and praise.
Talking away on old passionate associations,
of the past eight-three years:
brief, calm and joyful.

No: 2105 12-16-2007

6

Days Grew Heavy

Days grew heavy throughout June,
of 2003; after the 26th, I knew
I’d have to bear her death.
They bathed her and fed her,
as her trembling hands
signed the last checks
to pay her bills.
Yet she smiled.
I watched her dying
failing, of old age.

No: 2010 (12-17-2007)

7

Day after Day

I walked around her bed (day after day)
wondering what I could do
she must have had thought me a dupe…;
there I was pacing, pacing here and there,
like a hungry bear—
anxious to do something, anything
but there was nothing I could do, nothing at all.
Perhaps she understood:
even the good and thoughtful must endure….
She would not overlook my sorrow.

No: 2106 (12-16-2007)

8

Days of Protocol

Everyday in the hospital (thirty in all)
was a day for protocol:
questions, infusions, shots, sleep,
heavy sleep (sleeping ten to
fifteen-hours per day) that was her
life, her living. She asked
when she saw me: “Were you here
yesterday?”
“O yes,” I’d respond, “but you were
sleeping.”

No: 2107 (12-16-2007)

9

Today

Now, four year’s later, memories, voices, images
words, all turn up in my mind.
She really didn’t want to take that agitated ride
to the hospital, the morning she called
upstairs, to my wife Rosa…but the pain in her
stomach was too much; thus,
Rosa drove her to the Emergency Room,
(admissions), and she never left.
Perhaps she knew this—

No: 2107 (12-16-2007)

10

A Day Late

When the minister asked (brought to my attention)
at the Hospital, after mother’s death,
if I’d give to them her name, they’d pray, I simply
told them (with annoyance):
“It’s too, too late— go pray for the living.”

No: 2108 (12-16-2007)

11

Day Zero

My mother lay silent on her back—
while the female doctor—was talking to me
(in a private room)
showing disinterested love….
It was day—zero, I couldn’t take
much more.
(Thank God, my brother spoke
before I did!)

No: 2109 (12-16-2007)
Dedicated to my brother Mike E. Siluk

12

Days of Depression

There were days of depression
(for me) waiting for the light of life
to be blown out, after
my mother died…. I knew
I wouldn’t, or couldn’t
commit suicide, but my doctor
and wife, wasn’t so sure:
throwing medicine my way,
to stabilize my brain waves.

No: 2110 (12-16-2007)

13

A Pretty Good Day

She ate (or had)—:
soup, jello, chocolate milk
(mostly, tasteless)
the last days of her life.
She was bored, but
comfortable in the hospital;
as she dehydrated—.

She’d say, “Bring me some good
chocolate!” And I did, once—
before the operation
(she hid it from the nurse).

That was a pretty good day.

No: 2111 (12-16-2007)

14

Days of Cleaning out Things

Throughout my mother’s apartment, my brother
and I found a massive storage of things, things,
and more things…like sewing things, and
garments she made, never wore, garments
bought and put away in storage, not sure
what for.
Things, like records and ribbons,
knitting things, almost everything buyable
under the sun. Tons of toothpaste, and
toilet paper (stacks and stacks); all three
bedrooms filled, and she slept on the couch.
Stamps, paper, and can goods, silverware
in three drawers, tools and much, much more.
It took all of two weeks, to clean that house,
but I bet she had a hell of a time buying and
giving it away as gifts, as often she did,
plus, my brother and I never
run out, of things.

No: 2113 (12-16-2007)

15

Trying Days

I tried, during those trying days
to remain dry-eyed and half-sane
—silent (my pain, paralyzed).
I was trying to understand, --

She laid in a coma for three days
I told her to let go, and go home,
home to heaven, with the Lord,
and she did—; that brought me
into a horror.

No: 2113 (12-16-2007)

16

Day of he Dead

I had told my mother—
(two years prior to her death),
that in a vision I had
seen her laying in a bed
(she looked dead).
Her right arm hanging loose to the side…
(she smiled, and didn’t say much
and went about her chores).

In her hospital room, I saw this vision’s
reality (the day she died).
I stroked her dead, but warm
blooded arm, kissed her forehead—
it was the Day of the Dead!

No: 2114 (12-16-2007)

17

Day of Cremation

“Cremate me,” she said (with indifference),
adding, “…it’s only $1300.00, I checked it out, not bad!”
And we somewhat laughed—thinking, I suppose—
thinking: no one will profit from her death
(fancy funerals cost piles of dollars, I guess).
And so it was, and is to this day,
she lay as a pile of ashes in a urn.
If she could see it, I’m, sure
she’d nod, quietly, and say:
“Job well done.”

No: 2115 (12-16-2007)

18

A Day After the Wake

Back home after the wake
(the one I couldn’t attend)
on the porch I put her sofa chair,
her brown afghan—
over it…
her jacket behind it:
I only allowed a few people
to sit on it,
it was too much to tolerate!

No: 1011 (12-17-2007)

Poems without Days
(Part Two)

19

The Sofa Chair

She couldn’t stand, nor walk in her hospital room
I feared she’d fall, if she tired, she needed
lifting from the bed to the sofa chair, to watch
television. She got angry at the nurses—
for their reluctance, in lifting her to and from
the sofa chair, until I straightened it out.
Then after that, she gloated at the nurses, as if
they didn’t have full control.

No: 2116 (12-16-2007)

20

Dying

Dying, is no more than a breath away—.
Letting go of your loved ones
is another thing, much harder,
enormous echoes
seep through your brain,

No: 2117)12-16-2007)

21

Goodbyes

They all came, one by one, to say their goodbyes
(family and friends, to the hospital), some from afar.
Some wiped their eyes, trying not to cry, others
touched and looked wide-eyed. And Mother, she
smiled, and laughed, until she tired out, and closed
her eyes, And we all left, wondering if she’d open
them again…. (and on July 1, 2003, she didn’t).

No: 2118 (12-16-2007)

22

“Would you like to live like this?”

Her eyes opened wide
(she had spoken for a while),
can’t remember what I said,
and now mother replied:
“…would you want to live
like this?”
“No!”
my pale lips pushed out….
There was almost a spasm
to her face, a sharp, yet
sweet rise to her cheeks,
open mouth...”No!” I repeated.
I watched her body go still
as she leaned back towards
her pillow (thinking…)
Then her round yet squinty
blue-eyes
closed for a moment,
and she started talking
again.

No: 2109 (12-17-2007)

Two Dedication Poems
(Part Three)

♥

Dedicated to: Elsie T. Siluk

23
Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk, my mother]

She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.

And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another

Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.

—By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03

Spanish Version

Amor y Mariposas
[Para Elsie T Siluk, mi madre]

Ella luchó una buena batalla
La última de muchas—
Hasta que no hubo nada más
Donde una vez, hubo plenitud.
Y así, serena y digna
Ella dijo, ‘adiós,’ en su propia forma
Y dejó atrás
Un gran tiempo viejo
Espacio para otro

Amor y Mariposas…
Eso fue mi madre.

—Por Dennis L. Siluk © Julio/2003

24

The Long Glimpse

From the arch of the doorway
She’d look my way, into the garage, at me—
as I readied my automobile to go someplace;
She’d be looking-steadfast
I’d open my car door a bit, ask:
“Why you staring? (at me)”
“No reason,” she’d reply, smiling.
Then with a tinge of hesitation
she summon up, and said (at 83):
softly, in an almost whisper “You….”
((as if she had remembered the day I
was born) (almost in a trance.))
And I’d for the life of me—
not know why; I know now though, she was
simply getting a long glimpse before
she died (for she died shortly after).
I guess, she was really saying goodbye,
saying goodbye with a long glimpse
to last between now and then, when we’d
meet again.

No: 1947 8-24-2007

▼

A Letter

After Four-years

I wanted, the first three months to end,
after your death, perhaps others saw it differently—
that is, they felt I wanted everything to end—.
I didn’t feel emptiness, like so many others do
after a loss like this, rather, I felt only pain—,
pain an old war veteran like me had never felt.
After a year, a thawing came about (anger
and misgivings left); my heart was warming
up again, now closer to the sun.

My thoughts of you are like
old warm snow (of which I shall never let go);
yes, old warm snow, I now can endure hours of
downpour without bleeding.

There’s a snowstorm now,
throughout the Midwest, and Eastern Regions
of the US: I haven’t forgot, how you like winter
and its snow, especially Christmas; do you know,
it’s only eight-days away.

No: 2012 (12-17-2007)

Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers. Other web sites you can see Siluk’s work at: www.eldritchdark.com www.swft/writings.html www.abe.com www.alibris.com www.freearticles.com

Books by the Author

Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [1981]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1982]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985]

Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

Angelic Renegades & Raphaim Giants

Tales of the Tiamat [trilogy]
And other selected books

Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III

Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib

The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:

A Path to Sobriety
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery

Autobiographical

A Romance in Augsburg I
Romancing San Francisco II
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III
Stay Down, Old Abram IV

Romance:

Perhaps it’s Love
(Minnesota to Seattle)

Cold Kindness
(Dieburg, Germany)

The Suspense short stories of D.L. Siluk:

Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]

Dracula’s Ghost
[And other Peculiar stories]

The Mumbler [psychological]
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure]

The Poetry of D.L. Siluk:

The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Sirens [Poems-Volume II, 2003]
The Macabre Poems [Poems-Volume III, 2004]

Last autumn and Winter [Minnesota poems, 2006]

Spell of the Andes [2005]
Peruviana Poemas [2005]
Poetic Images out of Peru [And other poem, 2006]
The Magic of the Avelinos
(Poems on the Mantaro Valley, book One; 2006)
The Road to Unishcoto
(Poems on the Mantaro Valley, Book Two, 2007)

The Poetry of Stone Forest (Cerro de Pasco, 2007)
Poetry of the Miners (Cerro de Pasco, 2008)

Days (Poems: on the dying of a beloved mother, 2008)

Back of Book

“Most folks, to include poets, prefer poetry on death to entail courage and strength; I don’t disagree completely with that, only partly, for submissive suffering is also involved; yet, many folks just do not want to look at both sides of the dying. Nowadays things are changing, and it is more permissible, yet still bold, to mix them together, and thus, here we have just that. I prefer them both together, for what else can one do, to find the true and aggressive and passive emotions one voyages through during a paramount loss: especially while another is dying, day by day, especially, one’s mother. “Days…” is such a book, it takes you on a thirty day journey. (The picture on the back, is of my mother, in 1939.)” Dennis

Dennis is a world traveler, prolific writer (his first poetry written at the age of twelve); he is a License Counselor; has a Doctorate Degree in Education and has attended several universities in the United States as well as Europe. In addition, he has been awarded the title of Poet Laureate (three times); and in 1993, was ordained a Minister in Good Standing; he is also a decorated Vietnam War Veteran.

About the Author

This is Dennis’ 38th book, 7th on Peru, 14th in Poetry. He lives in Minnesota and Peru with his wife Rosa. He has won two Columnist awards in the United States. One of his short stories took first place from “The English Magazine,” October of 2006.

Rainfall (A Poetic tale done in Poetic-prose)

2007-12-17T12:14:00.000-08:00

Rainfall
((A Poetic Tale of (prose) on the Town-let: Quilcas, in AD 1799)
(A story about Faith))

One among them walked close to the Lord, whose little farm village stormed often with dryness, and the lack of rainfall, which the farmers often complained of such, as they’d often say, ‘Unkissed by God,’ then you’d find them in the local bar; the sharpness of their tongues came blazing out, “We are kings in hell,” old Antonio would say. Manuel, he’d just look dreamless and murmur, “Couched in hell, mewed for Hades,” and take another drink with the drunken-dead in the bar crowed, waiting for a rainfall.
But then there was Able, whose breast was full of the Lord, he was, yes he was the one who among them walked close to the Lord. Whose throat was always of a sweeten song, blown to be, who gave singing and praise to the Lord, for all that was, especially for rainfall. To some of the town’s folks he was an encaged bird of claptrap, or better put, a boy of nuisance. But he had faith, faith bigger than a mustered seed, so unusual it was, it bothered people, the towns folks, to the point it made them restless, and when they saw him they moaned with hands and throat, almost hissing at him.
He’d tell his father at times, “It’s been dry for a long spell, I shall pray for a rainfall, “gleaming at his father, like a fish unmouthed. And each, his father and mother would simply say, “Please do son,” and the boy would open the door and the rain would come, tides of rain, a great downfall of rain. This started during his formal reasoning years, when he could pray to God, and understood between rocks and stars, dry and wet, heaven and hell, and now at the age of twenty-one, it still was a hum, a whirr in his heart.
The boy would then stand and sing in the outside air, under the purposeful clouds of rain, looking up at the sky as if it was a sky-hill, knowing the harvest would be bountiful now. And to be quite honest, the villagers were bewildered, and left well enough alone, thinking the boy was simply a wind in cave of bats, as if he was just crazy, mad, or perhaps extreme.

It was this one night, a calm indifferent night it seemed, when the farmland outside the little village, had been dry for a very long spell, and there was to crop or yield to be, and in the local bar there was much despair of breath, even the priest had locked the church doors, in fear the dark hearts of the village bar, once drunk, would break the long silence and create anarchy. And thus, Able walked through the doors of the bar, it was a sleeping gate to hell, and it seemed he had waked the gnawing, gaunt knees of the colorless faces of the bar herd—feeling sorry for themselves, listening to sad and depressing music from minstrels playing over in the corner of the bar, at which point, within this unsterile atmosphere, and among the un-purified voices, he stood sole and lean in the center of the bar, a brother to no one, yet to all, weary were the faces, and their courtesy to him. Said Able, to the herd, standing on the wooden floor, a faded plateau, “Shhhhhh,” he said politely, “I shall pray for your crops,” and Antonio quickly said, “Pray, it is too late, plus, you are but a crazy fool, go home before you get hurt!”
But it was more than Manuel could take, like a wild battalion and pale he crossed over from his table to and zapped Able in the face with a powerful blow, as he was praying. All saw the boy fall to his knees, his last words being: “Please Lord, let there be a rainfall.”

There was no brilliant counterattack, he was dead, and when Manuel got his senses back he ran out, through the bar doors, and into the rain.

Note. 2098 12-13-2007 (The story is completely fiction; for those who live in this lovely little town-let of Quilcas, in the Montero Valley of Peru, are warm and friendly, but it just happens to be, the story came to mind, and I am on my way to the village now, and it will be my second trip there in two years, to see the old ruins on its hillside, so those good folks who read this story from the town, please do not take offense) Dedicated to Alex Medina

Poetry on the MIners (in Spanish and English, by Dlsiluk)

2007-12-09T13:14:00.001-08:00

By Poet Laureate, Ed.Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

(Translated from English into Spanish by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk)

Poetry on the Miners
(with…Legends, Tales and other Writings)

(From Cerro de Pasco, Perú, on Top of the World)

Recent Awards

Awarded the Prize Excellence: The Poet & Writer of 2006 by Corporacion de Prensa Autonoma(of the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture

Poet Laureate of San Jerónimo de Tunán, Perú (2005); and the
Mantaro Valley (8-2007) (Awarded the (Gold) Grand Cross of the City (2006))

Lic. Dennis L. Siluk, awarded a medal of merit, and diploma from the Journalist College of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment

November 26, 2007, Dr. Siluk was nominated, Poet Laureate of Cerro de Pasco, and received recognition as an Illustrate visitor of the City of Cerro de Pasco, and Huayllay.

“Union” Mathematic School (Huancayo, Peru), Honor to the Merit to: Lic. (Ed.D.) Dennis Lee Siluk, (Awarded) Poet and Writer Excellence 2007, for contributing to the culture and regional identity, Huancayo. December 1, 2007, Signed: Pedro Guillen, Director

Colegio de Sociologos del Peru, Region Centro A
Dennis Lee SilukEscritor Laureado Reconociendo Su Aporte Profesoional en La Interaccion Social de Los PueblosY rescate de su identidad Hyo 08-Dec-07 Decano Regional

Poetry on the Miners
(with…Legends, Tales and other Writings)
(From Cerro de Pasco, Perú, on Top of the World)
Copyright © Dennis L. Siluk, 2008

Illustrations by the Author

Front Photo by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
Of Dennis L. Siluk on the underground train
1800-feet below the earth, at Volcan Mines, 11-2007
In Cerro de Pasco, Peru

Back Photo by Dennis L. Siluk, of
The Quarry at Volcan Mines, 11-2007
Cerro de Pasco, Peru

All other photos in the book taken by Dennis L. Siluk, or
Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and one by Cesar Cruz Cordova (as indicated: CCC)

Translated from English into Spanish by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Dennis on Miner’s Street, Cerro de Pasco,
Peru, by the Miner’s Statue, 11-2007

Dedicated to: my Creator,
to the Miners at Volcan Mines
and
to: Raul Rojas (a miner who died in 1989, electrocuted)

Special Thanks to:

Ing. Teodulo Quiste Huertas
(Superintendent General U.E.A. Cerro de Pasco) and to
Cesar Cruz Cordova (Reporter for Primicia Newspaper, & Pan Americana TV);
they were both instrumental in the creation of this work—it would
not have been produced without their support.

Acknowledgments to:

Ing. Francisco Rivas
Mr. Edelmiro Gamarra
Ing. Raul Rupay
Lic. Luis Pariona Arana
Mr. Abel Cruz Huaman
And to the team of the Office of Public Relations.

Radio Acknowledgement

Many of these Poems within this book were read on live Radio by (Lic.) Poet Laureate Dennis L. Siluk, on his radio program in Huancayo, Peru, “Poetry Moment,” on FM 89.5 University Radio, on Tuesdays and Thursdays (12:20 PM), in the month of December,2007; read in both English by the author, and Spanish, by his wife Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk; hosted by Eduardo Cardenas.

Dr. Dennis L. Siluk with Engineer Teodulo Quispe Huertas (General Superintendent U.E.A. Cerro de Pasco): picture taken while visiting the Volcan Mine site in November of 2007 in Cerro de Pasco, Peru. The folks were very warm, kind and it was a thrill for Dennis to have been able to see the site.

Index

Recent Awards

Prolog by Dlsiluk
A Brief History on the Miners of Cerro de Pasco, by Dlsiluk

A Brief Background on Dennis L. Siluk (back of book)
By Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Introduction to the site (quarry) by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk
Introductory Poem: "The Little Gringo Amucs"
(A Poem and Legend on the Little People in the Andes of Peru)
(El Muqui)

Part One: Poetry of the Miners

1—Lights, like Fire
(Deep in the Mines of Volcan)
2—Ghost of the Deep Mine
(Dedicated to Raul Rojas)
Fantasma de la Mina Profunda
3—Roots
(Dedicated to Ing. Teodulo Quispe Huertas)
Sustento
4—The Miners and the Bees
Los Mineros y las Abejas
5—The Brave and the Few
(Dedicated to Cesar Cruz Cordova)
Los Machos y no Muchos
6—Restaurant at Yeralis
(Dedicated to Liz and her mother)
Restaurante Yeralis
7—The Cloths of the Miner
La Ropa de los Mineros
8— Mr. Guapo
El Señor Guapo
9—A Miner, a Mine and a Family
Un Minero, una Mina y una Familia
10—The Locomotive
La Locomotora
11—Faint Lights
Luces Tenues
12—The Sleeping Miner
El Minero Durmiente
13— Hotel Room
Cuarto del Hotel
14—Cold City
(Dedicated to Mayor Tito Valle)
Ciudad Fría
15—The Old Monster Tractor
El Viejo Tractor Enorme
16— When the Miner Comes Home
17—Snow over Pasco
18—Far Ahead into the Mines
(Dedicated to Silvio Gutarra Tapia, Miner Ing.)
Muy Adentro en las Minas

19—Busy Bus Station
Estación de Autobuses muy Saturada

Part Two: Legends, Tales and other Writings

A Note before the Tales

1—“Laments” Sketches of Ghosts and the Amuc
(and, Other Writings, on Cerro de Pasco)
(By Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk and Dennis L. Siluk)
Lamentos

2— (The Poetic Tale of :)
The Blue Amuc (El Muqui)

3—The Poetic Epic
The Great Warrior Lord of Huayllay

Complimentary Poem and Hymn:

Himno a Pasco
By: Hugo Apestegui Ramirez
(of Cerro de Pasco)

Poem
“In the Nick of Time”
By Cindy White (in Part and English Only)

▼

Dedication Poem: “Love and Butterflies” for Elsie T. Siluk

▼

Books by the Author

Dennis with Mayor Tito, eating a portion of “Charquican” (dried alpaca meat) the largest one in the world;
November, 2007, during the city’s Anniversary (Cerro de Pasco, Peru, highest city in the world)

Prolog (by Dennis L. Siluk): Simplicity, this has been the main core of my work ever since I can remember that the world is inhabited by peoples of culture, different ways of life; thus, perhaps I am a poet who looks upon the simplest and most basic elements of existence and compares these with a touch of curiosity and awe. For the most part, I take the most commonplace and put it into a position of importance in life, for it is the small things in life we do daily, and each day is filled with them, which is a gift of life from God, and this book is on the miners of Cerro de Pasco, and those little things that surround them, it is what affects us and them, it is what is most vivid when we look back, and these are the simple truths which are easily understood. So please sit down and put up your feet, and relax, read at your leisure, enjoy the moment, you’ve worked hard, you deserve a few comforting thoughts, memories, and perhaps a laugh or two.

(This book is of the miners, their surroundings at the quarry site (to include the underground mines); as well as, within the city of Cerro de Pasco, to include the area of Huayllay; poems, tales, legends and epics. Should someone think different, and try to put this book, or my intentions in writing this book into a political arena, statement, or issue, it is of their own doings, predatory reasons and personal gain; that is to say, they have ulterior motives) Dlsiluk

Spanish Version
Prólogo (Por Dennis L. Siluk): Simplicidad, esto ha sido el elemento principal en mis obras desde que puedo recordar que el mundo ha sido habitado por gentes de diferentes culturas, diferentes formas de vida; así, talvez yo soy un poeta que ve los elementos de existencia más simples y básicos y compara estos con un toque de curiosidad y admiración. Por la mayor parte, considero los lugares más comunes y los pongo dentro una posición de importancia en la vida, porque son las cosas pequeñas en la vida lo que diariamente hacemos, y cada día es llenado con estas, lo que es un regalo de vida de Dios, y este libro es sobre los Mineros de Cerro de Pasco y aquellas cosas pequeñas que los rodea, esto es lo que nos afecta y los afecta a ellos, esto es lo que es más vívido cuando miramos atrás, y estas son las verdades simples que son fácilmente entendidas. Así que, por favor siéntate y levanta tus pies, y relájate, tómate tu tiempo para leer, disfruta el momento, tú has trabajado duro, tú mereces un poco de pensamientos confortantes, memorias, y talvez una o dos risas.

(Este libro es de los mineros, sus alrededores en el tajo—también en la mina subterránea; así como, su vida en la ciudad de Cerro de Pasco, incluyendo el área de Huayllay; poemas, cuentos, leyendas y épicas. Si alguien piensa diferente, y trata de poner este libro, o mis intenciones al escribir este libro dentro de un campo político, o crean declaraciones, o problemas, esto es de su propias acciones, razones depredadoras e intereses personales; para ser preciso, ellos tiene motivos ocultos) Dlsiluk.

A Brief History on the Miners in Cerro De Pasco

Rosa, Dennis and the Engineer Francisco Rivas
at the Quarry Site (CCC)

The extraction process of the mines in Cerro de Pasco go back to about 1578 AD, when it was mined for silver by its inhabitants, it became the largest silver mine in the world eventually. It actually predates the previous date I mentioned, to 1567 AD (Inca Time). The extraction of silver was the main mineral.
In 1601, came the Spanish and between 1630-69 the mines became famous, and a heritage to the Crown of Spain; it extracted some five-million ducados, which were sent to Spain.
There was around the year 1640, a mint in operation in Cerro de Pasco, by the Spanish.
And between the years of 1640 to 1771 there was a great mud slide, in which 300-workers were buried, alive in a large hole called ‘Matagente’.

There has been heavy investment in this these mines, in 2004, $56, 7 million, and in 2003, approximately, 32-million, thus an increase in one year of over $20-million (with some 4,000-employees).
In 1956, it was the first year minerals were extracted from the open quarry, or Open Sky Quarry, as it is called, thus mining took place above and under the earth.

I could enlarge this brief history, but I do not wish to, simply because this is not the premise of the book. This is a book of poetry on the miners and their surrounding city, called, Cerro de Pasco, and how I experienced the mines at Volcan, and its miners. Yet I do feel, that the uninformed reader, as I would be, had I not got a grand tour of the mines, might be interested in its past (somewhat).

Spanish Version

Una Historia Sucinta de los Mineros en Cerro de Pasco

El proceso de extracción de las minas en Cerro de Pasco data de alrededor de 1578 después de Cristo, donde sus habitantes extraían plata, eventualmente ésta se convirtió en la mina de plata más grande en el mundo. Esta en realidad data de antes a la fecha ya mencionada, es decir, desde 1567 después de Cristo (Era Incaica). La extracción de plata era el principal mineral.
En 1601 vinieron los españoles y entre 1630 y 1669 las minas se volvieron famosas, y un patrimonio de la Corona Española, esta le dio a España algo de cinco millones de ducados.
Fue alrededor del año 1640, donde se acuñaron monedas en Cerro de Pasco, por los españoles.
Y entre los años 1640 a 1771 se produjo un gran derrumbe en un hueco profundo llamado “Matagente”, en el que 300 mineros vivos fueron sepultados y murieron.

Han habido fuertes inversiones en estas minas, en el año 2004 la inversión fue de aproximadamente $ 56’7 millones, y en el año 2003, aproximadamente $ 32 millones, así produciéndose un incremento en un año de más de $20 millones (con 4,000 trabajadores).
En 1956, fue el primer año en que se extrajeron minerales del Tajo Abierto, o Tajo Cielo Abierto, como es llamado, así la extracción se produjo por encima y por debajo de la tierra.

Podría extender esta resumen histórico, pero no lo deseo, simplemente porque esta no es la base de este libro. Este es un libro de poesías en los mineros y su ciudad aledaña, llamada, Cerro de Pasco, y cómo fue mi experiencia en la Mina Volcan, y sus mineros. Aunque considero que el lector desinformado, como lo sería yo, de no haber tenido una visita a las minas, podría estar interesado en este pasado (de alguna forma).

Introduction to the Quarry

The Quarry at Volcan, as drawn by Dlsiluk

(Written by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, edited by Dlsiluk): During our visit to the mines in Cerro de Pasco (Volcan Mining Company S.A.A.), I found out it dates back some 400-hundred years, to which minerals have been extracted, three hundred years for colonial usage and 100-years for industrial treatment. The miners extract in two ways, quarry and underground. They used to extract at the beginning only cooper, but now they extract cooper, gold, silver, zinc, and etcetera.
The quarry is 1254-feet deep, two km large, and one km wide. The bottom of the quarry is at 13,199 feet sea level and the city of Cerro de Pasco at 14, 453 feet sea level.
The quarry has levels, or steps that lead down to its bottom, it was built that way for the method they wanted to use for extraction.
The present quarry dates from 1950 onward. Every day they extract 3500-tons of minerals. It is an immense undertaking, and provides income for the Nation of Peru, the city of Cerro de Pasco, as well as 4000-jobs. Presently Ing. Francisco Rivas is the person in charge of the quarry.

The miner who is the senior, who has more years of service working in the mine area at 39-years (more than anyone else), is Mr. Edelmiro Gamarra, presently 59-years old (congratulations for your long enduring service, and I am sure, as he has stated in so many words, a pleasure to have done so).

Spanish Version

Introducción al Tajo (por Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, editado por Dlsiluk): Durante nuestra visita a las minas en Cerro de Pasco (Volcan Compañía Minera S.A.A.) me enteré que esta data de hace 400-años atrás, de donde se han extraído minerales, durante 300 años para uso colonial y 100 años para tratamiento industrial. Los mineros extraen los minerales de dos formas, por tajo y subterráneo. Ellos solían extraer solo cobre, pero ahora ellos extraen cobre, oro, plata, zinc, etc.
El tajo tiene 380 metros de profundidad, dos kilómetros de largo, y un kilómetro de ancho. El fondo del tajo está a 4,000 metros sobre el nivel del mar, mientras que la ciudad (encima del tajo) está a 4,380 metros sobre el nivel del mar.
El tajo tiene niveles, similar a peldaños que conducen hacia abajo al fondo del tajo, esto fue dado debido al método que usan para extracción de los minerales.
El actual tajo data de 1950. Cada día se extrae 3,500 toneladas de minerales. Esto es un proyecto inmenso, que provee ingresos para la Nación de Perú, para la ciudad de Cerro de Pasco, así como provee empleo para 4000 trabajadores. Actualmente, el Ing. Francisco Rivas es la persona encargada del tajo.
El más antiguo de los mineros, el que tiene más tiempo trabajando en la mina—y con 39 años de experiencia, es el señor Edelmiro Gamarra, actualmente tiene 59 años de edad (felicitaciones por su largo servicio, y estoy seguro, como él lo ha mencionado en muchas ocasiones, un placer haberlo hecho).

Introductory Poem

"The Little Gringo Amucs"
(A Poem and Legend on the Little People of the Andes of Peru)

Ah, the little gringo Amuc’s from the Andes
From the internal mines within:
From La Oroya, to Cerro de Pasco
Resides their underworld civilization!
So the legends and old timers say—
They’ve lived from the Wanka thru the Inca age—
They live in the crust of the earth
In the hard cold mineral mines!
They follow the miner’s footsteps
From barbarity nights to dawn.
A heartily civilization—; they have
Cities of gold, silver and bronze!

They have their treasures well-hidden
In the underground mines and all:
From Machu Picchu to the Mantaro Valley
To the mines of Pasco, Peru!

#1795 4-18-2007

Note: Legend has it that these Amuc of the Andes, are perhaps a foot to 18-inches tall; some blond and others with dark hair. It has been said some have wings seemingly made of steel. Many older folks, who have been in the mines, worked them, have claimed they have seen them, and I have talked to these folks.

Spanish Version

Poema Introductorio

"Los Pequeños Muquis Gringos"
(Un Poema y una Legenda sobre la Gente Pequeña de las Minas en los Andes de Perú)

Ah, los pequeños Muquis gringos de Los Andes
Dentro de la minas internas:
Desde La Oroya, hasta Cerro de Pasco
¡Reside su civilización subterránea!
Eso lo dicen las legendas y los ancianos—
Ellos han vivido desde la civilización Wanka hasta la edad Inca—
Ellos viven en la corteza de la tierra
¡En las duras y frías minas de minerales!
Ellos siguen las huellas de los mineros
Desde noches bárbaras hasta el alba.
¡Una civilización decreciente—ellos tienen
Con ciudades de oro y bronce!

¡Ellos tienen sus tesoros muy escondidos
En todas las minas subterráneas,
Desde Machu Picchu hasta el Valle del Mantaro
Y hasta las minas de Cerro de Pasco!

#1795 18-Abril-2007

Nota: La leyenda dice que estos Muquis de Los Andes, son talvez de 30 a 45 centímetros de altura; algunos de cabellos rubios y otros de cabellos oscuros. Se ha dicho que tienen alas de acero, y viven en las minas de Los Andes peruanos. Muchos ancianos que han estado en las minas, que han trabajado en las minas, han afirmado haberlos visto; o conocer a otras personas que los han visto

Part One
Poetry on the Miners

The First Miners of Cerro de Pasco
(by unknown photographer)

1

Lights, like Fires
((In the Tunnels of the Miners)
(in the Mines of Volcan))

The walls are all I seem to see,
deep in the mines of Volcan.
They just seem to look at me,
and stare, deep in the mines of Volcan.
I don’t know a thing, not a thing about this! –
Where in this deep underworld maze
is the key? (Lights, like fires—perhaps!)
I look about, my words are grunts; thus,
I make no words at all:
deep in the mines of Volcan.
This world down here has a funny sun
that’s really all I know;
deep in the mines of Volcan.
The tunnel lights are burning, o
yes, yes, the tunnel lights are burning
—at each end, and in-between;
the tunnel is burning (with lights, like fires):
torching its once eternal night,
here, deep in the mines of Volcan;
thus, night sweetens with life—, as light
creeps along the walls, floors and ceilings
(fires dotted here and there, everywhere),
deep the mines of Volcan.

No: 2094 12-7-2007)
2

Ghost of the Deep Mine

As I walked through this tunnel,
the deepest mine, at Volcan,
I seem to have had a tail dragging,
dragging along the past,
brushing over the past with my tail…;
perhaps, just perchance, it was one
of those ghosts, who hasn’t let go,
lost into the darkness, long ago.
Perhaps, just perchance, he is my
tail dragging, trying to say, “Hello!”

No: 2067, 11-28-2007 Note: There have been many legends of Ghosts in and around this site, or the mines of Volcan, those that may go back to the days of the Spanish Conquistadores, whom used their whips, to get results, more than their wit, and there was a cave-in where over 300-lives were taken a few centuries ago. So if there be ghosts, these may be one of them.

Spanish Version

Fantasma de la Mina Profunda

Mientras caminaba a través de este túnel,
uno de los más profundos de la mina, en Volcan
me parecía que tenía una cola arrastrándola,
arrastrándola a lo largo del pasado,
cepillando sobre el pasado con mi cola…;
talvez, sólo talvez, este era uno
de esos fantasmas, que no quería dejarlo,
perdido en la oscuridad, tiempo atrás.
Talvez, sólo talvez, él es mi
cola arrastrada, tratando de decir, “¡Hola!”

Nota: Han habido muchas leyendas de fantasmas en este sitio y alrededores, o en las Minas Volcan, aquellos que talvez vienen del tiempo de los conquistadores españoles, quienes usaban más sus látigos para obtener resultados que sus ingenios; y hubo un derrumbe donde más de 300 vidas fueron tomadas algunos siglos atrás. Por eso si hay fantasmas, talvez estos sean uno de ellos. # 2067, 28-Nov-2007.

3

Roots

When one walks the streets of Cerro de Pasco (Miner Country)
you can feel the heartbeats of the miners, their pulse
(almost hear the footsteps—their heavy steel toed boots,
against the hard ground).
One can even sense the push and pull of their hammers
deep within the crust of the earth.
The iron, copper, zinc and gold, all the minerals
within the living earth,
giving up its roots — so man can live.

Note: I do believe God gave us (the people that inhabited this earth at any given time or moment) all the planet, and that being, above the earth (as well as below) to make use of, such as animals, trees, etcetera to survive, and we should acknowledge this, and thank God for the living earth and animals whom must give up their lives and minerals for man’s existence; and let us hope man will be wise enough to use them with good manners, insight and intelligence, and not be wasteful. No: 2065 (11-27-2007) (Dedicated to Ing. Teodulo Quispe Huertas)

Spanish Version

Sustento

Cuando uno camina las calles de Cerro de Pasco (Nación Minera)
puedes sentir los latidos de los mineros, sus pulsos
(oir los pasos—de sus pesadas botas de puntas de acero,
contra el suelo duro).
Sentir el empuje y tirar de sus martillos
(profundo dentro de la corteza de la tierra).
El hierro, cobre, zinc y oro, todos los minerales
dentro de la tierra viva,
entregando su sustento—para que el hombre pueda vivir.

Nota: Yo creo que Dios nos ha dado (a la gente que habita esta tierra en un momento dado) todo el planeta, esto es, encima de la tierra (como también debajo) para hacer uso de éste, tanto como de los animales, árboles, etcétera, para sobrevivir, y debemos reconocer esto, y agradecer a Dios por la tierra viva y los animales quienes deben entregar sus vidas y minerales para la existencia del hombre; y esperemos que el hombre sea suficientemente sabio para usarlos con propiedad, discernimiento e inteligencia, y no ser derrochadores.

# 2065 (27-Nov-2007) (Dedicado al Ing. Teódulo Quispe Huertas)

4

The Miners and the Bees

It would seem (or at least it did for me)—
seem, at the Volcan mines of Cerro de Pasco,
there is no beginning or end.
They are like bees (the miners) with no wings,
over an ocean of dirt and minerals;
here, one hears the sounds of machines—
near and in the distance— seals the mind,
day in, and night out, as it enters
and echoes within the inner house of one’s body.

Note: No: 2081, 12-3-2007; during my all day tour of the mines at Volcan, the mind finds a simple way to digest it all if indeed one is interested in the environment and industry he now finds himself in; for it is an immense operation, and thus, once in this environment, the mind shuts down to the outside incoming trivia, to line up with the new world it is now in, with all its sights and sounds; hence, it envelopes one until it is all one is, part of the environment, it did me.

Spanish Version

Los Mineros y las Abejas

Parecería (o al menos esto me pareció)—
parece, que en las minas Volcan de Cerro de Pasco,
no hay comienzo ni final.
Ellos (los mineros) son como las abejas, sin alas,
sobre un océano de tierra y minerales;
aquí, uno escucha los sonidos de las máquinas—
cerca y en la distancia—sella la mente,
de la mañana a la noche, cuando este entra
y resuena dentro de la casa interna del cuerpo de uno.

Nota: durante mi visita de día entero a las minas Volcan, la mente encuentra una manera simple de digerir todo esto si efectivamente uno está interesado en el ambiente y la industria, ahora uno se encuentra uno mismo dentro; porque esta es una operación inmensa, y así, una vez en este ambiente, la mente se cierra a los detalles que vienen de afuera, para alinearse con el nuevo mundo en el que ahora se está, con todas sus vistas y sonidos; por esta razón, este lo envuelve a uno hasta que todo sea uno, parte del ambiente, esto me pasó.

5

The Brave and the Few

The miners (brave and few) endure
Live on, and in a world of— drenched air;
This is their enemy, their outlaw!

No. 2069 11-27-2007

Spanish Version

Los Machos y no Muchos

Los mineros (valientes y pocos) soportan
Vivir en, y en un mundo de — aire húmedo;
¡Este es su enemigo, su proscrito!

# 2069 27-Nov-2007

6

Dennis having Breakfast in Cerro De Pasco

Restaurant at Yeralis

Two eggs
bread
hot Coffee
10 AM—
Liz is busy;
Mama Grimalda is making me breakfast.
The sun is hitting my face;
we are eating on the outside counter
my wife and I (it is better that way
you get to see everything).
Three folks inside having soup
(their bowls are packed to the rim
(patasca).
The streets are filling up
with people now.
Liz says a lot of Miner Engineer’s
come here to eat (the place is clean).
How many children hereabouts
will be miners (I ask myself)?
How many old folks hereabouts,
were miners at one time?
How many folks here now,
are miners? …just thinking!
The chill stays in the
air—(it’s cold up here),
mostly, clear skies!
My first egg appears,
now my bread…
I ask myself:
where is the coffee?
The day has just started.
One of so many
God has given…!

No: 2070 11-28-2007

Spanish Version

Restaurante Yeralis

Dos huevos
pan
café caliente
10 de la mañana—
Liz está ocupada;
mamá Grimalda me está preparando desayuno.
El sol está pegando en mi cara;
Estamos comiendo en la barra de afuera
mi esposa y yo (es mejor de esta manera
tú llegas a ver todo).
Tres personas dentro están tomando sopa
(sus tazones están llenos hasta el borde
—patasca).
Las calles se están llenando
con gente ahora.
Liz dice que muchos ingenieros de minas
vienen acá a comer (el lugar es limpio).
¿Cuántos niños por aquí
serán mineros? (me pregunto yo mismo)
¿Cuántos ancianos por aquí
fueron mineros alguna vez?
¿Cuántas personas por aquí
son mineros?... ¡sólo estoy pensando!
¡El frío permanece en el
aire—(hace frío aquí)
sobre todo, cielo limpio!
El primer huevo aparece,
ahora mi pan…
me pregunto a mi mismo:
¿dónde está el café?
El día acaba de empezar.
¡Uno de tantos muchos
que Dios nos da…!

# 2070 28-Nov-2007

7

Cloths of the Miners

I, as an acting miner had to put those heavy long boots on,
steel toed; and a helmet (called a hard-hat), with a long cord and light attached; a thick belt, and battery packed attached to my back; goggles, and jumpers; I looked like a spaceman. And then we were ready to go, but I really needed a siesta, but I didn’t say so.

Note: 2076 11-28-2007 Written 3:30 PM, an our after visiting the mines.

Spanish Version

La Ropa de los Mineros

Yo, actuando como un minero tuve que ponerme esas pesadas botas largas,
con punta de acero; y un casco (llamado sombrero duro),
con una cuerda larga y luz sujeta;
una correa gruesa,
y una batería cargada atada a mi espalda;
lentes protectores, y un mameluco;
me parecía a un hombre del espacio.
Y después estábamos listos para partir,
pero realmente necesitaba una siesta después de vestirme,
pero no lo dije esto.

Nota: # 2076 28-Nov-2007 Escrito a las 3:30 PM, una hora después de visitar la mina.

8

Dennis on the Elevator (cage) with the Miners, which
goes 1800-feet beneath the earth; we were ascending.

Mr. Guapo

I was in the cage with many miners
when a miner’s hard-hat shinned in my face…
I couldn’t resist the smiling grin he displayed,
so I stared back, and took his picture:
“It’s Mr. Guapo,” the miners shrieked!

Spanish Version

El Señor Guapo

Estuve en la jaula con muchos mineros
cuando el sombrero duro de un minero brilló en mi cara…
no pude resistir la amplia sonrisa que él mostró,
por eso le devolví la mirada, y le tomé una foto:
¡“Él es el señor Guapo”! vociferaron los demás mineros.

9

A Miner, a Mine and a family

A miner and the mine
are one.
A miner and his family
and a mine
are one.

No: 2072 11-28-2007

Spanish Version

Un Minero, una Mina y una Familia

Un minero y la mina
son uno.
Un minero y su familia
y una mina
son uno.

#: 2072 28-Nov-2007

10

The Locomotive

A train, eighteen-hundred feet below the earth
electrically driven by a wire overhead,
on iron tracks, with steel carts—
full of minerals, roaring down the tunnel;
its wheels squeak loud, like giant rats…!
I watch the faint lights rise in spirals
as it neared me—my wife holds my elbow:
the train lights are soft like falling dust
soaks into the grain of my skin…as it
passes me, carrying its tonnage load.

It sounds like thunder rolling over those flattened
tracks; I think: how many died down here,
against these walls of melancholy stones?

No: 2073 11-28-2007

Spanish Version

La Locomotora

¡Un tren, a 1800 pies debajo de la tierra
eléctricamente conducido por un cordón eléctrico arriba,
sobre rieles de hierro, con carros de acero—
llenos de minerales, ruge abajo del túnel;
sus llantas suenan fuerte, como ratas gigantes…!
Veo que las luces tenues suben en espirales
mientras este se acerca a mi—mi esposa sujeta mi codo;
las luces del tren son suaves como polvo cayendo
se empapa dentro de las partículas de mi piel…como si
me pasara, llevando sus tonelajes de carga.

Este suena como truenos retumbando sobre esas
vías aplanadas; pienso: ¿cuántos murieron aquí
contra estas paredes de piedras melancólicas?

# 2073 28-Nov-2007

11

Fainted Lights

I am writing on the miners
(gathering information mentally)
thinking, walking within the underground tunnels.
I feel a veil of sadness envelope me,
a sadness that comes from death,
as if I was alone in the mines;
no blazing heat from the sun
no moon, to bend my mind,
only faint lights off in the distance:
I’m in another world.

No: 2074, 11-28-2007 Written five hours after walking through the tunnels of the Volcan Mines, 1800-feet beneath the earth. This poem is not meant to be negative, it is meant to show, the miner lives in another world, when indeed, he is in his chosen habituate, which is the mines; so at least were my feelings as I experienced these underground tunnels, and tried to put myself in their place.

Spanish Version

Luces Tenues

Estoy escribiendo sobre los mineros
(recolectando información mentalmente)
pensando, caminando dentro de los túneles subterráneos.
Siento que un velo de tristeza me envuelve,
una tristeza que viene de la muerte,
como si estuviera sólo en las minas;
no hay calor abrasador del sol
ni luna, para cambiar mi mente,
sólo luces tenues apagadas en la distancia:
Estoy en otro mundo.

# 2074, 28-Nov-2007 Escrito cinco horas después de caminar a través de los túneles de las Minas Volcan, a 1800-pies debajo de la tierra. Las intenciones de este poema no son negativas, sino que quiero mostrar, la vida de los mineros a otro mundo, porque realmente, él esta en su lugar habitual escogido, que son las minas; así al menos fueron mis sentimientos de como experimenté estos túneles subterráneos, y traté de ponerme yo mismo en sus lugares.

12

The Sleeping Miner

Oh yes, he has long gone now,
dispersed among the deep mines;
the one he sees, and remains
afloat throughout the night.
He sleeps on shimmering minerals—
his eyes have rapid movements.

No: 2082 12-4-2007

Spanish Version

El Minero Durmiente

Ah si, hace tiempo que él está durmiendo ahora
dispersado entre las minas profundas;
la que él ve, y permanece
a flote a través de la noche.
El duerme en los minerales destellantes—
sus ojos tienen movimientos rápidos.

# 2082 4-Dic-2007

# 2082 4-Dic-2007

13

Hotel Room
(In Cerro de Pasco)

My walk in this city is slow, this morning
my body, this old body says:
“Go back to the hotel room,
sit by the heater in the room
(where it is warm)…”
my mind is back there:
way back, back, in that hotel room,
as this body flags down,
motions for a taxi
to go elsewhere.

Note: No 2078; there are between 70,000 to 125,000 inhabitants to Cerro de Pasco, depending on how one measures the city. It is almost 15,000-feet above sea level. It gets chilly up here.

Spanish Version

Cuarto del Hotel
(En Cerro de Pasco)

Mi caminar en esta ciudad es lento, esta mañana
mi cuerpo, este viejo cuerpo dice:
“Regresa al cuarto del hotel,
siéntate por la calefacción en el cuarto
(donde es caliente)…”
mi mente vuelve a pensar esto:
vuelve, vuelve, a ese cuarto del hotel,
mientras que este cuerpo se mueve
para llamar a un taxi
para ir a otro sitio.

Nota: # 2078; hay alrededor de 70,000 a 125,000 habitantes en Cerro de Pasco, dependiendo de cómo uno mide la ciudad. La ciudad está casi a 4,380 metros sobre el nivel del mar. Hace frío allí.

14

Cold City
(in Cerro de Pasco)

Light rain is falling (this morning)
as I look out the car window—
I smile at the corners of the adobe houses,
here in miner’s city … (Cerro de Pasco),
not sure why, perhaps because those
who live here must endure…;
dogs are walking on hard cold ground,
women move fast in this cold climate
(here in the highest city in the world).
But it all makes them special, brave
and solid.

Dedícate to Mayor Tito Valle of Cerro de Pasco; No: 2068; 11-28-2007

Spanish Version

Ciudad Fría

Lluvia ligera está cayendo (esta mañana)
mientras miro afuera de la ventana del carro—
sonrío a las esquinas de las casas de adobe,
aquí en la ciudad de los mineros…(Cerro de Pasco),
no estoy seguro por qué, talvez porque aquellos
que viven aquí deben soportar…;
los perros están caminando en el duro suelo frío,
las mujeres se mueven rápidamente en este clima frío
(aquí en la ciudad más alta en el mundo).
Pero todo esto hace de ellos especiales, bravos
y macizos.

Dedicado al Alcalde de Cerro de Pasco, Ing. Tito Valle Ramírez. # 2068; 28-Nov-2007

15

1960s Style Tractor, still in use at quarry Volcan;
Dennis, with two employees (engineers of Volcan).

The Old Monster Tractor

Tractors are like dogs
they age quicker than man, —
at 60, I’m getting up there,
the old tractor, perhaps
is hundred or so (at fifty)
(take or give a few years here or there).

I climbed her helm
like a mate on a ship, —
slowly does it…
and she whispered to me:
“I’ve done my job, faithfully”

Note: The old Monster Tractor is from the Early 1960s, which cost back then $800,000-dollars. The new one, which is but a year old (for they do not make them like this old one any more— cost three-million; poem No: 2080. # 2080, 12-03-2007

Spanish Version

El Viejo Tractor Enorme

Los tractores son como los perros
ellos envejecen más rápido que el hombre, —
a los sesenta, yo estoy llegando allí,
el viejo tractor, talvez
tiene cien o alrededor (a los cincuenta)
(agrega o quita unos cuantos años aquí o allá)

Me subí a su timón
como una pareja en un barco, —
lentamente esto se hace…
y este me susurró:
“Hice mi trabajo, fielmente”

Nota: El Viejo Tractor Enorme data de 1960, en ese entonces éste costó $800,000-dólares. El nuevo tractor, que sólo tiene un año de antigüedad (costó 3’000,000—porque ya no fabrican más como el Viejo Tractor Enorme)

# 2080 03-Dic-2007

16

When the Miner Comes Home

Within the solid dark of night
I touched her body, smooth and tight.
Through a long days work, now free
in bed, we knotted foot to knee,
and sensed our humanity—!
Tomorrow we shall cross again
this habit of fate, and imperfect bridge.

No: 2085 12-6-2007

17

Snow over Pasco

Snow will soon fall over Cerro de Pasco…
dampness clutching dampness,
white on white—.
The birds will perch…with feathers overlapping
to keep warm!
The dogs will walk over brisk and frosted grass.
At dark, the mountains with turn a shade of
gray, and blue.
Everyone, and everything, waiting
for the snow.

No: 2091 12-6-2007

18
Far Ahead into the Mines

Far ahead into the mines (1800-feet below)
sunk into the waist of the underground
I went… (in the dead part of the earth);
it is like a ghost mausoleum,
with manmade corridors and tunnels,
being held tightly together with antlers
(wires from the floor to the ceiling).
The earth is all around, beneath, and
above one, yet man has triumphed.

No: 2066, 11-28-2007 (written shortly after visiting one of the lowest parts of the mine, it goes 300-feet deeper, but without an elevator. Dedicated to Silvio Gutarra Tapia, Miner Ing.

Spanish Version

Muy Adentro en las Minas

Muy adentro en las minas (a 1800-pies abajo)
hundido en la cintura del subterráneo
yo fui… (en la parte muerta de la tierra);
este es como un mausoleo de fantasmas,
con pasadizos y túneles hechos por el hombre,
siendo sostenidos juntos ajustadamente con cornamenta
(alambres desde el piso hasta el techo).
La tierra está todo alrededor, abajo, y
arriba de uno, sin embargo el hombre ha triunfado.

# 2066, 28-Nov-2007 (escrito justo después de visitar una de las partes más profundas de la mina, este continuaba 100 metros más de profundidad, pero sin elevador. Dedicado al Ingeniero de Minas Silvio Gutarra Tapia.

19

Busy Bus Station

(Waiting at the bus station in Cerro de Pasco, to go back to Huancayo… :)

It’s a rainy morning in November,
loud music from the driver’s seat
(blaring upward, into my ears);
I’m on the second floor, waiting…!

Loops and loops of buildings
surround this bus plaza,
selling everything from magazines
to eggs and rice!

It’s a busy scene; carts and bikes,
loads of baskets and greenery
(vegetables) going through the archway!
Servicios, thirty-cents, so, so busy!
It’s almost 8:00 AM, the bus driver
moves the bus again, moves the bus
now and then, trying to fool
the ticket takers, but
he’s not going anywhere! Not yet!

Spanish Version

Estación de Autobuses muy Saturada

(Esperando en la estación de buses en Cerro de Pasco, para volver a Huancayo…)

Esta es una mañana lluviosa de noviembre
música alta desde el asiento del chofer
(retumba arriba, dentro de mis oídos);
¡Yo estoy en el segundo piso, esperando…!

¡Redes y redes de edificios
rodean esta plaza de autobuses,
comerciando todo desde revistas
hasta huevos y arroz!

Este es un lugar saturado, carros y bicicletas,
montones de canastas y verduras
(vegetales) ¡pasando por el arco!
Servicios higiénicos, 30-centavos, muy, ¡muy saturado!
Son casi las 8:00 de la mañana, el chofer
mueve el autobús de nuevo, mueve el autobús
de vez en cuando, tratando de engañar
a los que obtienen sus boletos, pero
¡él no está yendo a ningún sitio! ¡Todavía no!

Part Two
Legends Tales and Other Writings

The Miner

A Note to the Reader before the tales: I am not a political person per se, nor wish to get involved with politics at any point, yet I am aware that Cerro de Pasco, is a miner town like in Northern Minnesota, where I am from, and it was with the sweat from their brows (the miners) and labor and muscles that made Northern Minnesota what it became, a city; as the miners have in Cerro de Pasco, made their city today. From the dugout homes of a hundred years ago, to the sprawling city now we see, Cerro de Pasco has come a long way; I commend (Mayor Tito Valle and Superintendent General Ing. Teodulo Quispe Huertas) and of course the thousands of miners for their lively contribution throughout Peru; and pray, the issues that are today, will have solutioned tomorrow.

Spanish Version

El Minero

Un mensaje al lector antes de los cuentos: En si no soy una persona política, ni deseo verme envuelto con la política en ningún momento, aunque estoy consciente que Cerro de Pasco, es una ciudad minera como el Norte de Minnesota en Estados Unidos, de donde soy, donde con el sudor de sus frentes, su labor y sus músculos (los mineros) hicieron del Norte de Minnesota lo que es ahora, una ciudad; como han hecho hoy los mineros en Cerro de Pasco de su ciudad. Desde barracas cientos de años atrás, a la ciudad expandida que ahora vemos, Cerro de Pasco ha tenido un largo camino; yo elogio al Alcalde Ing. Tito Valle Ramirez y al Superintendente General de las Minas Volcan, Ing. Teódulo Quispe Huertas, y por supuesto a los miles de mineros por su contribución energética; y ruego, para que los problemas que existen hoy, tengan soluciones mañana.

1

“Laments”

Written by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and Edited by Dlsiluk

(Here are bits and pieces of information gathered at the site, tales and legends of ghosts, and even the Amuc, given to Rosa and Dennis by the Miners).

(Ghosts) Some miners that are more sensitive than others, they can hear at night the weeping (and crying, with a lot of sorrow). Maybe from the souls of the miners in the Colonial times (those who were whipped by the Conquistadores for it is said the quarry has been worked for 400-years); or, perhaps from the miners who died a century ago in an accident that happened in the quarry, where many miners were buried alive when there was a slide that covered them.
Those far off days, the days of a century past, there was no equipment for such rescue, alas. Recently the miners put dynamite to extract minerals in that area and they found skulls, bones, tools from those miners who died a hundred years ago. So the answer to the question often asked, “Is miner life dangerous,” I would think it remains the same, yet with more safety measures being taken. At the mines in Cerro de Pasco, when I had a tour, it seemed very safe, or as safe as human man can make it, yet a person not following advise or rules will always be the exception.
The name of the quarry changes every so often, I was told, now it is called ‘Quarry Raul Rojas’ after a miner who died in 1989, electrocuted.

(The Amuc) In the underworld, within the mines, lie the Amuc (or known to the miners as ‘El Muqui’); The Amuc lie inside the mines, you can see them at 300-feet from the mouth of the mine. They are blond-gringos, but small people (my husband said, it makes him a giant gringo then, because he was 1800-feet deep in the mines).
The Muqui, hide the minerals so the miners cannot see the minerals. But if the miners are nice with the Muquis, bringing for them coca leaves, cigars and drinks, they will show the miners where the minerals are.

Lamentos

Escrito por Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, y editado por Dennis L. Siluk

(Aquí hay trozos y fragmentos de información reunida en el lugar: cuentos y leyendas de fantasmas, e incluso del Muqui, suministrados a Rosa y Dennis por los mineros).

(Fantasmas) algunos mineros que son más sensitivos que otros, pueden oír en las noches lamentos. Talvez de las almas de los mineros del tiempo Colonial (aquellos que fueron azotados por los conquistadores, porque se ha dicho que la mina ha sido explotada ahora por 400 años—300 años colonial y 100 años industrial); o talvez por los mineros que murieron cien años atrás en un accidente que sucedió en el tajo, donde muchos mineros fueron sepultados vivos cuando allí se produjo un deslizamiento que los cubrió a ellos.

En aquellos días lejanos, un siglo atrás, desafortunadamente, no había tales equipos de rescate. Recientemente, los mineros pusieron dinamita para extraer los minerales de esa área y encontraron cráneos, huesos, herramientas de esos mineros que murieron cien años atrás. Por eso la respuesta a la pregunta a veces hecha, “¿La vida en las minas es peligrosa?” Yo diría que este permanece lo mismo, aunque con más medidas de seguridad adoptadas. Cuando tuve una visita a las minas de Cerro de Pasco, esta parecía muy segura, o tan segura como un hombre humano podría hacerlo, aunque una persona que no siga las instrucciones de seguridad o las reglas podría ser siempre la excepción.

El tajo cambia de nombre cada cierto tiempo, como me indicaron, ahora se llama “Tajo Raúl Rojas” en homenaje a un minero que murió en 1989 electrocutado.

(El Muqui) En el subterráneo, dentro de las minas, se encuentra El Muqui (conocido con ese nombre por los mineros) El Muqui se halla dentro de las minas, tú puedes verlos a cien metros de la boca de la mina. Ellos son pequeñas personas de cabellos rubios (a esto mi esposo dice, que esto lo hace a él un Muqui gigante, porque él tiene el cabello rubio y estuvo a 1800 pies de profundidad)
Se dice que El Muqui, esconde los minerales para que así los mineros no puedan verlos. Pero si el minero es bondadoso con el Muqui, llevándole hojas de coca, cigarros y bebidas, él le enseñará dónde están los minerales.

2

(The Poetic Tale of :)
The Blue Amuc (El Muqui)

Part One: The Climb

The Blue Amuc came to the meadows
of Huayllay (about the year, 1957).
A young Amuc he was
wanting to see the blue of the sky.
Whereupon, he saw a young Shepard Boy,
about his own age—tending his flock.
Thus, he hid trembling behind some weeds
and a bristly bush…motionless he stood,
in the October air,

his color was between pale green
and yellow
more green than yellow—I’d say;
he wore all blue, even his scarf
as blue, pure blue as the sky
on a clear sunny day…!

(Legend says he was a prince,
and perhaps he was in his
fancy blue way) yet he knelt
head down in the tall weeds…
thinking of the blue sky, he
wanted to see….

His eyes were large and round
heavy looking from his forehead down.
He had climbed the tunnels upward
to the surface, some twenty-one
hundred feet or so, to see the blue
of the sky, in Huayllay, this chilled
sunny blue day, in October.
And to see it clear, he rose above
the bush and weeds (it was a gift
he had long, longed for, to see).

Part Two: The Shepard Boy

He stood, but two feet tall, a little
above the yellow weeds—thereabout.
His shoulders quivered, and
the Shepard Boy saw all—
and wondered with curiosity;
as the Amuc looked high-up into
the sky, he hoped no consequences
would prevail (for now the Shepard Boy,
was as close to him as his shadow).

At this moment, each young lad
talked on things they knew,
each feeling the wonder
of the other, each now under
the blue of the sky… both longing
to learn the other’s life.

The Amuc gave to the Shepard Boy
small stones (precious uncut gems),
and therefore, thereafter,
they became close friends.

Part Three: The Night

Darkness came, with a windy howl—
through Stone Forest, and the meadows;
whereupon, the Amuc disappeared.

Yet, the following day he returned, and
thereafter, for several days more,
each time bringing new gifts, gems
(precious stones) ..:!

They both rested—the Shepard Boy
and the Amuc, in the meadow,
under the blue of the sky (each day),
both rested in awe, of the other, both
asking questions, and wondering why.
And then on the ninth-day, he was gone,
gone, just like that, never to return.

And for the boy, the Shepard Boy,
when he grew up, far into old age, he
continued to tell this story often,
with gusto, and dramatic waves;
to no benefit, to him, perhaps,
for no one really believed him
anyway— yet they liked to hear
the tale told, for whatever reasons,
no one really knows.

That is, he told the tale, but never
showed the stones, never showed them
to anyone but me, saying:
“Why spoil the fun, why try to prove
something, that’s already done,
a legend, a legend, it will grow and grow
and where it ends no one knows, that is,
no one but you and me, for the rest
of the folks, it’s pure curiosity…?”

And so it was, the old coot,
laughed crazy like,
as if he walked away.

No: 2079 (12-2-2007)

Spanish Version
(Un Cuento Poético:)
El Muqui Azul

Parte Uno: La Subida

El Muqui Azul vino a los prados
de Huayllay (alrededor del año, 1957).
Un Muqui joven era él
queriendo ver el azul del cielo
A este punto, el vio a un niño pastor,
de aproximadamente su edad—cuidando su rebaño.
Así, él se escondió temblando detrás de algunas yerbas
y un arbusto coposo…inmóvil él estuvo,
en el aire de Octubre,
su color era entre verde pálido
y amarillo
más verde que amarillo—yo diría;
él vestía todo de azul, incluso su chalina
muy azul, ¡azul puro como el cielo
en un claro día soleado…!
(La leyenda dice que él era un príncipe,
y talvez él estaba en su
forma azul lujosa) aunque él se arrodilló
cabeza abajo en las yerbas altas…
pensando en el cielo azul, que él
quería ver…
Sus ojos eran grandes y redondos
mirada pesada desde sus cejas.
Él había escalado los túneles hacia arriba
a la superficie, algunos 2,100
pies o algo así, para ver el azul
del cielo, en Huayllay, este frío
soleado día azul, en octubre.
Y para verlo claro, él se levantó arriba
del arbusto y las yerbas (era un regalo
que él había anhelado, anhelado ver).

Parte Dos: El Niño Pastor

Él parado, era sólo dos pies de altura, un poquito
más arriba que las plantas amarillas, por ahí.
Sus hombros temblaron, y
el niño pastor vio todo—
y se preguntaba con curiosidad:
mientras que el Muqui miraba arriba en
el cielo, él esperaba que no consecuencias
prevalecieran (porque ahora el niño pastor,
estaba tan cerca de él como su sombra).
En este momento, cada muchacho joven
habló de las cosas que ellos sabían,
cada uno sintiendo el asombro
del otro, cada uno ahora bajo
el azul del cielo…ambos deseando
aprender de la vida del otro.
El Muqui le dio al niño pastor
pequeñas piedras (gemas preciosas enteras)
y consecuentemente, después de esto,
ellos se volvieron amigos íntimos.

Parte Tres: La Noche

La oscuridad vino, con un aullido ventoso—
a través del Bosque de Piedras, y sus prados;
a este punto, el Muqui desapareció.

Aunque, al día siguiente él volvió, y
después de este, por muchos días más,
cada vez llevando nuevos regalos, gemas
¡(piedras preciosas)…!

Ambos descansaron—el niño pastor
y el Muqui, en el prado,
debajo del azul del cielo (cada día)
ambos descansaron con sobrecogimiento, del otro, ambos
haciéndose preguntas, y preguntándose por qué.
Y entonces en el noveno día, él se fue,
se fue, solamente así, para nunca volver.

En lo que respecta al niño, el niño pastor,
cuando creció, bastante hasta ser anciano, él
continuó contando su historia cada cierto tiempo,
con entusiasmo, y movimientos dramáticos;
sin beneficio, para él, talvez,
porque realmente nadie lo creía
de todas formas—aunque a ellos les gustaba oír
la historia contada, por cualquier razones,
nadie realmente lo sabía.

Esto es, él contaba la historia, pero nunca
mostró las piedras, nunca las mostró
a nadie, sólo a mi, diciendo:
“¿Por qué arruinar la diversión, por qué tratar de probar
algo, que ya está hecho,
una leyenda, una leyenda, esta crecerá y crecerá
y dónde termine nadie lo sabe, esto es,
nadie sólo tú y yo, para el resto
de la gente, esto es pura curiosidad…?”

Y así fue, el anciano coot,
reía como un loco,
mientras él se alejaba.

# 2079 (02-Dic-2007)

3

The Poetic Epic
The Great Warrior Lord of Huayllay

Dedicated To: the Miners
of Cerro de Pasco and Ing. Teodulo Quispe Huertas

1
The Advent

When the siege and the assault had ceased in Huayllay
and the clans and cave dwellings fell in fire and ruins,
and when all the wealth was taken, the most noble kindred
whom had escaped from the treachery of the Horde
from the lower world, below the Great Sierras —
that scourge their land, they returned home.
It was Saenea, whom was found by the renowned king;
and when this fair lad was found, by this famous king,
he was drinking the blood of animals to remain alive.
The boy but ten had escaped the siege, his family, did not.
Great pomp and pride, was inside his heart and head,
with sadness and strife, such strange things inside a boy.
He laid his hand upon the breast of the king, swore:
revenge with sadness would not leave his heart.
And he was bred to be a bold man, for battle, and such;
and in his time, as a youth, many marvels had men seen:
but of all that, men heard tell, one day he would be king.

Wherefore a marvel among men he was, and I shell tell
his tale, for he was one of few that held it, no fear of death…
one of the wildest of all men, as it is infixed, brave he was,
thus linked to gods it is told, but he loved only One, true One.

Indeed, the king had fine art drawn throughout his cave,
with many a beastly figures, noble animals, and his kind,
accompanied by much laughter, dancing and drinking,
with disputes full, and blissfully drunken lords over tribes.
For here in this land of stone and meadows, feasts were full
most days and nights, with meats and mirth, and merriment.

2
Saenea’s youth
& the Great Bear

Youth made him marry and carefree—yet restless!
And he had the moods of a youthful man—lighthearted!
Yet his young blood, swirled in his brain, never long seated;
plus the olden female seer—(who knew him from adolescents)
whispered in his budding ears: “All you see is in my visions…”
which pleased him to perceive (for in pride he had appointed
her his counselor); yet, always unacquainted at her strangeness!

And thus, it came to pass, straight and stern it stood: the
great bear, sixty-three feet tall, in stone woods; prideful and
courtly. The Prince now knew his challenge—in jeopardy?
His life against life—, each allowing the other the first movement!
Favor or fortune, both fairer than custom, they stood still.
And with silver lance, and bright banner of the prince,
he hooked it into (with a thrust and throw) the spine of the bear, climbed upward along his towering back, with rope and hair,
hanging on, warbling wildly—as his spear pierced and pierced!

Bizarre and moving thoughts came forth, he had killed the noblest
of beasts, he had ever known, and the greatest of all the Sierras.

3
The Feast
& the Marvel

For hardly had the happening ended, when the flesh of the bear
(a multitude of:) was served: passed among the elders of Huayllay,
with music and custom dancing, song and laughter, and drink;
for the mightiest had been slain; the Prince, gorged to the girdle.
So great was the feast the beast’s loins and limbs filled the bellies
of all the tribes, and the elders proclaimed Saenea a marvel.

Now of the feast, I will say no more, for surely it is obvious to
one and all, no want would there be to a prince, and feast given by
his father-king, for others. For all men were aghast in his face,
and now fear showed among many, yet light glowed from Saenea.

4
The Black Heart
(General)

All black he wore, garments and man: a fur tight and close to
his skin, clung to him; a dazzling robe, finely trimmed, with
fringes, a black hood covered his thick and wide head.
Long black locks, dark gray eyes, squared shoulders,
(richly, upright—bright with pride, shoeless he paced).
And vainly all who saw him knew, he was the stick of the king,
General Dark Heart, the right hand of the sovereign old king.
(Still, he betrayed the king for the king’s true and only son….)
And he wore the seal of the king this day (stolen), of bright
gold, richly arrayed with gems—and in his bedchamber
fulfilled his rehearsed death plot, with the blessings from his
true son; and hence, the destiny of the kingdom was at a pass;
stained by the blood of two corrupt enameled hands.

5
To Prevail A

Presumptuous it was, the great quarrel between brothers
both glimmered and glinted with precious jewels, readying
for the king’s battle—upheld in Stone Forest, two stiff—
stiff stallions to squabble, in battle quick melee, for kingship:
for the kingship of Huayllay, a fight to the death…stone-death;
both matched quite well but Saenea, hungrier still; and with
his silver spear—he aimed to kill his bragging brother
(and so it was, that the strongest would prevail…!)”

5
The Great Mêlée B

“Do as you please,” said Saenea, to his step-brother… (provoked)
“for your soundless gods will never hear you, nor honor thee…!
“And I tell you this—take it to mind, I advise you—you still live,
“but beware! The One God, true One, may want to sweep his den
“clean, for many who have battled with me, step-over to death —: oh
“son of a Great King, look down, mighty walls await, in the…the
“Netherworld where lethal rage goes unabated—, in them all.
“There they have no taste for food—what you may really crave;
“for now it is slaughter, blood, choking groans you desire! But
“your father wrapped my heart, not one day, but many, many!
“I leave you alive, after your hateful carnage, remember, and go!”

(The true son, listened not, and threw dust in his eyes.)

And it was what hearts drove them to fight with fury…?
Saenea, the adopted son of the old great king, and the true son.
Saenea, swept a hard blow, like a fatal plague to the true son’s ribs,
he moved up close to attack, all the blows to Saenea were hollow;
he moved up close to attack, struck him full in the spine and back,
ripping deep into his muscles, shearing them, bones splattered
open wounds with blood; he drew back, rough assaults yet to come.
His fists and legs were like whizzing arrows, it brought him down,
down, off his feet, to the ground, quick, he pulled his wretched
heart from his chest, sprang to his feet, standing held it high…
“Hear me…” he cried, his fighting hands now free, “hear me,
“amidst the blaze of battle I prayed, now stand by me—your king!”

He killed the true son, then with his silver lance by his side,
smashing the soil like a bull, he knelt to the God of the Universe.

Interlude

The Trials to Be

And now as Saenea who was a man, too enjoyed pleasures;
courteous he could be, possessed he was: fair and hard.
Under heaven, all saw him become king with fame,
and a king most high in pride; it would be hard to name,
but a warrior king he was, who had no dread of anything.
In battle he spared no life, be it beast or warrior, --
I say none but one, a woman, who would become his wife.
When he returned from battles, loud clamor and cries
announced anew, his arrival (shouts and hands waving)
Ladies laughed loudly, lost in an insane cheerful joy, as
merriment was served, and manners washed away; and
the loveliest of women there, glanced with eyes of haze.

6 & 7
The Great Seer
and the Carving
of the Great Stones

And when fair Huayllay was ruled by this marvel king,
bold and old, and well bred men, and women rejoiced—!
And in this new domain, more marvels would arouse,
than in any other age known since olden time; yet
of all those here abode in Stone Forest, one King’s feint! –
if ever was, Saenea most honored, for I have heard,
men tell;-- but listen, yet a little while longer….

The Great Sear, had now perished, and a child was born
unto the king; it was a boy “Yes!” cried the king “…son
of a king!” Then he cried to the heavens, and unto God,
the one true God, --he cried and pledged a thousand
stone statues to His glory. And in the dark of this night,
thunder roared, rain poured…and the woman he so
greatly loved…
died!

▼

Complimentary Poem and Hymn

Himno a Pasco
Letra por: Hugo Apéstegui Ramírez (In Spanish Only)

CORO
Somos hijos cercanos a Dios,
somos cóndores osados del sol;
¡defendemos el orbe Minero!
Con mulizas de paz y valor.

ESTROFAS
I
Fuiste el Edén del magnífico Yaro
pero en tu suelo la infamia cabalgó
y la codicia confesó al mundo:
que eres la pródiga Ciudad Real.
Despertó Huaricapcha tu fama
y en tu vientre la rueda rugió,
geografía y honor defendiste
tu epopeya el ejemplo nos dio.

II
Ya es la hora de cantar con brío
el fiel presente nos llama a vencer
enmendemos cualquier extravío
emulando al Universal Carrión.
¡El Titán de los Andes es Pasco!
elevémoslo a la eternidad,
con Japiris y Huaynos dorados
perduremos nuestra identidad.

III
Y desafiemos los vientos helados
¡si! El calor de la historia exigió,
vigilemos la veta de sueños
y holocaustos del oro no habrán.
El reloj de la mañana nos clama:
que apuremos los pasos con fe,
que se alcen las voces profundas,
firmes voces del gran socavón.

A Poem

“In the Nick of Time”
By Cindy White (in Part and English Only)

I met Dennis (Siluk) 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.

((Gruta de Huagapo (Peru))

The Mother Grotto
By Dennis 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.))

▼

Historian Maria Rostworowski and Poet Laureate Dennis L. Siluk

Maria Rostworowski and Dennis during a meeting (2007) in Lima, Peru; she complimented Dennis’ two books” The Magic of the Avelinos,” and” The Road to Unishcoto”

♥

Elsie at 19-years Old

Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk, my mother]

She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.

And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another

Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.

—By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03

Spanish Version

Amor y Mariposas
[Para Elsie T Siluk, mi madre]

Ella luchó una buena batalla
La última de muchas—
Hasta que no hubo nada más
Donde una vez, hubo plenitud.
Y así, serena y digna
Ella dijo, ‘adiós,’ en su propia forma
Y dejó atrás
Un gran tiempo viejo
Espacio para otro

Amor y Mariposas…
Eso fue mi madre.

—Por Dennis L. Siluk © Julio/2003

Books by the Author

Out of Print

The Other Door, Volume I [1981]
The Tale of Willie the Humpback Whale [1982]
Two Modern Short Stories of Immigrant life [1984]
The Safe Child/the Unsafe Child [1985]
Presently In Print

The Last Trumpet and the Woodbridge Demon

Angelic Renegades & Raphaim Giants

Tales of the Tiamat [trilogy]
And other selected books
Tiamat, Mother of Demon I
Gwyllion, Daughter of the Tiamat II
Revenge of the Tiamat III

Mantic ore: Day of the Beast

Chasing the Sun
[Travels of D.L Siluk]

Islam, In Search of Satan’s Rib

The Addiction Books of D.L. Siluk:

A Path to Sobriety
A Path to Relapse Prevention
Aftercare: Chemical Dependency Recovery

Autobiographical

A Romance in Augsburg I
Romancing San Francisco II
Where the Birds Don’t Sing III
Stay Down, Old Abram IV

Romance:

Perhaps it’s Love
(Minnesota to Seattle)

Cold Kindness
(Dieburg, Germany)

The Suspense short stories of D.L. Siluk:

Death on Demand
[Seven Suspenseful Short Stories]
Dracula’s Ghost
[And other Peculiar stories]
The Mumbler [psychological]
After Eve [a prehistoric adventure]

The Poetry of D.L. Siluk:

The Other Door (Poems- Volume I, 1981)
Sirens [Poems-Volume II, 2003]
The Macabre Poems [Poems-Volume III, 2004]
Last Autumn and Winter [Minnesota poems, 2006]

Poetry out of Peru

Spell of the Andes [2005]
Peruvian Poems [2005]
Poetic Images out of Peru [And other poems, 2006]

The Magic of the Avelinos
(Poems on the Mantaro Valley, book One; 2006)
The Road to Unishcoto
(Poems on the Mantaro Valley, Book Two, 2007)

The Poetry of Stone Forest (…and its legends)
(2007) Cerro de Pasco
Poetry on the Miners (and their Legends…) 2008

A Brief Background on my Husband,
Dennis L. Siluk

Dennis L. Siluk, is a Poet Laureate, three times over, perhaps his most desired, and highest accomplished for him, in his life; although he has many other achievements, he was and is a born Poet (writing poetry from the age of 12-years old, onward); always has been, and will die as one.
On the other side of the coin, he has attended many universities: University of Maryland (first degree in Behavioral Science); Troy State University (or: Alabama State University; in Psychology, Sociology and Literature), in which he received his second degree. He attended the University of Minnesota, doing graduate studies, and received a License to Counsel (Duel Disorders, Drugs and Alcohol, Psychology). He did graduate studies and beyond, in Theology, at Liberty University, and thereafter became an Ordained Minister (1993), using his psychology and license to minister in hospitals. His last degree was a Doctorate Degree in Education by Belford University ((in Texas) (Ed.D.))
In addition to his educational endeavors, he took second place in Minnesota (St. Paul: 1965) for Art, which he has used to illustrate his 37-books (which range from: short novels, to short stories, poetry, and medical).
He has traveled the world over, been to 60-countries, and almost every major city in the world, to include 46-states, in the United States. Now he has traveled Peru, from the mountains to the coast, and throughout the jungles.
He is a decorated Vietnam War Veteran. He spent 11-years in the military.
He has also received many awards on his poetry and writings, from Peru in particular; two from the United States, and one from the England Magazine. Bosnia has also taken a short story of his, and added it to their school curriculum.

His writings can be seen on over 400-internet sites world wide, and has a following of over 100,000-readers a month. He has 29-sites himself, and shares most of his writings willingly, and freely with the worldwide public.

For those interested, Dennis plays the Piano, has written music, and also plays the guitars. He has had 27-songs put to music in the early 1990s.

Furthermore, he studied karate, from the famous Yamaguchi family, while living in San Francisco, in the late 1960s. He became close friends with Gosei Yamaguchi—and met the famous, ‘Cat’ Gogen Yamaguchi, where all three spent an afternoon together (see his book called, “Romancing San Francisco”).

Dennis has worked in Iron Foundries, as well as a Steel Mill, as a youth, so he is no stranger to hard work.

All in all, Mr. Siluk has had a busy life (and much has been left out in this simple and short brief); yet, I am happy to have shared a portion of it with you, as I am happy he is sharing it with me now. It is also fare to say, this book is more a contribution to the miners of Cerro de Pasco, than a personal project for him. This will be his second book for Cerro de Pasco, he has already written on Stone Forest, in Huayllay; three books on the Montero Valley, which includes Huancayo, And other books on Peru, which incorporate its history, to include Lima and many legends. If anything, he finds Peru intriguing, and a kind of Egypt, for South America, and the last place in the world where so many discoveries are still being uncovered.

Rosa

Gratitude
Everything is finite; realize there will be an end to it, to whatever is today, someday. Be prepared; do not live like it will never end, lest you let the devil lead you in circles while pulling your tail..! Be usable and available, and you will salt away your despair. I have lived liked this all my days, and have enjoyed the fruits of life (yes, I have been poor and I have been rich, and I have been simply just satisfied, in all, I have never been abandoned, never, even though at times I’ve had to wait on the Lord’s actions because of my doubt, fear or insincerity). In reality, should you ask the Lord—kindly—He will give you what you need, plus three times more, or more, simply for the asking— save, you are of a sound and genuine heart. Dlsiluk (12-8-2007)

Visit my web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com you can also order the books directly by/on: www.amazon.com www.bn.com www.SciFan.com www.netstoreUSA.com along with any of your notable book dealers. Other web sites you can see Siluk’s work at: www.eldritchdark.com www.swft/writings.html www.abe.com www.alibris.com www.freearticles.com

Back of Book

The Query at Volcan, Cerro de Pasco, Peru

“Poetry of the Miners…” includes photos of the author with: Historian Maria Rotworowski, USA Poet Laureate Donald Hall, Ing. Teodulo Quispe Huertas, Superintendente General of U.E.A. and Mayor of Cerro de Pasco, Ing- Tito Valle Ramirez.

Dennis creates here, a collection of extraordinary and ageless poetry, unique in all its refreshing services (with poems, notes, tales, epics, legends, and other writings on the miners of Cerro de Pasco, the highest city in the world, and at Peru’s most famous and largest quarry. He talks—in his poetic way—of the miner’s heart, family, his work, surroundings, dangers.
He also has some complimentary poems (by: Juan Parra del Riego, Apolinario Mayta Inga and Cindy White, all poets of good will, and standing) translated and edited by the author.

Mr. Siluk is a world traveler, prolific writer (his first poetry written at the age of twelve); he is a License Counselor (Psicólogo); has a Doctorate Degree in Education (Ed.D) and has attended several universities in the United States. In addition, he has been awarded the title of Poet Laureate (three times in Peru); and in 1993, he was ordained a Minister in Good Standing; he is also a decorated Vietnam Veteran.

About the Author

This is Dennis’ 37th book, 7th on Peru, 13th in Poetry. He lives in Minnesota and Peru with his wife Rosa. He has won two Columnist awards in the United States. One of his short stories took first place from “The English Magazine,” October of 2006.

Visiting Apolinario Inga in his Library (and other peoms) In Spanish and English

2007-11-20T11:11:00.001-08:00

Three Tiny Poetic Chronicles
(From November, 2007)

Poems to be part of the book, “Silence over a Restless Valley”
To be published July, 2008

By Poet Laureate, Dennis L. Siluk

Visiting Apolinario in his Library
(Reference to Poet and Journalist, Apolinario Mayta Inga)

(A Minute Chronicle, in Poetic Prose)

The stone and dirt road seemed empty and silent, a warm day in the summer of 2007, in Huancayo, Peru, high up in the sierras. We walked the street to his home. We climbed the stairs to his library. A man who looks like a reserved professor, more so than a poet—, brings my wife and I in, saying, “I’ve read and heard about you, and have some paper clippings on you, been following you for a while now, a few years (he is writing a book on poets and writers),” and waving with his hands, as to have us seated. On his face there is pride, labor for being well read, and hope, this is not a carefree poet, teacher or journalist, but a mountain climber, carving his face onto granite, wrestling against the wind, undefeated by the dust of the earth.
On his walls are awards, pictures. He is hesitant, allows me to absorb his library. He has no evil intentions; he knows we may meet in the other life.
Here are two poets in a boat, made of books, and scholarly works, we are on his island at the moment, which looks more like a college professor’s room, during the grading period. We talked; we both have deep lines in our foreheads, and it is from the heavy flow of life.

No: 2058 (11-18-2007)

Just Before Dark
((A Minnesota, 1950s Poem) (Dedicated to my Brother, Mike Siluk))

(A Minute Chronicle, in Poetic Prose)

The street lights go on, day is quickly turning into night, and thus, the dogs start returning to their warm homes. It is winter in Minnesota, in the late, 1950s. My brother and I, rush across the empty lot, to reach our home just before dark, we sleep together—that is, across from one other, in the attic bedroom, under a slanting roof, and exposed chimney. I can see the birds return to their nests (of weeds, twigs and grass), from the window; darkness brings everyone home, a place prepared for rest—, be it in the cities, along the coast, or in the mountains, just before dark.

No: 2054 (11-18-2007)

Old Dan the Horse
((A Minnesota, 1950s Poem)

(A Minute Chronicle, in Poetic Prose)

Through the fence, I’m feeding Old Dan the Horse, with hay;
I can hear him crunching away, ripping it alongside his teeth—
A gluttonous sound indeed, as his sides extend in, then out…

Our lives—(a horse and a boy) are a farm and a fence;
Behind us are weedy pastures, cows and wild flowers.

Old Dan, is Old, his life is almost over, mine just beginning.
Hard lines run though his body, he is like seven old horses pacing…!

(Now, fifty-five years have past, I can now understand Old Dan)

No: 2057 (11-18-2007)

Spanish Version

Tres Diminutas Crónicas Poéticas
(De Noviembre, 2007)

Poemas parte del libro, “Silencio sobre un Valle Inquieto”
A ser publicado en Julio del 2008

Por el Poeta Laureado, Dennis L. Siluk

Visitando Apolinario en su Biblioteca
(En referencia al Poeta y Periodista, Apolinario Mayta Inga)

(Una Crónica Diminuta, en Prosa Poética)

La calle de piedra y tierra parecía vacía y silenciosa, un día caluroso en el verano del 2007, en Huancayo, Perú, muy alto en las sierras. Caminamos la calle hacia su casa. Subimos las escaleras a su biblioteca. Un hombre que luce como un profesor reservado, más que un poeta—, nos lleva dentro a mi esposa y yo, diciendo, “He leído y escuchado acerca de ti, y tengo algunos recortes de periódicos sobre ti, te he estado siguiendo por un tiempo ahora, unos cuantos años” (él está escribiendo un libro sobre poetas y escritores), e indicándonos con sus manos, nos invita a sentarnos. En su cara hay orgullo, esfuerzo por ser bien instruido, y esperanza, este no es una poeta despreocupado, profesor o periodista, sino un escalador de montañas, tallando su cara sobre granito, luchando contra el viento, invencible por el polvo de la tierra.
En las paredes de su casa hay galardones, cuadros. Él está indeciso, me permite absorber su biblioteca. Él no tiene malas intenciones; él sabe que puede que nos encontremos en la otra vida.
Aquí están dos poetas en un bote, hecho de libros, y trabajos eruditos, estamos en su isla en el momento, que parece más como un cuarto de profesor de universidad, durante el periodo de evaluación. Hablamos; ambos tenemos profundas líneas de expresión en nuestras frentes, y esto es por el pesado flujo de vida.

# 2058 (18-Nov-07)

Justo Antes de la Oscuridad
((Un Poema de Minnesota, 1950s) (Dedicado a mi hermano, Mike Siluk))

(Una Crónica Diminuta, en Prosa Poética)

Las luces de las calles se encienden, el día está rápidamente volviéndose en noche, y así, los perros empiezan a regresar a sus calientes casas. Es invierno en Minnesota, en los últimos años de los 1950s. Mi hermano y yo, corremos a través del vacío lote, para llegar a nuestra casa justo antes de la oscuridad, dormimos juntos—esto es, uno al frente del otro, en el dormitorio del ático, debajo de un techo inclinado, y chimenea expuesta. Puedo ver a los pájaros volver a sus nidos (hecho de mala hierba, ramitas y pasto), desde la ventana; la oscuridad trae a todos a casa, un lugar preparado para descansar—, esté este en las ciudades, a lo largo de la costa, o en las montañas, justo antes de la oscuridad.

# 2054 (18-Nov-07)

El Caballo Viejo Dan
(Un Poema de Minnesota, 1950s)

(Una Crónica Diminuta, en Prosa Poética)

A través de las rejas, estoy alimentando al Caballo Viejo Dan, con heno;
Puedo oírlo a él mordisqueando, rasgando a lo largo de sus dientes—
Un sonido glotón de verdad, mientras sus costados se extienden dentro, después fuera…
Nuestras vidas--- (la de un caballo y la de un niño) son una granja y una cerca;
Detrás de nosotros hay pastos cubiertos de malas hierbas, vacas y flores silvestres.
Viejo Dan, es Viejo, su vida casi está terminando, la mía justo empezando.
¡Líneas duras corren a través de su cuerpo, él es como siete caballos viejos paseando…!

(Ahora, cincuenta y cinco años han pasado, y puedo ahora entender al Viejo Dan)
# 2057 (18-Nov-07)

The Mother Grotto (La Madre Gruta) Poem in English and Spanish (Huagapo)

2007-11-12T08:39:00.001-08:00

((Gruta de Huagapo (Tarma, Peru))

The Mother Grotto

By Dennis 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 (Tarma, Peru); 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 61-miles away.))

Spanish Version

((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 98 kilómetros de distancia.))

'Day of the Living' (a strange account at the cemetery)

2007-11-04T12:48:00.001-08:00

By Dennis L. Siluk

(October of 1959)Let me begin by saying that, I have never heard of an account quite like this one, and perhaps you haven’t, only in odd tales, or in hasty and abrupt sketches of weird tales from old magazines, but this tale, or call it an account, has haunted me for 48-years, and now I shall tell it as it happened, believe it or not. I was told in so many words, to let go, the facts, people will not believe you anyhow, so why tell it, why throw your pearls to the swine; well as I said it’s been a very long time since it took place, and it is a story that did not happen to me but to Ezra, my friend, I simply was the witness, and Ezea now is long gone, died some years ago, so what harm can it do.
It was ‘The Day of the Living,’ in Peru, Huancayo, we had all gone to the cemetery, as many do on this holiday, and it is quite normal to see it infested like a hornets nest, and it was. Ezea and I had never been close friends, but this would bring us a tinge closer. He was something of an abstract kid, to say the least, a driving passion for the weird, perhaps that is why I kept my distance, but he was family, I mean, through marriages, a second cousin I think, my mother’s sister’s child, who had a child (Ezea), he was twelve and so was I.
We walked around Ezra’s great-grandmother’s grave; it had a cast-iron spiked fence around it; I saw Ezra stumble in the back of it, a large tree was along side of it, so I couldn’t—at that very moment—see what he was doing, but I know now of course he was picking up something. In the background were the many young boys and girls carrying water buckets to clean the stones for those who had a coin to give, and older boys with ladders to clean the higher stones, and still yet, a few boys with short hoes to do the weeding around the graves. But the fact remains, Ezea had found something, and was trying to hide it, and I wanted to know what it was.
“What is it?” I yelled to Ezea. But he was unanswerable. Next, I started to walk towards him, and he hid behind the tree, the rest of the family (Nancy, Mini, Enrique Senior, and Junior, and Ximena, Daniel and Mary Sofa) were watching the boy cleaning, and weeding. Daniel and Mary Sofa the youngest of us, were posing for a picture, Enrique Senior had gone to the car, I think to get away from the humdrum of things, and Ximena, three for four years older than I was trying her uncles hat on, and Enrique Junior, Ximena´s brother was (a year older than Ximena) was taking it all in. And I, I was the misfit you could say back then, visiting for each October my aunts and uncles in Peru, from Minnesota, while my dad took his Peruvian mother, back to Europe with him, to visit his old Ireland, as he called it. Why October you may be asking, well, I really don’t know, but in Minnesota it is a most beautiful month with all it’s changing of the colors. Anyhow, here I was handsomely bound and decorated with my Peruvian family, like a golden goblin carefully trying to find Ezea, and the reason for his hiding.
I saw, and heard Ezea, actually I interrupted him briskly saying, “What the hick are you doing, talking to that….!”
He said back to me, “I was explaining to her about me!”
He was not utterly ignorant, but talking to a rag doll, dressed in Wanka garb, or traditional garb aroused my interest. In any case, it was worth my while to stay, he added, “I had a wish today, that I could find something dead and make it alive and talk to it. And I found this doll, and it is talking to me.”
I answered that indeed, feeling it was of the utmost importance, refuting his charges that the doll talked, or could talk at all, although I thought I saw its mouth move, but Ezea had it in quite a humiliating position, as he got red in the face, with utmost efforts to persuade me otherwise. Not able to do so, and the doll remaining silent, he thanked me abruptly and took his leave and went behind a large gravestone, a mausoleum if I recall right. In the interim, the rest of the family leaned over the fence and said a long, very long prayer.

I heard Ezea talking to the doll as I hid behind the mausoleum, peeking off and on, picking up, what I could, of a one-way conversation of sorts. And then I heard a whisper, a low vice, feminine saying something. Then all of a sudden, Ezea cried out, fiercely and smashed his clenched fist down on a slap of stone, that was part of the mausoleum, “Listen,” he commanded,” and before he could say another word, I said, “How did you see me behind this tomb?” He replied, “I didn’t, the doll told me you were there, and she saw you peeking!”
The doll was in rages, old dreadful looking textiles, perhaps five-hundred years old. I would have liked to have broken the doll in two pieced at that moment, but then the lips on the doll moved.
“I had made a wish,” said Ezea, and asked the doll, “If this is the day of the living, why do you not live and talk. And then it did.”
Somehow I felt now I was on the track of some kind of real discovery, unless Ezea was pulling my leg and smarter than I had given him credit for, and was telling me a tall tale, while moving the rag doll’s lips. But from the looks of things, he was actually, as vividly as I can describe, actually not doing a thing to the doll, nothing of any kind to make the lips move anyhow, to the best of my knowledge.
“So what happened next?” I asked Ezea.
The doll said, “Ok, wishful thinker, you have your wish, I will talk to you for a day, for I was given but one for my life, just one, then tomorrow, the ‘Day of the Dead’, I shall parish, return from where I came from!”
I mentioned briefly, a curious fan of his now, and spoke skeptically, “How about the doll talking to me?”
“I don’t think the doll has any use for you,” said Ezea. It didn’t make me feel good. My Spanish was not good enough to tell him where to go, you know, in a profound way.

Anyhow the day went on at the cemetery, and the family had a picnic right by the gravestone, Ezea and I ate side by side, and I said nothing, then afterwards we walked about, after that Ezea said to the doll, “Tomorrow no one will believe me that I talked to you.”
I was a foot to his side, searching, I suppose for the living doll to speak; to me it was more of a mummy doll, than a living thing.
We both sat down, and then utterly vague clarifying, the doll spoke, or so I think it did, or someone spoke out of the doll, or for the doll, it said, “It is not easy for one to believe from a distance.” Ezea looked at me, “See,” he said, “you heard the doll!”
Yes, I did, but I didn’t believe it, he did, I didn’t—but I didn’t say I didn’t, lest he tell me to go, or I disrupt the isolated state we both were in, while in this cemetery, and now I was part of it, and I wanted for the moment to remain part of it.
I noticed as we sat there, the weeds grew rank among the graves and trees, almost choking out the grass, and seemingly aging the stones embedded into the ground. I could see the tall walls of the cemetery in the distance, unkempt, bushes over its sides dropping wildly about and down to the soil, then I distinctly heard the doll say, “There is a time to learn, a time to lead and a time to let go, he who has less faith than the other also has less human qualities.”
The doll was not looking at me, but I felt she was talking to me, and I never forgot those words. Ezea believed beyond suspicion, I admit that, I eyed it all suspiciously, but I could never frame it properly, I found myself pacing the ground where Ezea sat, and shaking my head, thinking it would be easier to believe than not, but I lived in a world of facts and not fiction, and dolls do not speak, so that was my world, a science world you might say, yet here I was seeing and hearing and not believing want I was experiencing. As I look back now, it all doesn’t make any sense. I suppose one can say, ‘Why would God, or some other source spend its time on trying to make a nonbeliever a believer, and now that I think of it, Ezea knew this, as did the doll, and the doll proved her point.

I am now sixty-years old, I left Ezea that day, never said a word to a soul about this, lest they think I was crazy, as if my brain was in a little-frequented region of its own, or of some unusually hard basalt, I wanted to be among the normal, or part of the norm, but Ezea always believed, and he didn’t give a hoot, if anyone else believed, and he didn’t waist his breath on trying to persuade anyone to believe, like I would have done if I was him; right to the day he died, right up to the very moment, for I was at his funeral, he believed, and he was buried with his doll, as he had wished to be buried. I asked his wife and children if they knew the story behind the doll, and they said ‘no’ and I said, “Well, someday I will write it…!”That was ten-years ago, now they have it.

Written on the ‘Day of the Living,’ November 2, 2007, in Huancayo, Peru

Depression, Suicide, Drugs and Alcohol in Huancayo, Peru

2007-10-09T09:51:00.000-07:00

Depression, Suicide, Drugs and Alcohol
(A short Commentary)

(Written: Oct 3, 2007)

I was reading the papers this last week (from Huancayo, Peru), saw a lot of suicides in them (and I wasn’t surprise to find the results), and people asking “Why this, and that?” Looking for reasons for the ongoing massive suicides in Huancayo (the highest rates for suicides in Peru); and everyone looking in the wrong place, it is the dilemma of depression we are looking at (suicide enhanced by alcohol, in any form).

First of all, there are various reasons for depression and suicide (depression can be a disorder, or a chemical imbalance within us, second, it can be simply sadness, and I’ll talk about that in a moment), but when you drink alcohol, in any form (to include beer) you are getting a double dose of depression. Alcohol is a “Depressant” a drug, this is something no producer of alcohol will admit, or tell you—lest you stop drinking, and God forbid, they lose their profit.

After two beers it becomes a catalyst for depression, like it or not. And if you have any problems at home (or perhaps `poverty, or old age is playing a part in it), or perhaps a loss, like a death in the family, or job, or house, or any loss, alcohol will enhance the state of depression you are already in, and thus, if you have suicide tendencies, the chances are with alcohol you will follow through on them.

In closing, everyone wants the problem to go away, without treatment, change in one’s lifestyle, or effort, just fade into oblivion; and those producing alcohol, want all the rights with no responsibility to continue the way they have, producing, advertising, and buying, and paying those to hide the problem from the public, matter of fact, they get rewards from public officials—how unseeingly can we be. Until we get serious over this issue or problem or call it a situation, it will continue to kill our loved ones.

By License Dennis L. Siluk (Dr. h.c.)

Three Poems from: Jauja (Peru)

2007-10-09T09:45:00.001-07:00

Tunanmarca, an archaeological site in Jauja, Peru

Cani Cruz, one of the most beautiful carved crosses in the world (Chongos Alto, Huancayo, Peru)

By Dennis L. Siluk

Jauja (Peru)

Note (a small summery on three poems after visiting three sites): For me these following three poems are interrelated simply because they are all from Jauja, although two are from a town-let called Chongos, the other one from the ancient hillside capital of the Wanka world (700 to 1450 AD), Tunanmarca (all within the Jauja area). Here is where the Inca Empire (from Cuzco) came and subdued the Wanka Capital in the half of the 15th Century. Some 15,000-inhabidents lived on this mountaintop city that is being renovated as I write these three poems, called Tunanmarca. Access to the city is a bit difficult; it is about 12,500- feet above sea level, and there are two defense walls nearing its summit, but it is worth the hike up the hill.

The Cani Cruz (otherwise known as the ‘The Cross of Pain,’ is in the small town of Chongos Alto, the cross dating back to 1601 AD, and the Old Shepard Lady of Chongos, I met by the oldest Church in the Mantaro Valley, 1556 AD with her heard of sheep; perhaps in her 80s, as often these old folks of the Valley are, continue their daily chores as everyone else does. These sites, the cross, the old city and the old church where I met the old woman, I was accompanied with my wife as usual, and two other companions, Richard, the taxi driver, and Professor Marco Sarmiento, from Huancayo, Peru of the Mantaro Valley.

The Old Shepard
Lady of Chongos

“It is late, quite late.
And I, I am one of few, awake!
What I love is by my side.
I spent all morning talking,
as I bend and rise
under the moving sun—!
They speak to me—, the sheep,
clear as the eyes of chickens!”

No: 2009 10-5-2007
Visiting Tunanmarca
The Wanka Capital
(700 to 1450 AD)

Oh, on this early afternoon I think
I shall live forever!
I am bound in my carefree flesh;
wrapped in these old Wanka ruins.
Rising from my feet from where I sat
it is a long walk up this mountain,
of old stones and white rocks:
the sun shines joyfully on my back.

I have now survived the long climb,
bathed in excitement along the way;
now on top, I plunge through the wind,
I drift into an antique universe,
where the ancient Wanka once set foot:
and alive forever, these stones seem.

No 2009 (10-5-2007)

The Cani Cruz
(The Cross of Pain)

It was mid-morning when I got there,
the plaza full of birds flying quietly
through the warm, but fresh breeze
(‘the day shall never end,’ I thought)…

the old, old Wanka cross in Chongos,
the Cani Cruz, named for the pain
that brought regret to the hearts of patrons,
of those far off days of long ago!...
stood solemn and erect, with flowers;

stood in front of me like a leaning tower.
‘The day shall never end,’ I said aloud,
but at last it did, like the quiet waters of
the night—like the birds that vanished.

‘The day shall never end,’ I said aloud.
Now, this ancient cross comes back to me
as if through a net of heavenly stars—
it has come back for me to write
its poetic legacy… its first breath…!

Note: The Cani Cruz is considered one of the most beautiful crosses in the world, carved out of stone in 1601 AD, by the Wanka nation of the Andes. The cross stands tall in the town-let known as Chongos (Alto), and has many inscriptions on it. There are few equal to it. No: 2008 10-4-2007.

LOS POEMAS DEL BOSQUE DE PIEDRAS; CERRO DE PASCO

2007-09-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

El Oso de Piedra, 21 metros alto (una de las 4000 figuras)

(Huayllay, Cerro de Pasco, Peru)

Prólogo (o Introducción): Arriba en Los Andes de Perú, alrededor de 4310 metros sobre el nivel del mar, reside una ciudad llamada: Cerro de Pasco, cerca de cinco horas desde Huancayo, Perú, en autobús, y considerada la ciudad más alta en el mundo. Aquí en las altas sierras hay un área conocida como Huayllay, un santuario para las piedras sagradas, un bosque de piedras, una maravilla geológica de Perú, y misterio para el mundo. Ellas han sido talladas por la mano de Dios en animales, figuras humanas, plantas y otros diseños (cuatro mil de ellos), a través de la madre naturaleza. Es sin lugar a dudas, una de las áreas más especulativas de Perú, y uno de los lugares ecológicos más secretos en el mundo.

He estado en Perú nueve veces, esta última por dieciocho meses, escribiendo sobre su cultura, costumbres y tradiciones. Me he aventurado en todas direcciones un hombre puede en Perú, y es más asombroso y versátil que Egipto. O en realidad, más que los sesenta países en los que hasta ahora, estuve y exploré, y Cerro de Pasco está entre los lugares más apreciados que encontré en el mundo. La gente es muy acogedora (y como en la mayoría de los lugares, ocupados tratando de ganarse la vida).

El Bosque de Piedras es un Hábitat Natural para los animales de piedra, y bosque de granito, y criaturas vivientes, con ondulados campos pajizos, y vacas y alpacas todas alrededor; es también un lugar muy frío para estar, aunque no tanto como en el estado donde nací y vivo en Estados Unidos, Minnesota, pero frío de todas maneras. No obstante, a la gente de esta parte del país parece no preocuparle, y muchos de ellos tienen mejillas ligeramente rosadas por el viento helado y por el frío, aunque ellos viven allí, y supongo (como en Minnesota) podemos preguntar porqué, y obtener una respuesta complicada, o muy simplificada. Y la mayor parte del tiempo creo que sería por la familiaridad (o nacimiento), y seguramente por la belleza de la ubicación, o localidad. Como en Minnesota, o en el Valle del Mantaro de Perú, así, la misma verdad se sostiene para el Bosque de Piedras.

Estos animales de piedra son de dos a cuatro pisos de altura, o es decir de seis a doce metros, excepto por el Papá Oso, que tiene veiuntiún metros de altura. Hay como cuatro mil figuras a través de este bosque inmenso (que tiene 6815 hectáreas). Es el bosque de piedras más grande del mundo.

Tú casi sientes que puedes saltar y agarrar un poco de las nubes colgadas arriba, estás tan alto encima de todo en el mundo. Y para aquella gente aventurera, a quienes les gustaría escalar estas piedras enmarañadas en el Bosque de Piedras, es (ciertamente) una gema muy inspiradora para hacerlo, y creada por ninguno otro que el Ser que nos creo.

¡Y ahora para aquella gente que no puede ir a este Santuario, estaré muy feliz si volteas unas cuantas páginas y visitas conmigo el Bosque de Piedras! ¡Que tengas un buen viaje! D. L. Siluk

Spanish Version

Poema Introductorio

El Cuervo

“En 1996, adquirí esclerosis múltiple y no podía sostener nada, todo se caía de mis manos, no podía recordar tampoco lo que había pasado cinco minutos atrás, y tenía que ir al baño dieciséis veces en una noche, mis piernas temblaban y el 85 % de mi cuerpo estaba adormecido (y siempre estaba cansado, durmiendo entre diez y catorce horas al día, más siestas, y dormitando en cualquier parte), sólo para mencionar algunos de mis síntomas. Yang Yang, un Artista chino, quien había sido profesor de arte por muchos años en un colegio local en la región norte-centro de los Estados Unidos, se mudó de Iowa, a San Pablo, Minnesota, y nos conocimos quizás alrededor de 1993. Me gustaba su arte, pero era caro, él era famoso en China, y se estaba volviendo famoso en la región norte-centro de los Estados Unidos, también en Nueva Orleáns y Florida, y en otras partes del país también. Él pintó un cuadro de un cuervo, en óleo, este parecía que estaba parado en trance, concentrado en algo, ¿en que?, era la pregunta. Esto era muy inspirador para mí; le sugerí a él que hiciera una serie de ellos. Pensé en comprar la pintura, era un pequeño cuadro comparado a los otros, algunos él los vendía por 25,000 dólares, y otros más caros; y por supuesto él tenía otros más baratos. Él quería en aquel tiempo, en 1996, 1400 dólares por la pequeña pintura, pero me lo dio en 750 dólares. Era realmente una buena compra y yo la apreciaba. Mi esclerosis múltiple en ese tiempo incluso me había hecho palidecer, y tenía que agarrar cosas para sostenerme mientras iba por los pasadizos del centro comercial a su galería. Y un día él me mostró otros tres cuadros de cuervos que él hizo, cada uno estaba, o aparentemente estaba (él nunca comentaría sus pinturas al punto de explicarlos totalmente, él sentía que tú deberías ver en ellos lo que tú veías; de todos modos, él me los mostró) en un proceso de revitalización, hasta que uno, el último de los cuatro miraba hacia el sol, listo para tomar vuelo y atacar (este era yo). Quizás uno o dos años más tarde, él me preguntó por cuarta vez si quería comprar los otros tres, yo quería pero no tenía la cantidad de dinero que tomaría comprarlos, yo estaba invirtiendo dinero en ese entonces, por temor a que necesitaría dinero en caso de que mi esclerosis múltiple me pusiera en silla de ruedas, así, él me vendió cada uno en 250 dólares, un precio muy bajo. Y hasta este día aún los tengo.

El poema, “El Cuervo”, fue encontrado después de ocho años, con el cuadro original del cuervo ((1999) (nunca antes fue publicado, o visto por el público)) en ese tiempo yo lo escribí y no sentí ganas de publicarlo, y está dedicado a Yang Yang:

El Poema:

Pesado él inclina su cabeza emplumada
Mirando fijamente a la niebla rojo sangre
Cansado, —su cara muestra que el tiempo ha pasado
Y sobre sus alas grises deslucidas—
El mundo descansa…

¿Te ha abandonado Dios—?
Para la angustia y el dolor:
¿Para amar al gorrión en cambio?

¿Tú no eres el más grande de los pájaros que posan?
Coronado con una capucha grisácea—;
¿O solamente eres un cuervo…que los agricultores odian
(u odiarían)…?

Tu aliento te ha dejado,
Mi amigo emplumado…
¿Tan débil para levantar tu cabeza otra vez?

¿Qué te separa del hombre?
¿Es el cielo y la tierra?
¿O el camino que cada uno debe seguir?
¡Cada uno por su cuenta…!

Me parece a mí,
La vida es una prueba para ti también
Pero el hombre debe reflexionar,
Y Razonar.

¿Cuál es la pregunta que haces?
Ya veo, dentro del mirar fijo
De tus silenciosos ojos oscuros:

“¿Quiénes son estos maestros que gobiernan la tierra—?
¡Devuélveme el cielo!”

Sin embargo, — ¿volarás de nuevo?
¿Tocarás el cielo?
¿Encenderás tus alas en el fuego
del sol que chamusca?
¿Te deslizarás con el viento hasta el alba?

¡Tú eres el misterio que grita dentro…
Pero entonces, tú no eres hecho en Su Imagen,
Mi Amigo…!

Part One
The Great Stone Bear
(Seven Poems)

Spanish Version

Festival en el Bosque de Piedras
((6-Septiembre-2007, # 1977) (Cerro de Pasco))

Entretenido estoy, con una libertad magnífica,
el festival de la ciudad de Huayllay tiene una variedad de colores.
En las áreas libres, en las bancas, en los puestos,
el sol está radiando como una tormenta inevitable,
mientras las alpacas vestidas coloridamente,
corren como cóndores voladores,
abajo de la calle para unirse a la carrera.

¡Sonrisas y risas! ¡Gente ocupada como las abejas!
Todos están listos para algo, corazones acogedores
enamorados, enamoradas todos vestidos atractivamente con sacos:
¡caras pálidas por el frío de la mañana!
Gente pensando en algo arriesgado, ni hablar
este único día podrá traer…

En la plaza polvorienta hay música y luces;
¡bailes, cantos! ¡Gente tomando y soñando,
unos cuantos ebrios como mofetas!
La tarde se abre con carreras sobre carreras
y si tú no participas, dirás por siempre
estuve allí, en algún sitio, pero sólo esperando.

Y en el camino, a lo largo del festival,
carros y taxis esperan, esperan,
para sacar frutos de sus labores.
Alguna gente sólo haciendo tiempo a lo largo de las rejas,
talvez soñando o alucinando.
Muchos vestidos con máscaras—y ropas tradicionales,
reviviendo el gran vuelo de la imaginación.
Hay caballos en los parapetos
por las altísimas rocas, niños y adultos
cabalgando de ida y vuelta…algunos escalando los cerros,
algunos besándose, abrazándose, como si, en las nubes,
música y bulla retumbando todo el tiempo.
El festival es loco, mundo loco
cómico y soñador con su infierno feliz.

¡Mi cabeza está girando, virando, dando vueltas—
la bulla nunca se detiene,
como un candelabro de cristal, mi mente flota y se mueve,
pero yo espero, espero, espero, sólo un rato más…!

2

Spanish Version

El Nacimiento del Gran Oso de Piedra

Aquí estamos, todos vestidos con ropas abrigadoras
¡para honrar al Gran Oso!
Si, es así;
es honrar a este viejo oso de piedra,
nacido antes del crepúsculo de la historia humana.

Aquí—aquí el Bosque de Piedras está abierto a
un prado de pasto amarillo
voces diciéndome que estando vivo
y siendo un hijo de Dios,
podemos regocijarnos de las esculturas que El ha creado,
sobre la cima del mundo, cerca a Cerro de Pasco;
aquí en el Bosque de Piedras—donde lo inimaginable
reside; ¿quién lo creería?

Fuera de este desnudo, campo Amarillo,
el grandioso cuerpo de piedra de un prehistórico oso
espera hasta la primera hora de la tarde
¡para bajar su sombra en la fresca y coloreada
tierra…!

Nota: Escrito después de siete horas de haber visto al Gran Oso de Piedra (Papá Oso). Dedicado al Alcalde de Cerro de Pasco, Perú, Ing. Tito Valle Ramírez por su asistencia ayudándome a llegar al sitio donde está El Oso; y mucho más, sin esa ayuda este libro no hubiera sido posible.

# 1970 (3-Septiembre-2007)

Spanish Version

Trucha y Huesos de Pescado
Pachamanca y Panqueques
(Festival de Huayllay)

Belleza con misterio es rara
muy pocos beben de esta fuente;
pero cercano, cerca de Cerro de Pasco
un reciente evento preparado—
cobra vida una vez al año…:
el raro y misterioso Festival del Bosque de Piedras.

¡Aquí podemos ver: amigos, bebidas,
comidas típicas, como: enormes panqueques
tomados con café o gaseosa;
o truchas deliciosas, si a uno le importa escarbar
a través de los huesos interminables—ah si,
si, están por todas partes, ¡trucha, trucha, trucha!
Y la pachamanca, una pila de comida, abarrotada
con carnes de: res, chancho, pollo;
habas, papas y camotes,
todos metidos en un hueco en la tierra caliente
con piedras que lo rodean y cubren
la comida cocinándolo muy bien—!

Y en todo alrededor canciones y bailes—
y un hálito del Bosque de Piedras…a la mano.
¡Entre la mañana y noche, se puede oír
canciones todo el día—hasta tarde en la noche…! hasta
hasta que el guachimán cierra la puerta—
y pone a las decorativas alpacas a dormir.

Nota: Dedicado a César Cruz Córdova, por su ayuda constante mientras estaba en Cerro de Pasco y alrededores, él fue como un hermano asegurándose que todo me vaya bien y sin incidentes a mi y mi esposa, durante nuestros tres días y medio de visita.
# 1972 (3-Septiembre-2007)

Spanish Version

Caminos, Campos y Piedras
(In Pasco)

Viajando en un carro, en Huayllay
o, el Bosque de Piedras, tú notas
muchas cosas:
postes de teléfonos, uno a uno a lo largo
de los antiguos caminos de tierra;

en los campos, rejas
y detrás de ellas, vienen las vacas—
lentamente sus ojos saltan hacia ti
—y pasando ellas, el Papá Oso de Piedra
(treinta metros de altura);
y en todo alrededor, la oscuridad se empapa dentro
del bosque de piedras.
El sol a la deriva baja, y el
bosque de piedras se enciende
(gris sobre negro, árboles de piedra, como
un ejército de monjas— ¡todos se vuelven uno!)

En Huayllay, y sobre aquellos árboles de piedras
dispersos uno por uno,
a través de los campos—
se puede ver ichus y
rastrojo parduscos,
y caminos inclinados regados; riachuelos todos
combinados.

Es una satisfacción estar recorriendo,
y yendo hacia estos animales de piedras—
Y ver el sol en los campos, y
los árboles de piedra más distinguidos
que nunca; —figuras de piedras,
(animales) todos congelados en una muerte de piedra…

Y todos los huecos y zanjas
a lo largo del camino de regreso a Cerro de Pasco:
lleno de una lluvia propia.

Nota: # 1973 (3-Septiembre-2007)

Spanish Version

Descansando en Cerro de Pasco

Dormimos las pasadas tres noches, en
Cerro de Pasco, Perú:
un lugar magnífico, la
ciudad más alta en el mundo.
Nación de mineros, y nación de alpacas.
Dormimos en un bonito hotel de turistas rosado.

No muy lejos de la ciudad está una maravilla
y misterio para el mundo.
Aquí, todo es un poquito más lento.
Aquí, la gente todavía viste sus
ropas pre-incas alrededor de la ciudad,
y muchas de las casas aún son de adobe.

Esta ciudad andina, los ojos y cabeza
del mundo,
parece mirar abajo a las Sierras,
estos Andes peligrosos; y para ellos, el tiempo
es inexplicable.
Mañana recorreremos afuera y abajo
y a través de estas altas montañas.
¡Tan rico en minerales y aire!
Todo el día sentí y siento
Que estoy lleno de amor, y me gusta esta
ciudad y su Bosque de Piedras.
Algún día volveré, y la disfrutaré
de nuevo—
el vigorizante aire fresco donde
los mineros nacieron.

# 1971 (3-Septiembre-2007)

Spanish Version

Levantándose Temprano en Cerro de Pasco

Me levanté temprano. En la televisión
los trozos de noticias han caído.
El azul profundo del cielo con nubes blancas
todas dispersas, delgadas a gruesas.
Oí algo de ruido en el pasadizo
de este hotel…

Yo vi la luz, primero por el
lado de la ventana…(me despertó)
El agua fría del caño
cayó en mis manos—¡noche fría!
Estoy despierto de un sueño ligero
como un horizonte…lentamente.

Sobre el día nuevo, pienso “Café”

La profundidad de la noche ha
desaparecido de los charcos
de la tierra—;
Espero ahora en encontrar el día.

Nota: Escrito a las 8:06 a.m. Me desperté una hora antes. Es jueves y estoy en el Hotel Señorial. Estamos en la habitación 206, Rosa fue a comprar una donut para mí, ella justo volvió, y rápidamente se fue de nuevo a ver al Alcalde, Ing. Tito Valle Ramirez, para hacerle saber que estábamos partiendo.

# 1974 (4-Septiembre-2007)

Spanish Version

Los Perros de San Juan
(A Reflexión Rápida)

Las minas y montañas antiguas
de Cerro de Pasco, encajan en la ciudad
(con el lago y la cantera), mientras que los
rayos del sol de la mañana, guían a una cuadrilla de perros
que rondan de
patio a patio…
(gracioso, ¡no veo un gato!).

Escrito en el autobús cerca de Junín, alejándonos de Cerro de Pasco. Reflexiones de los tres días en que estuve en la ciudad, y vi a los perros rondar en cuadrillas, atravesando una reja después de otra. No había un gato en el lugar (4-Septiembre-2007) # 1975. También, “Doris (y el Oso Olvidado) fue escrito mientras estaba en el autobús. # 1976

Spanish Version

Doris
(Y el Oso Olvidado)

Los pájaros vuelan sobre este, cada hora,
El tío de Doris y una tía pastora
lo ven muy frecuentemente…
Cometas de la mano de los niños
incluso lo han tocado—
y talvez, ranas, vacas y
toda clase de criaturas vivientes lo han visto,
pero cuando el alcalde Tito Valle le pidió
a Doris me mostrara el oso,
ella dijo “claro” –realmente
no sabiendo de qué él estaba hablando.
—Pero ella me contó después que dijo:
“Averiguaré, averiguaré esto más tarde,
Pero esta era la primera vez que escucho sobre El Oso”

Notas: Ah, podría hacer muchas notas sobre esto, pero lo dejaré de lado por controversia, por otro lado, soy responsable de esto también, muchas veces cuando estaba en el ejército. Pero todo resultó muy bien, y la vida ¿no está llena de humor?, si tú buscas esto. # 1976 (4-Septiembre-2007) Dedicado a Doris Ticse Arteaga.

Spanish Version

Caracol de Piedra, sobre Azul

Ahora ambos de nosotros
Estando aquí—uno
vivo, otro piedra
nos sentamos quietos:
el viento
virando
el viento
virando…
(la lluvia está viniendo):
el Gran Caracol de Piedra,
es la mejor parte
de esta parte del parque—,
lo toqué (quería abrazarlo);
esto me dice de su eminencia.
Miro alrededor
tantas figuras
(estatuas de piedra)—
de alguna forma equilibradas,
colgadas por un hilo,
en esta casa de piedra
con un techo de azul.

Escrito el 6-Septiembre-2007 (#1978—1:50 p.m.) Dedicado a nuestras tres jóvenes guías de turismo: Dayanara, Carol, y Noemí que fueron muy generosas.

Spanish Version

En los Campos del Gran Oso
((Del Bosque de Piedras) (3-Septiembre-2007))

Los ojos y las sombras oscuras de las piedras
(en el Bosque de Piedras, muy alto en las sierras)
Se filtran entre los campos del Gran Oso—.
Aquí, hay paredes de piedras, muy altísimas
(como sueños extendidos en el cielo).
Puedo sentir sus sombras frías descendiendo
—¡cruzando los campos…!
Ellos no tienen sacos—sólo
lisa y afilada piel de granito:
mientras ellos se hunden abajo, y alrededor mío,
me devoran (y a mi esposa),
similar a un verdugo.
Con grandes briznas suaves
ellos observaron, con sus ojos internos
mientras estuve en sus campos sagrados
(“¡…el Gran Oso de Piedra—está allí!”,
nos dijo nuestro guía—apuntando)
Estoy entibiado por el sol y el aire puro
(estas piedras causan ondas
en la tierra dormida— extraña mañana
fue esta).
Los ojos y las sombras frías de las
piedras, se filtran en los campos,
como si dejando un puerto solitario (su hábitat)
y mi espíritu se movió en mi cuerpo
(flotando muy contento…)

Nota: Uno de los últimos poemas que fue escrito para el libro “Los Poemas del Bosque de Piedras”. Dedicado a mi esposa Rosa, que anduvo por esos campos conmigo; sintió el Bosque de Piedras rodeándola, devorándonos, y si nos hubieran dejado solos seguramente nos hubiéramos perdido dentro de su enormidad; así, exploramos al Gran Oso de Piedra, con su altura inmensa y sus alrededores. Fue solo posible gracias al Alcalde de Cerro de Pasco, que pude ver al Gran Oso de Piedra, en el último minuto, porque realmente me estaba despidiendo de Tito Valle, aun sabiendo que mi libro no podría ser terminado sin ver al Oso. Mi esposa Rosa le preguntó si podía ayudarnos en este proyecto, porque es muy difícil llegar a esta aislada área, de terreno accidentado. Así, él proveyó los medios, y consecuentemente nos quedamos otro día, y yo estaba muy complacido desde luego. (Permanecimos tres días en el Bosque de Piedras, talvez cinco horas por día) # 1979, 7-Septiembre-2007 (11:30 AM)

Spanish Version

El Largo Viaje en Autobús

¡Desde Huancayo, a La Oroya, y hasta Cerro de Pasco
las montañas ascienden, arriba y arriba!
Millas después de millas, un poco de hollín y cenizas,
a lo largo del camino—¡se juntan en el autobús…!
Allí, allí, sentado en mi sitio
puedo soñar, continuar soñando—
tostado por los rayos del sol que se mueven sigilosamente
a través de los paneles de las ventanas del autobús.
No puedes comer o beber mucho,
no hay baño en este autobús.

# 1982 8-Septiembre-2007

Spanish Version

La Alpaca de Piedra

(En los campos por la gran Estructura de Piedra, la Alpaca…):

Tu agarre y mi agarre
jalan y jalan lo mismo.
Tus cerros de piedras—están girando
en mi cerebro…; consecuentemente,
me pierdo (sin pensamientos)
estando aquí por la alpaca de piedra—
después repentinamente me doy cuenta
que estas piedras tienen extremidades
cuerpos y cabezas
y dondequiera que miro
granito decayendo, desmoronándose
talvez como yo, de vejez;
así, el rechinar de los dientes
tiene un pasado largo…
(todos ellos han sido juzgados)

# 1980, 8-Septiembre-2007. Pasé dos días alrededor del elefante de piedra y de la alpaca de piedra, en los campos ondulados que llevan hacia ellos, muchas otras figuras de piedras habían alrededor, como el cóndor, el hongo, el viajero, etc. Pero la alpaca es tan real, es asombroso, te cautiva, casi dentro de una forma de hechizo.

Part Two
Inside Stone Forest
(A Ten-part Poem)

Spanish Version

Dentro del Bosque de Piedras
(Un Poema de Diez Partes)

—Este extraño Jardín sagrado, de rocas parecidas al acero (dependiendo del día, este puede lucir de gris a oscuro carbón), abandonado como un barco de pirata en un oscurecido océano de sal; se filtra dentro de ti como un sueño blanco…fantásticamente profundizando en su presencia; yo sólo soy un extraño inminente, mientras camino desde las afueras hacia su bosque de piedras, de bestias de piedras, humanos, y plantas en un corral masivo.

—La noche cayó temprano sobre el Bosque de Piedras; sus criaturas de piedras reunidas: bestias, animales, figuras humanas y plantas, todos están en paz, no hay sangre derramada, frialdad de la luna, una ventana grande abierta al mundo. Quiero saludar a estos grandes héroes de Los Andes, mi espíritu es alimentado, con un dolor monstruoso, que dice: Dios se tomó el tiempo de tallarlos, que regalo más orgulloso que este El podría haber dado a la cima del mundo.

—Con caras de piedra, las bestias del bosque están, con voces que se apagan, bajo las estrellas; así, ellos gimen, “Mira” ellos dicen, “Mira al cielo tambaleante”, (esto es todo lo que ellos tienen) y por eso viene la lluvia estrepitosa todas las noches, arriba de sus cabezas— (de alguna forma ellos parecen contentos)

—En las frías tardes, caminé en el suelo duro, en el Bosque de Piedras, aquí las bestias estaban rígidas, ((el elefante, la alpaca, el oso, el cóndor) (incluso el gigante caracol y la tortuga)) rígidas, como soldados listos a atacar; sí, ah si, ciertamente, hay un nido de ellos, orgullosamente (rigidez sagrada), sus caras inclinadas silenciosa y ligeramente, como si el mismo Dios, podría aparecer en cualquier momento (porque este es Su bosque).

—Aquí en el Bosque de Piedras, alto en las montañas, muy en lo alto, las sombras aparentemente son tragadas por la luna, sólo un poquito de luz es dejada para reflexionar sobre estas desgastadas rocas antiguas: aparentemente, fantasmas de alguna pasada edad famosa; tiernamente ellos aparecen, como si abrazando a todas las cosas vivientes. Aquí el Gran Oso de Piedra, orgulloso y alto—como una montaña—extiende sus garras, como si alistándose para agarrarse de la luna. Todo parece muy frágil, y destronado.

—Esta tierra parpadea, durante la helada de la mañana, con luz plateada, mientras que las estatuas solitarias permanecen en un estado de inmovilidad, encantados con las nubes de arriba, como si dijeran, “Sígueme lentamente, mi amigo—a mi morada” y luego ellos desaparecen, una vez más.

—Mientras miro hacia sus caras (estas bestias como estatuas): vientos helados fluyen sobre sus cuerpos duros, cuerpos de piedra como roca, y los vientos continúan abofeteando y rasgando contra sus paredes grandes de piedra dura, dejando arrugas, y ranuras de vejez, arcos y dolor de sus largos días.

—Campos sutiles (están todo alrededor), con suelo parduzco (no mucho crece aquí) y los vientos silbantes que son traídos a través de estos campos abiertos, rodean este misterioso refugio de piedra, como una corriente interrumpida; este permanece casi desconocido al mundo, casi en una melancolía total—con ojos fijos: todas sus estatuas mirando arriba y abajo, yo siento que soy sólo un pastor aquí, para estas piedras, uno curioso a esto—previamente siento, el silencio de Dios filtrándose a través de este bosque, puedo casi oír Su corazón latir.

—Aquí arriba, encima del mundo, en el Bosque de Piedras, incluso la luna parece fría, detrás de las nubes, y lista para caerse; cada piedra colosal parece ser una criatura prehistórica de una edad congelada, una conmovedora que despierta el espíritu.

—Aflicción mística se filtra a través de mis venas, mientras estoy aquí en el Bosque de Piedras, me pregunto: estas criaturas de piedras, dignatarios de nacimiento noble, ¿sus sombras caminan sobre la tierra? Tal fantasmal forma de pensar, de piedras muertas, bajo nubes doradas, sobre los altos Andes, pensando, razonando, todo esto es un sueño místico.

Poema Final

Cuentos Contados en el Festival

He visto las
figuras de piedras
(cerca) en la luz…,
y sus sombras en la noche,
— ¡y he escuchado los cuentos contados!
Ah, es bastante misterioso
¿Ser parte de todo esto?

# 1778 (3-Septiembre-2007)

▼

Spanish Version

La Leyenda de: El Gran Oso de Piedra
(En Dos Partes)

Parte Uno
El Gran Oso de Piedra

Contaré esta historia en resumen, y con lo mejor de mi conocimiento, o debería decir, recuerdos, porque este salió de leyendas, como los he puesto juntos, y como en todas las leyendas, tu parte—aparte de leer este—es desentrañar la verdad de la ficción. Esto, mis amigos, no es mi trabajo, tampoco desearía tal tarea. Pero no obstante lo haré, decirlo como es: de mi inspiración, verdad, y por supuesto, de los nuevos y antiguos bardos de esta edad y edad pasadas (esta tiene dos partes)

Fue mucho tiempo, mucho tiempo atrás, cuando un granjero rico, o mejor dicho, un granjero con muchos animales vivió y tenía rebaños en estos campos que ahora es llamado Huayllay; te garantizo que no había mucho pasto para alimentar, no a más de 4000 metros de altura sobre el nivel del mar, pero los arbustos amarillos parduscos allí parecían suficientes para la mayoría de los animales, y sus rebaños y manadas crecieron grandemente, haciendo de él un hombre pudiente.

También en esa área rocosa (ahora llamada Bosque de Piedras) vivía un granjero pobre, una clase de tipo envidioso y celoso, uno que experimentaba en magia negra. Ah, él estaba ciertamente enraizado profundamente con desprecio por el granjero rico; talvez debería llamarlos a ambos de ellos “Pastores” porque esto era su quehacer en la vida.

En cierta forma, el granjero pobre no podía resistir, vivir cerca del hombre rico, y permanecer pobre, mirando crecer a su rebaño de animales día a día, mientras que el suyo disminuía. Era muy provocativo enfrentarlo. A veces el preguntaría, “¿Porqué?” (tirando sus manos al aire, sobre su cabeza) “¿…porqué él y no yo? ¿Qué hace él, o qué tiene, o qué tuvo, que hace la diferencia—entre rico y pobre?” Ah, por cierto, esto era exasperante para él, no recibir nunca una respuesta, y por lo general, él nunca podía responderse esa pregunta él mismo, si realmente había una respuesta para esto. Tampoco podía enfrentarse o preguntarle al granjero rico su opinión en esa materia. El orgullo hace cosas extrañas, ¿cierto?

Así, un día ellos dieron el uno al otro, cara a cara, ojo a ojo (un día duro este sería). En todo caso, los ojos del hombre pobre estaban ardiendo, mientras ambos de ellos estuvieron erguidos, y la primera cosa, el primer balbuceo que salió de la boca del pobre hombre fue, “maldigo a tus ganados vivos” ah, esta era una maldición amarga “…maldigo tus ganados, y todas las cosas vivientes que tienes, a que se vuelvan piedras” “¡piedras, piedras!” Y desafortunadamente, esto pasó, como un rayo; y la primera bestia del bosque, en ser convertida en piedra fue el Gran Oso. Si, si, innegablemente, él fue el primero de los animales en ser solidificado, el rey de las bestias del bosque, todos sus veintiún metros de él, ahora luciendo no más diferente que todo el bosque de piedras alrededor. El era el amigo del hombre rico, de hecho él era llamado Papá Oso, por respeto a su larga edad. Después uno por uno, sus animales de convirtieron en piedra, como lo hicieron sus plantas e insectos favoritos (hongos gigantes, y caracoles, etc.). En ese momento el hombre pobre hizo su escape, a donde nadie sabe, porque nunca se volvió a oír de él, sólo lo vieron alejándose de las montañas del valle muy rápidamente, aunque se ha dicho, que él no vivió hasta ser un anciano.

Parte Dos
La Leyenda detrás de la Leyenda

Nadie sabe que el Gran Oso de Piedra era sólo la leyenda detrás de la leyenda; debo explicarlo: una vez, el Gran Oso era el guardián del Bosque de Piedras, y de todos los animales dentro de este, este era un tiempo en que el hombre y los animales crecieron a alturas grandes, y edades—y después, después cuando el hombre rico vino al Bosque de Piedras, y ambos de ellos se descubrieron el uno al otro, lentamente ellos se hicieron amigos, y se conectaron, tú podrías decir.

Es más, justo antes de esta edad, hubo una gran conmoción en la tierra, cuando el Bosque de Piedras era realmente parte del gran mar. Después el mar fue invertido, y las grandes montañas del mar se convirtieron en los Grandiosos Andes, y el Gran Oso, se convirtió en el primero de los gigantes que rondaron por estos bosques, y esto fue como fue, su casa; y después allí aparecieron una multitud de otras bestias gigantes, insectos y así sucesivamente continuó. Este fue un tiempo extraño ciertamente, un tiempo de asombro y lágrimas, de duelo. Al final, el mundo fue sumergido en un laberinto, y lucha, y héroes nacieron, sólo para ser destruidos más tarde, pero una frescura y color realista vino a un nuevo mundo, con admiración. Mortales y bestias caminaron lado a lado, mientras que Dios arriba vigilaba abajo. Y por supuesto, tú sabes el resto de la historia.

Nota: La primera parte fue escrita en el Hotel Señorial en Cerro de Pasco, en el distrito de San Juan a las 8:30 de la mañana, en forma de borrador (4-septiembre-2007). La segunda parte fue escrita a las 10:15 de la mañana en el autobús yendo de Cerro de Pasco a Huancayo, esa misma mañana.

Part Three

Spanish Version

Parte Tres

Poemas de Guerra:
Sobre Vietnam (1971)

Para aquellas personas interesadas en conocer sobre el autor un poquito mejor, él ha añadido dos de sus poemas de guerra al libro, nunca antes publicados en otro libro hasta este punto. El ha escrito en el pasado una cantidad de poemas sobre la guerra (muchos publicados en más de 400 sitios Web en todo el mundo); en adición, estos fueron publicados en tales libros como “El Encanto de Los Andes” (doce poemas) y “Donde los Pájaros no Cantan” (un libro de sketches y algunos poemas sobre Vietnam)—y ahora por tercera vez él ha expresado su mente, emociones, experiencias y conciencia, para el lector en los siguientes dos poemas sobre una guerra en la que él participó, en 1971 (él estuvo en el Sur de Vietnam por ocho meses, a lo largo del Mar Sur de China, y por una semana fue a Sydney Australia; estos dos poemas, no son violentos o agresivos en ninguna forma, al contrario, conciliatorios, y simple en su entrega por afecto; el autor siente que hemos tenido suficiente de esa cosa violenta afuera; que tal vida simple):

((Vietnam: Un Poema de Guerra) (1971))
Vietnam: Como Hormigas en la Lluvia

Confuso, envuelto en una maraña:
En una tierra llena de voces—
Verdaderos hombres de guerra conocí.
Aquí no teníamos nada más que pensamientos
Memorias en común—por lo mejor;
Y abrimos nuestros corazones
Y mentes—
Y sin arrepentimiento hicimos todo lo posible
En las arenas de Vietnam.

Y todos bebimos mes a mes,
Olvidando, o tratando de olvidar—las galas de casa:
Y antes del final del día
Nos dispersábamos como hormigas en la lluvia—
Confusos, girando dentro de
Nudos de guerra.

Nota: Cada cierto tiempo me gusta escribir un poema sobre el tiempo que pasé en Vietnam (durante los años de guerra, 1971). Estando en el Valle del Mantaro de Perú, la tierra del Gran Guerrero Wanka debo traerlo fuera de mí: Estoy seguro que ellos entenderían mi razonamiento. Y la gente que vive en las alturas, en Cerro de Pasco, quienes viven por un bosque de piedras hermoso, nosotros simplemente trabajamos durante las penurias de vida, fríos, clima, y guerra.

# 1848 26-Mayo-2007

Love and Butterflies
[For Elsie T. Siluk, my mother]

She fought a good battle
The last of many—
Until there was nothing left
Where once, there was plenty.

And so, poised and dignified
She said, ‘farewell,’ in her own way
And left behind
A grand old time
Room for another

Love and Butterflies…
That was my mother.

—By Dennis L. Siluk © 7/03

Spanish Version

Amor y Mariposas
[Para Elsie TSiluk, mi madre]

Ella luchó una buena batalla
La última de muchas—
Hasta que no hubo nada más
Donde una vez, hubo plenitud.
Y así, serena y digna
Ella dijo , ‘adiós,’ en su propia forma
Y dejó atrás
Un gran tiempo viejo
Espacio para otro

Amor y Mariposas…
Eso fue mi madre.

—Por Dennis L. Siluk © Julio/2003

(Sestina) For the Mantaro Valley of Peru--Jatunmayo Valley

2007-08-22T12:55:00.000-07:00

(Sestina):
For the Valley of Mantaro
(Jatunmayo Valley)

The Valley’s disclosure of blossoming has come
from ancient mountains gorgeous with Spring.
Ringing, my body’s a-dancing today, and in my mind
kind winds unfold. A desire for the remote far winds….
Fading I see rainbow’s pedestal, a burning sapphire,
stones like opals, cover the mountains’ sunsets.

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
As if an only daughter, she is nowise fair.
‘Tis but a path, the last; hast thou, I take her road.

Here in the valley, comes sprouts and dust from kings,
kings: breathless wonderment, immemorial beauty—;
between the sunsets and the solitudes, an eternal splendor!
Beauty’s never long asleep—it is thy guarded friend!
Strange and dreamy are the stars thou followest.
Strange and dreamy, are the stars over thy Valley.

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
As if an only daughter, she is nowise fair.
‘Tis but a path, the last; hast thou, I take her road.

I saw the condor: in the valley, but a few nights past,
fast she flew, spilt into music, her winds of darkness;
dreaming things I hath not known, I stood alone,
the moon hath set to mutiny, inside these old white bones,
so their silence passed my world, tenderly, ye I stood
strange, oh tender enchanted thoughts—enchanted me!

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
As if an only daughter, she is nowise fair.
‘Tis but a path, the last; hast thou, I take her road.

Speaketh, for I wish to hear thy silver voice, moonlit.
Moonlight clear, mystical, within my farthest dream,
yet, in Thine eyes I see far tears! And I hear thou sayeth:
‘I am spirit, ye but flesh, listen thou, what sayeth thee
I say to ye: what have you done to my mountains?
and my stream? Behold, it is now but a shameful flow’r.’

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
But I could not speaketh to the silver voice, moonlit,
her marvel, phenomenon, in her a farthest dream.

She cometh, no longer silent, yet fragrance to thy heart,
what wouldst thou have me say? ‘All is fine from thy throne!’
Ah nay! Ah nay! I sayeth to thee, ye eyes are part of Paradise!
Ah yea! O goddess, alter-flame of the world, do not despair
blinding sight has caused thy heart to ache and rain,
yet your stars return to thee, your beauty, scarce it be.

Is this home of Thine the last? If so it is the best!
My heart is lost into the central valley of her delight,
O thou relentless satiety, pass the ramparts of my soul.

And she spoke to me again, with her silver moonlit voice,
‘Cometh forth with me, O prince!’ she said, ‘for far adventures wait.
Thy heart is warmer than the light, drowned in contentment,
go, and do not abandon me, ye footsteps I will see,
tell Christ you cannot leave, cling onto my arms, please!’
She is something beyond, far beyond, these human hours.

Here in the valley, comes sprouts and dust from kings
yet, in Thine eyes I see far tears! And I hear thee sayeth:
‘…tell Christ ye cannot leave, cling onto my arms, please!’

Note: in a Sestina, one often can feel (if done correctly) the creation of a rolling musical effect, almost like rolling down a hill, or mountain into a valley, which this was the effect I chose, and tried to produce in this poem. No: 1931 8-8-2007.

Spanish Version

(Sestina):
Para el Valle del Mantaro

El florecimiento del Valle se ha manifestado viniendo
desde magníficas montañas antiguas con la Primavera.
Tatareando, mi cuerpo es un baile hoy, y en mi mente
vientos suaves se revelan. Un deseo por los remotos vientos lejanos…
Decolorándose veo el pedestal del arco iris, un zafiro ardiente,
piedras como ópalos, cubren las puestas del sol de las montañas.

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Como un hijo único, este es bello de todas formas.
‘Este es sólo un camino, el último; ¿lo tomas?, yo tomo su camino.

Aquí en el valle, vienen brotes y polvo de reyes,
reyes: admiración sin aliento, belleza inmemorial—;
¡entre las puestas del sol y las soledades, un esplendor eterno!
¡La belleza nunca extraña dormir—este es tu amigo cauteloso!
Extrañas y soñadoras son las estrellas que seguiste
Extrañas y soñadoras, son las estrellas sobre tu Valle.

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Como un hijo único, este es bello de todas formas.
‘Este es sólo un camino, el último; ¿lo tomas?, yo tomo su camino.

He visto al cóndor: en el valle, sólo unas noches atrás,
rápido él voló, rezumado en música, sus alas de oscuridad;
cosas soñadoras yo no conocía, estuve solo,
la luna preparó el motín, dentro de estos viejos huesos blancos,
para que sus silencios pasaran mi mundo, tiernamente,

sí estuve extraño, oh suaves pensamientos encantados—me encantaron!

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Como un hijo único, este es bello de todas formas.
‘Este es sólo un camino, el último; ¿lo tomas?, yo tomo su camino.

Habla, ya que deseo oír tu voz de plata, iluminada por la luna.
Clara luz de luna, mística, dentro de mi más lejano sueño
todavía, ¡en mis ojos veo lágrimas lejanas! Y te oigo decir:
'Soy espíritu, tú sólo carne, escuchándote decir, qué dices,
yo te digo, qué has hecho a mis montañas
y mi riachuelo, porque ahora es sólo una flor vergonzosa’.

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Pero no podría hablar a la voz de plata, iluminada por la luna,
su maravilla, fenómeno, en su más lejano sueño.

Ella viene, nunca más silenciosa, aun la fragancia al corazón,
¿qué me harías decir? ¡Todo está bien desde tu trono!
¡Ah no! ¡Ah no! ¡Te digo a ti, tus ojos son parte del Paraíso!
¡Ah sí! O diosa, pira-altar del mundo, no te desesperes
la vista cegadora ha causado a tu corazón dolor y lluvia
aunque tus estrellas retornan a ti, tu belleza, escasa es.

¿Es este mi último hogar? Si es ¡es lo mejor!
Mi corazón está perdido en el valle central de su placer,
O tú, saciedad implacable, pasas las murallas de mi alma.

Y ella me habló otra vez, con su plateada voz iluminada por la luna,

'Ven adelante conmigo, ¡O príncipe!’ ella dijo, 'por aventuras lejanas espera.
Tu corazón es más caliente que la luz, ahogada en la felicidad,
ve, y no me abandones, tus pasos yo veré,
dile a Cristo que no puedes irte, agárrate de mis brazos, ¡por favor!’
Ella es algo asombroso, mucho más allá, que estas horas humanas.

Aquí en el valle, vienen brotes y polvo de reyes,
todavía, ¡en mis ojos veo lágrimas lejanas! Y te oigo decir:
'¡…dile a Cristo que no puedes irte, agárrate de mis brazos, por favor!’

Nota: En una Sestina, uno a menudo puede sentir (si es hecha correctamente) la creación de un efecto rodante musical, casi como rodando por una colina o montaña en un valle, efecto que escogí y traté de producir en este poema.

# 1931 8-Agosto-2007.

Two Poems for Peru: An Old Adobe House in Acolla and A Love Poem for Huancayo

2007-08-21T13:05:00.000-07:00

An Old Adobe House in Acolla

(An forenoon in Acolla.)

What is so strange about an old adobe house in the middle of a city?
It is thick bricks of mud. I walk around and around them.
The mind is strangely torn, and cannot leave them.
At last I rest, lean back against one.

It is a small corner adobe house, across from the Plaza de Arms.
Its old windows and bricks surround me, enmesh me,
Brown bricks, with pale green chipped wooden doors and windows.
Only the sounds of brass horns from the church distract me.

The sun is chilled, trying to burn through an opening in the sky.
The plaza area, its surrounding streets are being renovated.
Why then do I care to watch…
The sun moving onto the chilled bricks of the adobe house?

The morning shall never end, I think:
I have eyes it seems only born for the daylight;
But at last, the quiet streets fill up with church people,
And my eyes see far off, as the Acolla bands ready themselves.

# 1943. When I visited Acolla, Peru, during an August Fiesta, my wife and I walked around the city, and ended up on the corner of an old adobe brick house, across from the Plaza de Arms. The morning sun was breaking in the day, and the poem I write reflects this morning, until the church lets out, and the bands take over the plaza area with their brass horns, and assortment of musical instruments. Written 8-20-2007

A Love Poem for Huancayo

When we love, really love
We love the old adobe homes
The rivers, mountain, the old folks
And the Plaza Fountain—
And the streetlights
That is abandoned all night!
And the dogs that sleep with one eye!

When we love, really love
We love the hovering pigeons:
In the Plaza de Arms (by the Cathedral)
The winds of July and August
And the chill at twilight
And the abandoned children—
Those walk the streets at night!

# 1944 (8-21-2007 Written El Tambo, Huancayo)

Jatunmayo, The Great Wanka Warrior (Part TWo) A Poem

2007-08-13T13:03:00.000-07:00

Jatunmayo,
The Great Wanka Warrior
(Part Two)

In the seventh century, in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, surrounded by the Andes, lived the unconquerable Wanka warriors, likened to the Spartans of Greece, or Gladiators of Roma. Not even the Inca could subdue them, without the help of the Conquistadores of the 15th Century, and thus, the Conquistadores enslaved the Inca along with the Wanka as well. But this is a story about Jatunmayo, as he called himself, who hunted down his equal and they fought a great fight to see who should carry the name of the Greatest of Wanka Warriors in the valley at that time. And this is the story (Part two to the Wanka Warrior Saga):

The Clash and the Great Effort

“And the flesh I took it as necessary—out of the inner bowels—swiftly
casting it aside; then from the neck and shoulders two pieces of flesh;
above his elbow joint, I cut deep into his muscle with my knife,
his right hand, I took his fingers as he tried to stop the plunge—,
and from his flanks I cut out fat, and yet he was still not dead!
He was but a caucus when I was through, but he still lived…!
“(until when, I cut his throat…then he died!)…

The Defeat and Aftermath

“I cast his bones into the deep of the trees but the branches caught them,
a portion of his body now lay exposed, outside the rim of the woods.
I, who killed this warrior, marked him so, claimed his hide and his soul;
I left his shoulders, head and sides to the great Wanka God, Carhuancho…
“(the rest he left for the condors).
It was a great hunt between he and I, blow to blow, four hours the scuffle;
wealth by wit is what it was, we were the strongest of grips, in Jatunmayo.”

Written in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, 8-13-2007.

Thoughts and Notes on Juan Parra del Riego (By Dennis L. Siluk)

2007-08-09T13:47:00.000-07:00

1—It should be noted, Cesar Vallejo was 45-years old when he died, and Juan Parra del Riego was 31; Vallejo born 1893, died 1938, and Parra del Riego born 1894, died 1925, both were friends. One year apart in age. ´Both Great poets, but for my money would take Juan Parra before Vallejo; he is the greatest modern poet in Uruguay, and not quite that well known in Peru, although Huancayo, where he was born he is clearly a name recognized.

2—To my knowledge one has yet to write a full biography of Parra del Riego in English, the contents in this book (and on a site I created for him on the internet in English and Spanish) is the closest thing to one; with some poems, background, sketches, photos of himself and his brothers, and so forth, some external facts to guide us through his life, is the closest thing thus far written on him in over a half century, and the only one in English, ever.

3—We know like Vallejo, Juan went to Paris, and had to borrow money to get back home, thus, he ended up poor, as most poets do, a few exceptions who have received inheritances to help them make it through life.

4—Some reader may ask, ‘Just what can we learn from this Peruvian poet?” This would in itself give justification for publishing, editing, and translating his poetry and background. I mean it was no easy task to do. First of all, scarcely does anyone know the existence of this great poet in North America, or Europe. As they didn’t know about Vallejo, until Robert Bly (North American Poet) translated his works in 1962; I have tried to bring this poet stamina and imagination to bear on the hunger and pain he faced, while writing his poetry, for he was dying during the process, thus we see a different kind of reality here. We see his inner world, almost his soul; this is why I think he is an import poet. Dlsiluk

August Fiest in Acolla, Peru (Valley of Yanamarca) In English and Spanish

2007-08-06T13:10:00.000-07:00

August Fiesta in Acolla
(In the Valley of Yanamarca)

The great doors of the church, remain open, as the winter
fragrance
seeps inside ones bones (Fiesta morning in Acolla),
and no one knows what takes place there.

What comes out of Acolla? Music!
The brass horns sound
and the strings of the violin tighten
and out of it comes music for a private fiesta;
if the strings break and the bridge falls,
and the horns crack, life does not stop,
there are more musical instruments than cars…

What comes out of Acolla? Dance!
And there is a dance where hands and feet meet,
many fingers glimpse about, like a thousand petals;
many eyes watch, like an exposition;
and the Holy Virgin, blesses it,
and those listening also.

Men and women who go to this fiesta in Acolla in August
(who eat, drink and dance) will understand this poem.

Note: This poem is not about one soul connecting with another, it is about forgetting dying and loss, about rising above, and coming out and being surrounded by all this joy of food, music, dance, and song.
Note: Dedicated to Apolinario Mayta Inga, who took me to the fiesta in Acolla as his guest (and my wife), on August 5, 2007, and introduced me to many folks there at this little town-let, cozy it was, and we had Mondongo soup, coffee, danced, went to the church and had a parade around the plaza de arms, and listened to the many bands of this musical city. No: 1929, 8-5-2007. Written three hours after my return back to my home in Huancayo, Peru.

Spanish Version

Fiesta de Agosto en Acolla
(En el Valle de Yanamarca)

Las grandes puertas de la iglesia, permanecen abiertas, mientras la
fragancia de invierno
se filtra dentro de nuestros huesos (fiesta en la mañana en Acolla)
y nadie sabe qué tiene lugar allí.

¿Qué sale de Acolla? ¡Música!
Suenan los cuernos de metal
y las cuerdas del violín aprietan
y de este sale música para una fiesta privada;
si las cuerdas se rompen y los puentes se caen,
y los cuernos se rajan, la vida no se detiene,
hay más instrumentos musicales que carros…

¿Qué sale de Acolla? ¡Baile!
Y hay un baile donde las manos y pies se juntan,
muchos dedos vislumbran alrededor, como mil pétalos;
muchos ojos miran, como en una exposición;
y la Santísima Virgen, bendice esto,
y a aquellos escuchando también.

Hombres y mujeres quienes van a esta fiesta en Acolla en Agosto
(quienes comen, beben y bailan) entenderán este poema.

Nota: Este poema no es sobre un alma conectando con otra, este es sobre olvidarse morir y perder, sobre levantarse arriba, y salir y estar rodeado por todo este gozo de comida, música, baile, y canciones.

Nota: Dedicado a Apolinario Mayta Inga, quien me llevó a la fiesta en Acolla como su invitado (con mi esposa), el 5 de agosto de 2007, y me presentó a las muchas personas allí en esta pequeña ciudad, acogedora fue esta, y comimos Sopa de Mondongo, café, bailamos, fuimos a la iglesia y a la procesión alrededor de la plaza de armas, y escuchamos a las muchas bandas de esta ciudad musical.

# 1929, 5-Agosto-2007. Escrito tres horas después de volver a mi casa en Huancayo, Perú.

2007-07-27T14:55:00.000-07:00

Remembering:

Alberto Fujimori on Independence Day of Perú—2007

(Ex President of Perú)

A Poem and a Quote

Said, a lady for ‘Independence Day,’ of Peru, 7-28-2007:

“I remember coming back from work (1980-1990s) all the lights in the downtown area of Lima went out (which often happened in those days), and I’d have to run home in fear of the terrorist.

“I also remember all the windows being blown out of the buildings in Lima, especially where I worked, at the telephone company. A car bomb a few blocks away caused 14-floors of glass to break. The terrorist that claimed to be helping the people were devastating the people.

“This is what I remember before Alberto Fujimori captured and killed all the terrorists, and put Abimael Guzman in jail.

“We lived scared, we never knew if there would be a bomb in the restaurant or in the movie theater. So many folks, to include the young people have forgotten this. We should be thanking Mr. Fujimori for our freedom today, not condemning him.”

—by a Lady that lives in Lima, Peru (Edited by Dennis L. Siluk)

Remembering Fragments of

President Alberto Fujimori (a poem)

We all deserve what we get at the end,

We all are sinners, even to our friends

It seems only God remembers what we did

In the middle, and in the beginning

God help those who are so heavy to judge

Who only remember the bad without the good!

And it is all too easy to forget, that

Once upon a time in Peru, there were

Terrorist who took away—at will!

All the freedoms all the freedoms they could

And gave back only fears and woes.

Note: 1919 (7-26-2007)) By Dennis L. Siluk

SPANISH VERSION

Recordando a:

Alberto Fujimori en Fiestas Patrias—

Perú 2007

(Ex Presidente de Perú)

Un poema y una cita

Dijo una señora en el “Día de Fiestas Patrias” en Perú, 28 de julio del 2007

“Me acuerdo en aquellos días volviendo de mi trabajo a casa en las noches (en los 1980-1990) todas las luces apagadas en el centro de la ciudad—o apagones como los llamamos—muy frecuentes en aquellos días, y yo tenía que ir corriendo a mi casa en medio de la oscuridad por temor a los terroristas”

“También recuerdo todos los vidrios de las ventanas de casas y edificios rotos en muchos lugares en Lima, especialmente recuerdo un día cuando llegué a mi trabajo muy temprano como de costumbre, el edificio de 14 pisos en el cual trabajaba, estaba con todos los vidrios rotos, debido a que había sido afectado con las ondas expansivas de un coche bomba que había explotado a pocas cuadras de mi trabajo, la Telefónica, no pudimos trabajar por 3 días. Los terroristas que decían querer ayudar a la gente estaban arruinando a la gente”

“Esto es lo que recuerdo antes de que Alberto Fujimori capturara y matara a los terroristas, y pusiera en la cárcel a Abimael Guzmán, el jefe de un grupo terrorista”

“En esos días vivíamos asustados, no sabíamos si una bomba iba a estallar en el restaurante, en los cinemas, o en las calles”

“Muchas personas, incluyendo a los jóvenes han olvidado esto. Deberíamos agradecer al Sr. Alberto Fujimori por nuestra libertad hoy, no condenarlo.”

—por una señora que vive en Lima, Perú (Editado por Dennis L. Siluk)

Recordando Fragmentos del

Presidente Alberto Fujimori (un poema)

Todos merecemos lo que obtenemos al final,

Todos somos pecadores, incluso con nuestros amigos

Parece que sólo Dios recuerda lo que hicimos

En el medio, y en el comienzo

Que Dios se apiade a aquellos que son tan duros en juzgar

¡Quienes sólo recuerdan lo malo sin lo bueno!

Y todo esto es tan fácil de olvidar, que

Había una vez en Perú,

Terroristas que quitaron—a su voluntad

Todas las libertades, todas las libertades que pudieron

Y nos devolvieron sólo temores y angustias.

Nota: # 1919 (26-Julio-2007, por Dennis L. Siluk

2007-07-08T12:45:00.000-07:00

How We Are Dying in Old Age
(A POEM)

Shunned from the world’s eyes
Like birds in a flock—who
No longer have a voice, nor
Can talk—:
To cities they come and side streets
They go, one by one, to die!
(Down from the mountains
Out from the valleys
One by one,
Their pain etched in their faces…
And eyes wrinkled, telling
Of their impending fate,
Ostracized from society,
They beg, lay in wait,--
For death,
And it comes;
Then they are gone!

No: 1894 7-5-2007

Commentary: life is not always fair is it, and so many people are thrown into old folk’s homes, places of care, out of sight and mind of their loved ones, without a morsel of dignity. This is going on every place you can think of nowadays, in the USA, as well as Peru and other places. The cities are being crowed in third world countries because of this phenomenon, where at one time the strong in the family, the children in particular, took care of the weak, feeble, and frail old folks, not so anymore. The new philosophy is: ‘…we got to go live, they lived their lives.´ (I call it wisdom lost.) Young folks think all the wisdom is in knowledge and they are so wrong, it is in life itself, living it, deep inside those old wrinkles (my mother lived with me her last several years, and I would not trade her wisdom, and calmness for all the money on earth). Anybody can read a book (flying to the moon is not so difficult, it was done 35-years ago, so what, what have we got out of it, besides a big tax bill?), but not so many can raise a family; not everyone is equipped psychosocially to handle a family. Once compassion is lost, coldness rules, and you can expect it to circle your way in a matter of time, and that time comes pretty quick.

Dedicated to: Nelly N. for her work with old folks in Huancayo, Peru

The Mad Coffee Lady (Victoria the Mad)) of Huancayo)) In English and Spanish

2007-06-29T08:49:00.000-07:00

The Mad Coffee Lady
(Of Huancayo, Peru)

But you My Mad Coffee Lady had God’s Pity
Ah yes, you passed once our way
Some said (must have said): “They are all one
These vagabonds! ” (A pest!) This was their song.

Her feet bare, frosted, benumbed
Chilled veins, like chains of iron
Hacked heart—yet she weathered the winters
With the night, ice cold waves of air—
“Victoria the Mad,” of Huancayo: homeless.

Yes, yes! Slight were her arms,
Yet they held a tin can for coffee, sweet beans,
Or fifty-cents, a beggars cry—,
(also held out for water and mud))
Her hair was caked with such)): yes, yes!
Soft as spring winds, she loved her coffee,
This Mad Lady from Huancayo…!

No man could paint such a picture
No man could paint such things, who did not know,
And now she’s gone, who was her Cyprian—
(for we were her audience);
Her photograph left me cloaked, wrapped in gauze.

“Go from me,” I said to the picture
But I still held the mutter, its tang…
The figure of this dead lady spoke to me, said:

“See they return, one, and by one,
Now only half-awakened, they come
Now dead, they accept me, a timorous
Wrench of a woman, they called me,
In the cold light, in the darkness

“Come; let me pity those who are
Better off than I was, come, my friends,
And remember, fate enters with little feet
Then this hour of cold poise, breaks the knees
To the heels—it did me…!”

No: 1842, May 23, 2007 (Legends made in Huancayo)

Reference: †Cyprian: Related to the worship of Aphrodite on Cyprus

Note: She, the Mad Coffee Lady, was known as Victoria, and walked the streets of Huancayo, Peru, homeless, in the 1960s into the ´70s. She was called “Victoria the Mad” I call her the “The Mad Coffee Lady,” I suppose the reason way, is because she loved coffee like me. We had this in common. Looking at her picture, at an exposition in Huancayo, 5-23-2007, I could not help but write a poem of her, for her, for you, for me. A man stood by my wife, and she asked him if she knew the lady, and he said he did, added “She suffered so much, the government should have had a way for her to end her life.” I went to ask another question, but he quickly left, I suppose memories were hard on him. I asked my sister—in-law, Mini, about her, and she said, “She would take food and ice-cream from the children and run away with it.” Then as time went on, she was used as a pun, “If you kids do not behave and eat your food, we’ll get Crazy Victoria….” And that would normally scare the kids into behaving.

She washed her hair in mud, took dirty water in her can, and poured it over her head and if children tried to get close to her, she’d toss the tin can of water at them. She wondered aimlessly in sections of Huancayo. Edwardo Mayta, a resident of Huancayo, was just a young lad back then, and remembered her quite well. It was by a creek, where she would plaster her face with mud from it, as if it was a cream, and she’d stutter he said (Perhaps over excited, or a past trauma, or perhaps at a point of stress).

In addition to her peculiar behavior, she painted her self with cosmetics at times, extravagantly, highlighting her lips, so an old friend of mine, taxi driver in Huancayo told me, Alfonso Berrios.

Thus, looking at this behavior it would seem to me she was a lost soul in a city unable to help her (or unwilling, I must not past judgment, for I do not know), or perhaps she didn’t want help, I don’t know, so I mustn’t point fingers. But her behavior indicates to me a woman of a certain beauty (which Edwardo has indicated), whose mind went haywire in her teens, and thereafter, got worse, as often times schizophrenia seems to foster and develop inside the minds of such persons with the above behaviors. Furthermore, her manners would fit the disorders of her being bipolar (or manic with depression).

Paola, whom I met at a frame shop in Huancayo (5-25-2007), remembered Victoria quite well, said in so many words: her can was also used for empting out holes filled with water in the road, slowly but surely. She hung about in and near the Plaza de Arms, General Muñiz Paola one day asked where Victoria was, and she was told “She died…,” thus, as she had lived, inconspicuously. Her home was wherever she found herself wanting to rest.

Conclusion

From Victoria’s picture, she looked to me to be a long leaning black corn stock of a woman, narrow, regularly browbeaten. Perhaps at one time she was well made, but in the picture I have of her (which shows a tinge of her shoulder bones and muscles, to be somewhat youthful), she was not weighty at all, perhaps brutal looking if she would have produced her face in the photograph—brutal I mean, because of her demise, yet beyond her ragged cloths, and knotted hair (all soaked in mud) somehow I can see her wondering eyes, connected to her cynical posture, and mud-like end, perhaps peeping at everyone quietly.
I suppose all one could do back in those days was helplessly stare at her, whisperingly, watching her unhurried manners as she walked the streets throughout the city.
If in, the entire world, nothing whatever save the taste of coffee existed, she was happy for that little perk.
In Short, perhaps I have drawn an unsatisfactory description of Victoria, yet it is derived from the picture I have of her, and the folks that have shared with me their experience in seeing her, talking and witnessing her. Plus, there is no other description of her, in all my searches. In addition, my hungry mind of course plays a part in all this, sadly, in grating, but down-to-earth creating an intonation to Victoria’s existence.

Speaking to a distant relative, Jose Arrieta, he explained to me: she died in the early 1980s (between 1981 and 1983) or at least that is when she was last seen. He remembers her when she was around 26-years old he said, a handsome woman, he was perhaps five years old then, which would make her close to 60-years old now or thereabouts, if she was still living (around my age)) or born approximately 1947)). He said he remembers her using a cane.

Spanish Version

La Loca Señora del Café
(De Huancayo, Perú)

Pero tú “Mi Loca Señora del Café tuviste la compasión de Dios
Ah sí, tú pasaste una vez por nuestro camino
(Algunos dijeron, deben haber dicho: “Ellos son todos uno
Estos vagabundos” (¡una plaga!) Esta fue su canción.

Sus pies descalzos, helados, entumecidos
Venas frías, como cadenas de hierro
Corazón traspasado—aunque ella capeaba los inviernos
Con la noche, heladas olas de aire—
“Victoria La Loca”, de Huancayo: sin hogar.

¡Sí, sí! Menudo eran sus brazos,
No obstante ellos sostuvieron una lata para el café, frijoles dulces,
O cincuenta centavos, un grito de mendigo—,
(también lo sostenía para el agua y el lodo—
Su pelo estaba endurecido con este): ¡sí, sí!
Suave como vientos de primavera, a ella le gustaba su café,
¡Esta Señora Loca de Huancayo…!

Ningún hombre podría pintar tal cuadro
Ningún hombre podría pintar tales cosas, quién no sabía,
Y ahora no está, quién fue su chipriota—
(ya que nosotros éramos su audiencia);
Su fotografía me dejó enfrascado, envuelto en gasa.

“Vaya de mí”, dije al cuadro
Pero todavía contuve un murmullo, su sabor fuerte…
La figura de esta señora muerta me habló, dijo:

“Mira ellos vuelven, uno, y por uno,
Ahora sólo medios dormidos, ellos vienen,
Ahora muertos, ellos me aceptan, un temeroso
Esperpento de mujer, ellos me llamaban,
En la luz fría, en la oscuridad”

“Vengan; déjenme compadecerme de aquellos que fueron
Mejores que yo, vengan, mis amigos,
Y recuerden, el destino entra con pies pequeños
Después esta hora de porte frío, rompe las rodillas
A los talones—¡esto me hizo…!”

Nro. 1842, 23 de mayo del 2007 (Leyendas hechas en Huancayo)

Nota: Ella era conocida como Victoria y anduvo por las calles de Huancayo, Perú, sin hogar, en los años 1960 a los años 1970. Le llamaron “La Loca Victoria” yo la llamo “La Loca Señora del Café”, supongo que la razón del porqué, es porque le gustaba el café tanto como a mí; teníamos esto en común. Mirando su retrato, en una exposición en Huancayo, el 23 de mayo del 2007, no pude menos que escribir un poema sobre ella, para ella, para ti y para mí. Un hombre se paró junto a mi esposa, y ella le preguntó si él conocía a la señora, y él dijo que sí la había conocido, añadiendo “Ella sufrió tanto, el gobierno debería haber tenido un camino para terminar con su vida”. Iba a hacer otra pregunta, pero él rápidamente se marchó, me imagino que los recuerdos fueron muy duros para él. Le pregunté a mi cuñada Mini, sobre Victoria, y ella dijo, “Ella le quitaba el helado u otra comida a los niños y se escapaba”. Entonces con el tiempo ella era mencionada para asustar a los niños, “Si ustedes niños no se comportan bien y comen su comida llamaremos a la Loca Victoria” Y esto normalmente asustaba a los niños y se comportaban bien.

Ella se lavaba sus cabellos con lodo, recogía agua sucia en su latita, y la vertía sobre su cabeza y si los niños trataban de acercarse a ella, ella les tiraría el agua sucia de la lata a ellos. Ella vagaba sin rumbo en diferentes secciones de Huancayo. Eduardo Mayta, un residente de Huancayo, era sólo un niño entonces, y la recuerda bastante bien. Era por un riachuelo donde ella enyesaría su cara con el lodo, como si fuera crema, y ella tartamudeaba, él dijo (quizás sobre excitada, o por un trauma pasado, o quizás en un punto de tensión).

Además de su peculiar comportamiento, ella se pintaba con cosméticos de vez en cuando, de manera extravagante, destacando sus labios, eso me dijo un viejo amigo mío, un conductor de taxi en Huancayo llamado Alfonso Berríos.

Así, viendo este comportamiento me parecería que ella era un alma perdida en una ciudad incapaz de ayudarla (o indispuesta, no debo juzgar, ya que no sé), o quizás ella no quería ayuda, no sé, por eso no debo señalar a nadie. Pero su comportamiento me indica a una mujer de una cierta belleza (lo que Eduardo indicó), cuya mente fue trastornada en su adolescencia, y a partir de entonces, empeoró, como a menudo la esquizofrenia parece que se cultiva y desarrolla dentro de las mentes de tales personas con susodichos comportamientos. Además, sus modales encajarían a que ella era una persona con desórdenes o trastornos bipolares (o maníacos con depresión).

Paola, a quien la conocí en una tienda de vidrios en Huancayo (el 25 de mayo del 2007), recuerda a Victoria muy bien, dijo textualmente: su lata era usada para vaciar el agua empozada en los agujeros de las calles, lentamente pero segura. Ella solía pasear cerca de la Plaza de Armas, por la calle General Muñiz. Un día Paola preguntó qué era de Victoria, y le dijeron “ella murió…”, así, de la forma en que vivió, discretamente. Su casa era en cualquier parte donde ella se encontrara queriendo descansar.

Conclusión

Del retrato de Victoria, me parecería que ella era una mujer de figura alta encorvada de un linaje negro, estrecha, regularmente acabada. Quizás en cierta época ella estuvo bien. En el retrato que tengo de ella (que muestra un poco de sus omóplatos y músculos, parece que era joven), ella no era gorda en absoluto, quizás una apariencia brutal si podría verse su cara en una fotografía—brutal digo, debido a su final, aunque más allá de sus harapos y de su cabello anudado (todo cubierto con fango) de algún modo puedo ver sus ojos curiosos, unidos a su postura escéptica y final fangoso, quizás echando una ojeada a cada uno silenciosamente.

Supongo que todo lo que se podía hacer en aquellos tiempos era mirarla desvalidamente, susurrando, mirando sus modales lentos mientras ella caminaba por las calles en todas partes de la ciudad.

Si en el mundo entero, existía algo absoluto que guardara el sabor del café, ella era feliz por este poco beneficio.

En resumen, quizás he dibujado una descripción insatisfactoria de Victoria, aunque fue sacado del retrato que tengo de ella, y de la gente que ha compartido conmigo su experiencia de haberla visto, hablando y atestiguando de ella. Además, en toda mi investigación no he encontrado alguna descripción de ella. En adición, mi mente ávida desde luego juega una parte en todo esto, tristemente, enojoso, pero creando una entonación práctica a la existencia de Victoria.

Hablando con un familiar lejano, José Arrieta, él me explicó que ella murió a comienzos de los años 80 (entre 1981 y 1983) o al menos ese era el tiempo cuando ella fue vista por última vez. Él la recuerda cuando ella tenía alrededor de 26 años, una mujer simpática, él tenía entonces aproximadamente 5 años de edad, lo que la haría que ahora ella tuviera cerca de 60 años de edad, si ella todavía estuviera viva (casi de mi edad) o nacida aproximadamente en 1947. Él dice que la recuerda a ella usando un bastón.

The Mule Man from Ayachucho (A Haiku)

2007-06-02T16:17:00.001-07:00

The Mule Man from Ayacucho
(A Haiku)

From Coast, to sea, and jungles
The Mule man roams
From Ayacucho…

From one fiesta to another
He sells his trinkets (shoes and cloths).

#1866 6-2-2007
Note: The story goes something like this, around 1940, Uyulino a man from Ayacucho, Peru (south-central part of Peru), one day decided he needed a business, and he purchased 70 to 80 mules. Then he purchased merchandise, packed his mules up, and started his journey around Peru, from the Andes, and all the way to Huancayo, to the South and North, and even down to the Coast, by Lima, and jungles of Peru. As time went on, he purchased cares and then onto trucks and buses. He hit every fiesta that was in progress, and made a bundle of money. (Information gathered from Victor, the photographer of Miraflores (in Lima), Peru, for some 45-years

Water of the Giants (A Short Story from the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

2007-06-01T21:09:00.000-07:00

Water of the Giants
(A Story from the Andes)

Dr. Adelmo and Professor Jesus Vega, were two retired scientists in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, surrounded by the Andes, they lived perhaps fifty years ago. They had both heard a of legend in the mines of the Andes, that the little people known as the Amuc, had water that came from the Giants of Old, that carried scientific elements, if drank, that would change ones genetic structure, and cause them to grow like lizards, forever. They both were aging friends, and had taught at the University of Huancayo; but lived in San Jeronimo, a small village some several miles away.
But their retirements were soon to change. Mr. Adelmo and Professor Vega discovered this new essence by digging in his backyard so deep they both fell into what might have been a giant hole, that led into a pool within the crust of the earth, some fifty feet below the entrance of their new tunnel.
“You know Professor; this might be just what we’ve been looking for all these years!” Adelmo said to Jesus Vega, adding, “Perhaps if we can preserve this little pond of sorts, we can bottle all the water and sell it, but first we must see what it can do.” As they extracted their first bottle of water, they noticed a giant worm crawl out of the water, perhaps seven feet long, and as thick as Adelmo’s neck.
Now standing outside of the dig, the Professor said to Adelmo, holding the bottle of water “Gigantica!”
“Yes indeed,” commented the Professor, “…this could be the answer to many of the world’s problems, and surely ours, we shall call it Gigantica.
So they both agreed on the name of the substance, and sat back and made plans to extract the substance, and possibilities beyond that.
The wise Professor studied the elements within the water, as the Doctor, carefully watched the animals (sheep, llamas, and goats) inoculated with the substance, how they would grow. And they found what they had expected, if given the water on a daily bases, they grow rapidly if in the sun, Vitamin D, seemed to accelerate the process; whereas, in the dark or rainy season, things changed, the animals grew slowly, perhaps like the worm, possibly it was a hundred if not a thousand years old, they could not tell. But the llama after several weeks of sun, and water was eight hundred pounds. And the sheep and goats three times there size.
The Professor had an 800-square meter farm, and had to buy the land next door to corral the newly growing animals, making it 3000-square meters.
There was a young couple living on the other plot of land he had purchased, and thus, kept them to guard the land, and take an oath not to tell anyone of what they witnessed, lest they lose their jobs, which were not plentiful within this region of Peru.
“How big can they grow?” asked Adelmo to Jesus?
“It looks to me, they never stop, under favorable conditions, legend says they can grow up to 600-feet, as were the giants in the Old Testament.”

When Professor Vega returned to Lima, he told his secret to his old friend, and female companion, Dean Maria Fiba, of the University at Lima.
“Oh they are growing so fast, I told Doctor Adelmo I’d not disclose our discover to anyone, but I have to tell you, for I’ve given a glass of water to my nephew Tony, each day now, and he was but four feet eleven inches tall, three months ago, and now is five foot eight inches tall. I told him I wanted to stop the experiment, but he knows were the water is and refuses to stop taking it.”
“Oh, yes my old friend, should this news get out, I fear there will be trouble.”

2
Night

It was during the night of July 1, now five months after the discovery of the water, the animals got restless in the corral, and hungry, and the keepers could not control the several goats, of five hundred pounds, and the three llamas of now over 1000-pounds, and the twenty sheep, some 600-pounds. They all leaped and jumped and busted their way into the neighbors yard, and raided the garden, and took bits out of the legs of the neighbors, to the point the farmers ran to get their guns, and shot half the herd dead, staring with unbelievable eyes at the sizes of the creatures.
The news spread of these giant animals, all the way down to Lima, and to Dean Maria Fiba’s office, who of course notified Adelmo and Professor Jesus Vega, concerned about what steps they were going to take now.

The nephew was now six foot tall, and all of 200-pounds of solid muscle. He was walking around as if he was Samson in the Bible. Along with him, all of San Jerónimo was excited about this new water especially the teenagers all wanting to be tall and muscular yet many were torn you could say. On one hand they thought it a miracle and God sent, on the other, it seemed it was causing more problems then it was worth, and put it in the category of a gift from Satan himself.
The several animals that were left had run off into the hills nearby the village, and were causing havoc with the cars at night, running across the streets, and jumping on them, or causing them to skid off the roads—therefore more accidents were recorded in one night than had been in the whole year previous.
The Professor was starting to worry about Tony as well, because this was not his evil intentions to cause havoc in his life or anyone’s, only to become rich if possible, and perhaps do mankind a favor in the process of food supply.
The inhabitants’ of San Jerónimo, gathered all the weapons they could, guns, and machetes, rocks to throw at the beasts, and searched the village and streets, and mountain sides for the animals, some thought it was fun, adventurous, and one by one they captured and killed the beast, ate them under a bonfire. While the Doctor and Professor remained at their farm, guarding it, as if the animals would return, but they never did of course.

Said he, Professor to the Doctor, “Who are we to change the world to a point of subjecting our youth to dangers we know little about. I see in them what can be, in time, what we have here is something none of us are ready for, and can only harm us, we have the responsibility to destroy this substance that will only bring envy, and jealousy, and drive the spirits of our youth to destruction.”
After saying that, he broke the foundations of the cave, to where the dirt filled the pond, and the waters scattered all about, soaked deep into the earth, never to rise, or be replaced again.

Written Lima, Peru 6-1-2007

Special Report: Alcoholism in Peru (English Part, also in Spanish)

2007-05-29T21:49:00.000-07:00

English Version

Special Project Report (May, 2007)

For the Universities and Mantaro Valley Region (Junin) on:

The Effects of Alcoholism on the Individual and Peruvian Society as a whole; and how to deal with it in Junin, and the Mantaro Valley of Peru

By Dennis L. Siluk

Agony in the Valley
Part One: is there a problem?

A) The Problem: the question in this overview (or report) on drugs and alcoholism within Junin, and the Mantaro Valley, of Peru, in particular, is: what are their effects on society, the individual, and what can be done to curve mood altering chemical (alcoholism) usage; and do the folks of the Region (and the Mantaro Valley) believe they have a problem: better put, how did we get to were we are at now with mood altering chemicals (drugs and alcohol): and what can we do about it? And the premise of this report, the hidden one that is, is to make aware to the reader, I do believe there is a problem.

In essence, how bad is the crisis for chemical usage and its abuse; and is it bad enough to make the people take action…? I worked for twenty years in dual disorders; that is to say, depression mixed with drugs or alcohol; to include: manic, psychotic and schizophrenic disorders coupled with alcoholism. In this report of sorts, I will be using Lima, Peru, and the USA for comparisons, and connecting them to the Central Region of Peru (which consists of some 12-million inhabitants); that is, Huancayo, and Junin, in particular I will be using some historical data to make my point, that being drugs and alcoholism exists, is a problem not only for the Central Region of Peru, but for all of Peru, and the Valley of Mantaro, along with Huancayo.

B) First we have to define the problem here (and if the people of the Valley believe that there is a problem; or I have to prove there is a problem), perhaps people in the valley do not think there is one, yet there are many suicides, most are alcohol related; also there are many car accidents (as any taxi driver will tell you: ¨Yes, there is a problem in the Mantaro Valley with alcohol.¨ I’ve asked many of them). Furthermore, family battering is also a drug and alcohol related issue, in the Huancayo region. In the USA, 90% of all crimes are drug or alcohol related, and I am sure the data is relatively the same here: as we shall look at some statistics in a moment.

C) The Robber: everyone will agree there are lots of them out there, and why are they robbing and what are they spending their money on (9 out of 10 times it is not because they cannot find a job either); believe it or not, robbers usually do not rob to feed their children, or cloth them, or pay the phone bill or electric bill with the money. They spend the money on alcohol, drugs, gambling and good times. Most robbers rob children, old folks, and women because they are easy prey; they do not want a heavy challenge, they want to get the money, gamble and drink it up it, and they got to continue to rob because they cannot hold a job down living this life style. This again becomes a societal problem. Drug addicts are a big issue in this area, as is alcoholism. And the police and communities seem not to be bothered all that much with it, almost accepting it as a normal norm for Huancayo.

Note (collateral data): With a number of people I’ve talked to about the local problems, particularly with alcoholism within Huancayo, and in particular, with children and teenagers—their main peeve is that there is a lack of cultural, literary, and social outlets, or groups available to them, and with this lack of activates, they feel the course of action they may take is alcohol and drugs: pointing out: economic issue.

Part Two: Some Statistics and Data:

Note: To understand the problem, one needs to go below the surface of the situation, that is where the problem lies, and where one needs to look at, where I have to bring to the reader the issues that exist (to show); and why. One may say after reading this, we all have a lack of resources here to do much about the problem; but we can look at that issue, later:

A) Population figures 1: there are about 12-million inhabitants in the Central Region; in the Junin region 1.2 million inhabitants which includes the Mantaro Valley; a little more than 365,000-thousand inhabitants live in Huancayo; in the inner city 118,000, (and some 488,000 inhabitants, if you take into account the rural area), and around seven to ten thousand in each of the many surrounding town-lets—and about 27-million inhabitants in Peru.

B) Population figures 2:out of this large figure of 27-million, there is about 10 to 13 percent of Peru’s population who are Alcoholics, problem drinkers, chronic drinkers (in the USA, it is about 8%) So out of the 27-million we have about 3.1 million inhabitants that drink to excess, around 80% of Peru’s adults drink, whereas, 70% of American adults drink.

(All these figures can be corroborated, and will not fall too short of my rounding off figures.)

Note 1: In referring to Alcohol Dependence I mean, Alcoholic; when I refer to Alcohol abuse, I am referring to, a problem drinker, perhaps with an antisocial disorder.

Note 2: Often alcohol abuse can be traced back to poverty, stress and issues with cultural mores; whereas, all these elements may exist in the Alcoholic, he has one other curse, he has the biochemical, psychological obsession, the genetic disposition, the saturation of the body with the drug or alcohol.

Note 3: Historically, the Inca Empire also had its excessive drinking habits, due to the trauma of conquest, or continued war, and surprised values, and often they became self-destructive, with behavior by toxic consumption.

C) Crimes and Deaths: In the Junin area, there were 3208 deaths in 2005, of these deaths, about 400 were drug and alcohol related; in Huancayo alone 1200 deaths, and about 160 can be related to drugs and alcohol.
D) The crimes in 2004, dealing with selling and usage: Total Crimes: 3818 of these (drug and alcohol related): 1516 were men, and 472 women.
E) Captured for usage of drugs and alcohol in 2004, were 6425 men, and 536 women.
F) Junin Accidents, in 2004, 271 citizens were hit by cars, and there were 403 car crashes, out of a population of 1.2 Million citizens.
G) Out of these figures above, 1202-people were in jail (or about 20% of the close to 7000 crimes that were committed). In general it has been said 90% of crimes in America are drug or alcohol related, meaning, the person committing the crime, or accident was under the influence. I do believe this figure could be higher for Peru, since all other previous figures are.
H) In one hospital in Peru, out of 276 patients that came in for alcohol and drug issues, 26.1% were there for strictly alcohol, and 22.1% were there for drugs and alcohol consumption, and 15.2 for Alcohol with pot usage (the difference were alcohol and other drug related chemicals mixed, not mentioned here). Again I stress this is one hospital of many, and it has been estimated most folks do not ever make it to the hospital.
I) Drug trafficking is still alive, but I only have date for 1997 to 1999, close to 8-years old. But it indicates this, 14319 drug traffickers were jailed in one year.

The point to be made here is, the point of which this report is trying to say, or make the reader aware of, is: there is a problem in Peru with drugs and alcohol usage, and in particular, the in Junin (Huancayo, Mantaro Valley area).

Part Three: Chemically Speaking and Societal Issues:

A) alcohol is a depressant, among other things, and those who have abused it beyond their capability to stop using it, often cannot define their problems, thinking they do not have one, or unwilling to admit they got one, and it has to do with alcoholism addiction, obsession, denial (and we can add drug usage into this paragraph also); which accounts for: 1) people going to work late, 2) lack of production at work 3) higher medical bills 4) many family issues that would not be issues had alcohol not been involved 5) thieves 6) child abuse 7) car accidents 8) suicides 9) killings and crimes in general. Thus, Alcoholism and drug addiction, and we can add compulsive gambling, becomes a family issue, an individual issue, and a societal Issue.

Note: the question comes up: ´…can the social fiber of the Mantaro Valley in particular, and the Central Region (as a whole), take the strain of its intoxicating unrestrained inhabitants causing all this maladaptive behavior, and what is the legacy that will hand down to our siblings, meaning, if they do what they see, they also will become alcoholics or drug addicts, thus the future does not look too bright.

B) Three: Social Issue: As I pointed out, this is a societal problems, not just an individual one alone, even though the individual would like to believe it is his problem, and no one else’s, and has the right to drink, and do as he pleases, without limits, yes, he wants rights without responsibilities. But can society allow this, can society afford this for everyone around the drug or alcohol user becomes infected with the behavior of the user.
If the people or the government or society as a whole, cannot see it as a problem, but rather a custom, or tradition, it is hard to fix, or prevent. But again, we can see this by the crisis within the society, it is a problem. And it will not go away by itself. And I realize, as I sure all folks in Peru do, programs cost money. But let’s look at the cost of continued usage unabated:

1—In the Hills of Peru there are still coca-growing, as recent as 2006, seven people were ambushed
2—Social Development is unemotional (alcohol paralyzes emotions, thus, the emotional affect is flat); along with the lack of economic opportunities, for they do not develop for the user or the area involved (meaning the area copies its inhabitants, one usually needs to move out of it to find stability)
3—The Rural Sierra country people (which consist of 4.2 million) are on the poor side of the scale, and 2.3 million come under the very poor side. Poverty enhances distress and depression, and consequently comes with it, a higher crime rate to keep up ones bad habits, such as, alcoholism and drug usage, and selling of drugs. The lack of poverty will reduce these figures (it is not to say the rich or well off will not use alcohol or drugs, for on the other hand, affluent and stressful societies seem to bear the same burden, perhaps because of the boredom and spare time available).
4—what we need to do for these Rural Sierra folks is: add Education, societal protection, and help with self-esteem, and the drug and alcohol problem will be reduced.
5—some of the good factors that the Peruvian society has acquired in the past 35-years is that its life expectancy went from 53 years in 1970, to 70-years in 2004. But it is a proven fact, there are no old Alcoholics, they die in their 40s. Along with the life expectancy increases in Peru, alcohol problems increased too, this could have been curtailed with Education had it went side by side with the growing upward on the ladder of life expectancy.

Society’s Alcoholics

Now let’s look at what society is producing, dealing with Dependence (or ripe alcoholics living among the many (meaning; non users). Let me also add before we get into the figures below, in the educational area, recovering alcoholics need to be taught how to live a sober life, or an ongoing recovering life, for the recovering means exactly that, an ongoing sobriety program for him or her. For kids or teenagers they need to be taught how to live a life without alcohol, taught its consequences if the choose it. These figures below represent the whole population of Peru):

Years of Age

12 to 13 years of age 1% of Peru’s children are developing a dependency for alcohol
14 to 16 years of age 3% of Peru’s teenagers are problem drinkers
17 to 19 years of age 11.5% of Peru’s young adults are dependent on alcohol usage
20 to 40 years of age 13.5% of Peru’s adult are chemically dependent
41 to 59 years of age 7. % of Peru’s aging adults are alcoholics
60 to 64 years of age 7. % of Peru’s Elderly are alcoholics (Usually this group becomes alcoholics because of symptoms of aging and being alone, and depression)

Note 1: Suicidal statistics for 2002 (study done in Lima, Peru): 12. 2 % of the populations have thought of suicide, and out of that, 3% have attempted it. So we have a society of 25-million people, and so we have 6.5 million people thinking of killing themselves, and out of that, 195,000-people attempted to kill themselves in 2002, and these are only known figures, I would expect them to triple this amount should the rest of the folks be counted. So I would figure 600,000 minimum tried to kill themselves in 2002.

Note 2: In the Junin region, 2.15% of the elderly belong to adult centers: which is a very small amount, but such centers can occupy the elderly with activities, making their lives sweeter before they pass on, but normally what happens, is when the elderly do not have access, or attend these, they resort to alcohol use, and even at an old age, one can saturate their bodies, to chemically change their internal structures and thus, produce a chemical dependency.

Note 3: In 2002 1120 case of abuse and violence was reported against the elderly, and I believe this is only 10% of the real figure: most of the cases dealt with the female elderly, under the category of sexual violence. Again, drug and alcohol related.

Note 4: Any poor health system I do believe adds to the risk of its citizens in using chemicals for escape purposes. Here are some figures to review on The Health Systems throughout the world: according to the WHO (World Health Organization): out of 191 countries, Peru is number 129, Ecuador is 111, Bolivia is 126, Chile is 33, and Colombia is 22.

Note 5: Lima has 22,000-Physicians, with approximately, 8-million inhabitants; whereas, the Central Region has 7,500-Physicians, with over 12-million inhabitants. Within Junin there are 454 establishments for health care (7 hospitals, 56 Health centers, and 391 Health posts), that may sound like a lot but in St. Paul, Minnesota, which is less than 300,000 people, they have more than 7-hospitals, and an uncountable number of health centers. Lima has 700-establishemnts, and only 8-million inhabitants to service.

Note 6: Many of the women of Peru contribute much of the domestic violence with husbands while under the influence of alcoholism; which produces aggressive behavior, and chronic physical problems.

Part Four: Prevention

In my eyes, and in many of my colleagues’ eyes, prevention of chemical usage (drugs and alcohol) is the key to reducing alcoholism, and establishing order; what I mean by this is, one needs to stop the problem before it starts, and this problem of chemical usage, can be curtailed by educating our children at a young age of the consequences of using mood altering drugs, such as alcohol.

On the other hand one must look at the nature of the beast. Alcoholism is a disorder, a chemical one, and a disease it becomes. How can I say that, all research has indicated so, and so it must be treated as a disease, and looked at as a disease, just like cancer; one day you get it and the rest of your life you fight it, and you die young. I do not know any old alcoholics, as I mentioned before. But prevention can help; we need to inform our youth of the consequences. They do not see it at the age of nineteen years old; it is hard for them to see when their bodies are fresh and strong, but we must inform them, out of sight, does not mean it should be out of mind, it will have its toll on you, and its grip on you should one start drinking young, and unable to stop, thereafter.

A) Programs: We are not gods or islands, we need people willing to help, and the sooner an alcoholic finds this out (or heavy drinker), the sooner he can look for treatment (but first society, government, or the city has to say this is a problem and be willing to provide a treatment center. You cannot call yourself a Good Samaritan, and just walk on by). But too often treatment does not look at the bare facts either; they go through an orderly A to Z program, and it provides tools for the alcoholic to use, and still the alcoholic may go back to drinking, but the recovery rate at the institutions I’ve worked at, is about 60% recovery; thus we can take 60% of the drunks off the streets and roads.
What I have found as a director of a medical clinic, is you got to offer the chemical abuser, or user, or alcoholic something better than what he has, why else would he stop using something that is doing something for him, I mean, alcohol is providing him with some kind of escape, it just happens to be a false one: then you get him into the program, and then you get him into prevention, and then after this, you get him into what is called Aftercare. But all this time he has that one thing you found out for him, which was better than alcohol; this makes him want to continue.

B) Prevention as Education: We teach our kids how to talk, walk, and eat. Funny we do not teach them how to drink, or how not to drink and use drugs, or teach them the effects of a lifetime of chemical use and abuse. We have a license to drive a car, but first we get Education in that area, yet we get no education on the effects of alcohol damage. And we get married, and we need a marriage license for that also, and our parents usually give us a few comments on this issue, but not on alcohol usage; and we go to specialty schools to learn special educational things to help us in the future, but we again do not get any education on one of the deadliest chemicals in the world, alcohol.
Yes, we need education in the use of alcohol, what damage it can do to us mentally, physically (or biologically), socially, and spiritually. This education can come in the form of movies for children, or mandatory movies for adults who have been sited for driving while drunk; it can be part of their curriculum of a school, college, showing the effects of alcoholism. And it should start at home with the parents. In Minnesota, all these Educational tools are already in place, along with Treatment clinics.

C) Choices under Education: I have told my clients in the past we have choices, and they come in three dimensions: rules, results and responsibilities. If we can get this message out to the youth of the Mantaro Valley, maybe they will chose another way to deal with bad choices in the past to be made now in the future; in my past education programs, this is what I point out. If you are standing in front of a train (as he does when he continues to drink beyond his limits), and he decides not to move, he has, like it or not, made a decision (and of course a bad one), in essence he has decided to get run over by the train; and so our youth needs to know, rethink, their choices, decisions before the train comes.

Closing Thoughts

What can I do without going to Treatment: I have written three books on this very subject, Alcoholism, its prevention, and Aftercare. And those whom are damaged the most in using alcohol are individuals with Depression, Manic behavior, Schizophrenia. Those predisposed to this genetic alteration within their systems, causing dependency. Those who drink daily and saturate their system with this poison also, Women, Alcoholics with liver damage, their living cells die, and you become the living dead. It also produces cancer in women quicker than men. Those with too much stress, thus causing overuse of alcohol, which turns into alcoholism. All these issues can be stopped by simply stop using, for the most part.

In Conclusion: we may want to try to fix this growing problem, perhaps crisis, but simply do not have the funds to do so, if this is the case, there might be a possibility in finding professionals in this field to teach volunteers, and to use community rooms to promote Educational classes on the effects of alcohol to the growing populations, thus curving the growing dilemma: with educational tools that will help fight against the alcoholic problems, although that alone will not solve the problem: a city with a serious problem needs a serious program, and that means its members have to dig into their pockets and create Treatment Centers, I do believe: plus we need to get into the schools to educate the students.
Another idea may be, find someone with a plot of land willing to donate it to an establishment of providing a continuum of care to the alcoholic, or abuser of alcohol, free of charge, and perhaps have these folks with other skilled labors build the establishment (as might be the case in some of the towns of the Mantaro Valley region of Peru).

Afterwards: who will be the ones in the Mantaro Valley to carry forward the banner of progress, for freedom from addicted, the broken families that lay ahead because of addiction; who will do the educating and planting enriching values, for we now have only martyrs, thousands that have come and died for the lack of it. Indifference to drug and alcohol abuse, will not make the issue disappear, and will not enrich the Valley, its unchanging atmosphere in Government for the disadvantaged, the forgotten flesh cannot go on living on bread alone, it needs the help of its educated leaders. I sense the poor and downtrodden are hungry for recovery, if only they can find a helpful hand.

Data collected from several sources, the INEI Reports (National Institute of Statistics, Huancayo). From other journals, and independent reports, found on the internet to include Reports done by UCLA on Peru and Bolivia (University of California in Los Angeles); and Reports done by private institutions on the chemical usage within the Central Region of Peru, to include the Huancayo region. Also data was used from the collected writings of the author, his three books on drugs and alcohol and its effects on individual and society; 2001, 2002, and 2003. Empirical data also collected by the author within the Mantaro Valley region, from cultural institutions; and the more direct way was used by talking to taxi drivers, many folks from the media whom are concerned. Thus, there has been a good cross-section of society the author has used in gathering his information.

About the Author’s background: Post Graduate Studies (two years, 1986-1987: received International Certificates for Counseling); Alcohol and Drug License Counselor, USA, State of Minnesota, No: 300274: issued by the State Health Department. 10-2001; International Ordained Minister (Revered) from ´Independent Christian Churches´ 1-31-93 (Post Graduate Studies at Liberty University, in Theology, 1990 or one year); AA Degree, University of Maryland (Behavioral Science) 1976; BS Degree, Troy State University (in Psychology and Sociology) 1979

Copyright © Dennis L. Siluk, May 23, 2007
Agony of the Valley
The Effects of Alcoholism on the Individual
and Peruvian Society as a whole, and how to deal with
it in the (Central Region) and Mantaro Valley of Peru
Drawing done by the author ©1974

The Mad Coffee Lady of Huancayo (11-poems) by D.L. Siluk

2007-05-29T21:21:00.000-07:00

The Mad Coffee Lady
(Of Huancayo, Peru; and other Poems & Writings)

Poems extracted from the forth coming book 3-2008 “Early Horizon”

Legends, Heroes, Culture, and the Splendor of the Mantaro Valley of Peru

El Poeta - Escritor Del Año 2006 (Del Valle Del Mantaro, Perú)

By Dennis L. Siluk

Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture (with his poetry)

[Translated from English to Spanish by: Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

Poeta Laureado de la Ciudad de San Jerónimo de Tunán, Perú 2005

Copyright©2007, Dennis L. Siluk
The Mad Coffee Lady
(Of Huancayo, Peru; and other Poems & Writings)

First Edition, First Printing

Front Photograph, Revamped—restructured
(and darkened; water spots taken off for clarity; photo of Victoria the Mad.
Original picture in the archives of Huancayo, Peru. 1960s -´70s)

Index

1—The Mad Coffee Lady (Of Huancayo, Peru)
2—Mama Teofila (of Huancayo, Peru)
3—Rib Roast in El Tambo (Huancayo, Peru)
4—The Legend of Laguna De Ñahuinpuquio
5—The Legend of: El Amaru and Huaytapallana
6—The Cliffs to Torre Torre (Huancayo´s Envy)) Peru))
7—The Little Olive Amuc’s (of the Andes)
8—El Tambo Spiders (A Huancayo, Peru Poem)
9—Vietnam: Like Ants in the Rain (a War Poem)
10—Fiesta Dancing in Cajas (Part I of II)
11—Dark Eyes Dancing (Part II of II)

“Florencia”, a 7th Century, Love-Tragedy Epic
From the Mantaro Valley

Historical Meeting with Dr. Maria Rotworowski
(A dialogue between Poet and Historian)

Agony in the Valley
(a Report)
The Effects of Alcoholism on the Individual and Peruvian Society as a whole; and how to deal with it in Junin, and the Mantaro Valley of Peru (May, 2007)

About the Author and his Books
Reviews

1

The Mad Coffee Lady
(Of Huancayo, Peru)

But you ¨My Mad Coffee Lady had God’s Pity
Ah yes, you passed once our way
(Some said, must have said ¨They are all one
These vagabonds, ¨ a pest! This was their song.

Her feet bare, frosted, benumbed
Chilled veins, like chains of iron
Hacked heart—yet she weathered the winters
With the night, ice cold waves of air—
“Victoria the Mad,” of Huancayo: homeless.

Yes, yes! Slight were her arms,
Yet they held a tin can for coffee, sweet beans,
Or fifty-cents, a beggars cry—,
(also held out for water and mud))
Her hair was caked with such)): yes, yes!
Soft as spring winds, she loved her coffee,
This Mad Lady from Huancayo…!

No man could paint such a picture
No man could paint such things, who did not know,
And now she’s gone, who was her Cyprian—
(for we were her audience);
Her photograph left me cloaked, wrapped in gauze.

“Go from me,” I said to the picture
But I still held the mutter, its tang…
The figure of this dead lady spoke to me, said:

“See they return, one, and by one,
Now only half-awakened, they come
Now dead, they accept me, a timorous
Wrench of a woman, they called me,
In the cold light, in the darkness

“Come; let me pity those who are
Better off than I was, come, my friends,
And remember, fate enters with little feet
Than this hour of cold poise, breaks the knees
To the heels—it did me…!”
No: 1842, May 23, 2007 (Legends made in Huancayo)

Note: She was known as Victoria, and walked the streets of Huancayo, Peru, homeless, in the 1960s into the ´70s. She was called “Victoria the Mad” I call her the “The Mad Coffee Lady,” I suppose the reason way, is because she loved coffee like me. We had this in common. Looking at her picture, at an exposition in Huancayo, 5-23-2007, I could not help but write a poem of her, for her, for you, for me. A man stood by my wife, and she asked him if she knew the lady, and he said he did, added “She suffered so much, the government should have had a way for her to end her life.” I went to ask another question, but he quickly left, I suppose memories were hard on him. I asked my sister—in-law, Mini, about her, and she said, “She would take food and ice-cream from the children and run away with it.” Then as time went on, she was used as a pun, “If you kids do not behave and eat your food, we’ll get Crazy Victoria….” And that would normally scare the kids into behaving.

She washed her hair in mud, took dirty water in her can, and poured it over her head and if children tried to get close to her, she’d toss the tin can of water at them. She wondered aimlessly in sections of Huancayo. Edwardo Mayta, a resident of Huancayo, was just a young lad back then, and remembered her quite well. It was by a creek, where she would plaster her face with mud from it, as if it was a cream, and she’d stutter he said (Perhaps over excited, or a past trauma, or perhaps at a point of stress).

In addition to her peculiar behavior, she painted her self with cosmetics at times, extravagantly, highlighting her lips, so an old friend of mine, taxi driver in Huancayo told me, Alfonzo.

Thus, looking at this behavior it would seem to me she was a lost soul in a city unable to help her (or unwilling, I must not past judgment, for I do not know), or perhaps she didn’t want help, I don’t know, so I mustn’t point fingers. But her behavior indicates to me a woman of a certain beauty (which Edwardo has indicated), whose mind went haywire in her teens, and thereafter, got worse, as often time’s schizophrenia seems to foster and develop inside the minds of such persons with the above behaviors. Furthermore, her manners would fit the disorders of her being bipolar (or manic with depression).

Paola, whom I met at a frame shop in Huancayo (5-25-2007), remembered Victoria quite well, said in so many words: her can was also used for empting out holes filled with water in the road, slowly but surely. She hung about in and near the Plaza de Arms, General Muñiz Paola one day asked where Victoria was, and she was told “She died…,” thus, as she had lived, inconspicuously. Her home was wherever she found herself wanting to rest.

Conclusion

From Victoria’s picture, she looked to me to be a long leaning black corn stock of a woman, narrow, regularly browbeaten. Perhaps at one time she was well made, but in the picture I have of her (which shows a tinge of her shoulder bones and muscles, to be somewhat youthful), she was not weighty at all, perhaps brutal looking if she would have produced her face in the photograph—brutal I mean, because of her demise, yet beyond her ragged cloths, and knotted hair (all soaked in mud) somehow I can see her wondering eyes, connected to her cynical posture, and mud-like end, perhaps peeping at everyone quietly.
I suppose all one could do back in those days was helplessly stare at her, whisperingly, watching her unhurried manners as she walked the streets throughout the city.
If in, the entire world, nothing whatever save the taste of coffee existed, she was happy for that little perk.
In Short, perhaps I have drawn an unsatisfactory description of Victoria, yet it is derived from the picture I have of her, and the folks that have shared with me their experience in seeing her, talking and witnessing her. Plus, there is no other description of her, in all my searches. In addition, my hungry mind of course plays a part in all this, sadly, in grating, but down-to-earth creating an intonation to Victoria’s existence.

2

Mama Teofila

Let us not forget
The grace and good—
Mama Teofila did
To the little dirty faces
Of Huancayo
When she lived:
Giving Ham sandwiches
And Chicha…!

No: 1843 5-23-2007 (Legends made in Huancayo)
Dedicated to Cesar Segura

3

Rib Roast in El Tambo

Robes of yellow margaritas—
Gorgeous green grass,
A rib roast…cooking
(while dogs continue barking off
the roof top)) a book in my hands)).
Papa Augusto sleeping in a plastic chair
Under the beautiful winter sun;
Eight of us waiting in the backyard
Waiting for the ribs to fall
(like raindrops off a roof, into our mouths).

Dedicated to Ximena (My Godchild)
No: 1840 5-20-2007

4

The Legends of Laguna De Ñahuinpuquio
[For a Lost City in Peru] Part I

And let her Golden Bell ring, at midnight, nightly
The lost city by Chupaca now sunk with her soul,
To her grave in La Laguna de Ñahuinpuquio…

Write this, above her dead and withered bones:
“No more she lives to give us comfort for worship,
Who asked for only bread, amongst her stones?”

#1408 8/3/2006 There were two cities near Huancayo, that sunk deep into its lakes, long before my time, and legends say, the one that was near Chupaea, now resides in the lake of Ñahuinpuquio. The other one, I already wrote about before, known as Laguna de Paca, which also has its legends.

The Wanka culture [Huanca culture] lived in this area, an old culture perhaps dating back to near the time of Christ. And now I shall introduce you to the second part of the new Legend that blends into Laguna De Ñahuinpuquio:

5

The Legend of: El Amaru and Huaytapallana
[For the New Love] Part II

El Amaru of the Mantaro Valley plateaus, surrounded by the Andes, in Peru, perhaps of the Wanka race or culture, during his youth found he could shape-change, and thus, became a huge snake, and ate everything eatable in the valley—fell in love with a young maiden that lived on the edge of the Laguna de Ñahuinpuquio, they had a daughter named Pucuhs Uclo, she loved the area, and drank from the lake its pure waters; her Grandfather took a liking to her and gave her all the animals of the valley she desired to play with, it would seem they were a very happy family indeed, and for a long spell.
Everyone in the valley loved her very much. But her father was not happy, and shape-changed again, into an eagle, and left home (for he became restless); and he soared above the Andes, looking here and there, but not knowing what for, just looking. Whereupon, he found a beautify young girl near the city that now is called Huancayo, she was up in the mountains that surrounded the valley (where I have been), this girl was washing her hair in the little lake, more like a pond. The girl was called Huaytapallana [or White Mountain]; and he turned back into his natural form, a man of now middle age, and married this young girl and had five children. As a result, this mountain now is called: Huaytapallana (or White Mountain) and is most breathless when looking upon her from any hillside that parallels her elbows. There are three lakes in this area and a small lodge near the hillside I just mentioned.

6

The Cliffs to Torre Torre
(Huancayo´s Envy))Peru))

Prehistoric Geological Monument near Huancayo

Tall up by the cliffs, in the township of Huancayo, stands
A cluster of piercing stone like pillars, lightening rods
From the Ancient-gods, with thousands of years being:
weather worn and torn and blistered;
These pillars of stone, reach— heavenward.

Around this cluster, an engulfing, natural enclosure
Like an old cemetery protected with erect towers and tombs;
Brownish rocks, baked by the sun, washed by the rains
from the heavens:

It is called ‘Torre Torre’ and rests below the cliffs of Huancayo,
alone.

It is the envy of the Valley, where both warrior and poet
have traveled.

#1788 4/13/2007

Note: The poem, ‘…Torre Torre’, is not referring to the island called ‘Bora Bora’ in the South Pacific, it is a geological wonder in and around Huancayo, Peru, beyond the Andes, in the Valley of Mantaro. How it got its name, I don’t know, but I’ve been to the site a number of times, and it is always fascinating to see the course the wind, and weather have taken on this geological wonder, how they worked to mold such things as these stone towers; primeval geological erosion. Fascinating I say, for surely they’ve been here longer than the city of Huancayo, habitants by some 325,000-citizens; an old Wanka culture once roamed this area, perhaps dating back to 1000 BC. The stone pillars are more tucked away in what I’d call a gorge. One can go down to see it, and actually walk through it, or one can go onto the cliffs above it, and look down over it, and if more adventurous, climb down into it, or like me, just observe it from a close distance, both ways.

For folks who wish to visit the site: Torre Torre is a geological formation of enormous towers of clayey soil, molded by the winds and rain, located very near to Cerrito de la Libertad.

7

The Little Olive Amuc’s

Ah, little olive fellows from the Andes
Or some internal caves therein:
From Ticlio, or Bone City (La Oroya),
An underworld civilization!

According to the very best of legends—
From the Wanka to the Inca times—
They live in the crust of the earth
And in the hard cold mineral mines!

They followed the miner’s footsteps
From barbarity nights to dawn
A dwindling civilization
With cities of gold and bronze!

By them are the treasures well-known;
Hidden in underground temples;
From Machu Picchu to the Mantaro Valley
To the Ancient Nazca Lines!

With all of this ponderous mystery
It’s distressing these earthly Amuc
Revealing signs of their whereabouts
That provokes our most curious thoughts.

Such mystery among humans and pixie’s,
The problems of peace a pauper,
Relations between goodwill for both,
Or misdeed and rebuke therefore!

So when we look for treasures dim,
And find problems of where and when,
Simple find an Olive Amuc and pray,
He will be your very best Friend!

#1795 4-18-2007

Note: Legend has it these Amuc of the Andes, are perhaps a foot to 18-inches tall; some with blond and other with dark hair. It has been said they have iron wings, and live in the mines of the Peruvian Andes. Many older folks who have been in the mines, worked them, have claim they have seen them; or folks that have known folks that have. Myself, I have never seen them, and I’ve been in the Andes, but I’m looking forward to it. And when I do, I of course will let you know. The Wanka to the Inca times, infer, between AD 700 to 1600 (and from the present times: the time of the Miners).

8

El Tambo Spiders

When it’s cold in El Tombo
The spiders know
They crawl on the walls,
And along my window sills;

Along the seams of my rooms
Under my bed,
Making cobwebs…!
(And)
Some even swing on hinges
From my ceiling
(Especially on rainy nights)…

When I’m asleep: on my brow
They seem to fall and somehow bite!

You’d be surprised how much
They to know—
A bout my apartment, and its rooms:

Looking and dancing about
As if they owned the house—:
Bodies of brown, black and gray…!

(Wish they’d leave me alone, at least
On holidays!)

Note: No: 1845 5-26-2007 (Written at my home in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru.)

9

(Vietnam: a war poem))1971))
Vietnam: Like Ants in the Rain

Confused, whirled in a tangle:
Into a land full of voices—
True men of war I met,
Here we had nothing but thoughts
Memories in common—at best;
And we all spoke out our hearts
And minds—
And without regret we did our best
In the sands of Vietnam.

And we all drank from month on month,
Forgetting, or trying to—the finery of home:
And before the end of the day
We scattered like ants in the rain—
Confused, whirled in a tangle.

Note: Every so often I like writing a poem about my times in Vietnam (during the war years, 1971). Being in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, the land of the Great Wanka Warrior must bring it out of me: I’m sure they would understand my reasoning.

No: 1848 5-26-2007

10

Fiesta Dancing in Cajas
(Part I of II)

Blue, blue is the sky above Cajas
And the bands have over filled the plaza.
Puno dancers and Huancayo Chonguihada´s:
Men and women in midmost of their youth
With Decorative masks and painted faces:
Slender, she puts forth her hand, and
She and I dance a drama, from the old
Days; I now go tiredly out and leave
The dancers (from the circle) to their own.

Note: Today was a warm sunny winter day in Cajas, a little village (or town-let) somewhere around seven or eight thousand folks. Here I danced, laughed, ate lamb and a great portion of picarones. (No: 1846))5-26-2007))

11

Dark Eyes Dancing
(Part II of II)

Dark eyed,
Chonguihada´s (of Cajas);
Ivory teeth dancers from Puno!
All dancing with high heeled sandals:
There is none like thee
(Among the world)
None, with such swift feet.

Here—
In the broken sunshine
Among the women selling:
Beer, cokes, lamb and picarones—
(Here)
—thine feet are as young sprouts
On top of the earth—dancing about,
And thy face a joyful light…!

No:
1847 5-26-2007

▼

The Lesson of Little Luciana (From Huancayo, Peru)) Written by Maria Sofia Peñaloza Acevedo (10-years old) Edited by DL Siluk))

2007-05-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

The Lesson of Little Luciana

Luciana was a little girl that was born in Paris in 1985, and likewise lived there.
She was a millionaire, and also was very impulsive, and always got what she wanted, and was somewhat prejudice.
Her father left home when she was quite young, and she ended up living alone with her mother.
When Luciana was twelve-years old (about six years after her father had left), he returned, meet her (Luciana not knowing this man was her father though) and when they met each other—not to hurt her—he approached somewhat slowly and carefully, as not to frighten her, for he was at this time, a stranger you could say, yet in a short period of time, they both would end up being good friends. (Yet the secret was still a secret, he was the father of Luciana.)

As time passed, and as they got to know each other better, they talked more to one another. One day, her father told her in the kindest way he knew, “Luciana, please try not to be so impulsive!” and he added, “Try not to be so prejudice. (for she didn’t like black people, and to be quite honest she didn’t really know why).”
Luciana listened carefully, understanding his concern and she told her mother’s friend and now her friend, with sincerity, she wanted to change, perhaps now it would be easier since she found such a good person like him, actually, she had learned to love him very much, and hoped her mother would marry him, and saw he was himself, not prejudice, and again I say, she wanted to be like him (they had also grown to be good companions).

Her father did not know if he should tell his daughter the truth, of who he was. For he had a dream, and in his dream someone told him, “You must tell her the truth, you are her father, even though you got separated from both her and her mother for a while.” When he woke up he went to see Luciana.
When Luciana heard the truth, she was angry, hurt, then she rejected her father for not telling the truth, at that point he looked destroyed, shattered (the truth being, he was her father).
The next day Luciana told her father: “I am sorry dad for not understanding you, or the situation between you and mom; I know why you left, mother told me, and I guess things are not always the way we’d like them to be, it is a lesson I must remember, things we do not know, we should not guess at.”
Her father answered: “I simply can only tell you that I love you, I hope that will be enough, it is all I have to offer.”
Responded Luciana, with a tear, “Me too dad, it is all I got to give.”

And so, to my curious readers, Luciana’s family ended up happy ever after.

The End

Written by Maria Sofia Peñaloza Acevedo (10-yearas old)
(05-23-2007) Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk; edited
By Dlsiluk

Thursday Haikus: Lunch at the Cafe

2007-05-10T15:38:00.001-07:00

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.

Afternoon Haikus at the Cafe (with Commentary and Notes)

2007-05-10T11:00:00.000-07:00

Afternoon Haikus at the Cafe
[At El Parquettos, Miraflores, Lima Peru]

Outside the Cafe

The little pigeons
Around the cobblestone
Are looking around!...

#1814 (5-9-2007)

Sarah

The waitress looks
Like pigeon
Picking her ear at heaven

#1815

Minstrels

Men of the band—
What do they think?
I know (money for tips!)

#1816

Afternoon

In the afternoon sun
The people
Walk slowly

(by the café)

#1817

Rosa Reads

Frozen in thought
Forearms on the table
Under a yellow umbrella

#1819

Minstrels #2

Listen to the band play!
All the little brave men
Will all die some day!

#1820

Umbrella

The sun creeps over the umbrella
Separates us—
Like heaven to Hell

#1821

Coffee

Coffee—too strong
To put me to sleep
Too light to drink

#1822

Comments on the Haikus—The Haiku is both singular and plural, but can bring some issues when the‘s’ is employed. Best known for its 17-short line syllables and developed over hundred of years in Japan. Many people have slighted the original style of the Haiku, calling it revolutionary names, unskilled at it likewise, such as those ungrateful from the Beat Generation, who seemed to have won the hearts of many with a single utterance from Zen, on top of their well wishes. Anyhow Ginsberg, Kerouac, Burroughs, and those like them somehow felt like Solomon and King David involved in producing the new Psalms of God, felt like they were doing bestowing upon earth such great wisdom. Not likely of course. Poetry should have no trickery, especially in the short Haikus, since there is no room for them. They need to be free, plane, graceful, simple, and to the point. I’ve written many in the past, and have exterminated with them, like others, careful not to descry the essence of them. We must make sure the course of the poem does not go mountain climbing, in saying that I mean, we must look for a fresh lake water in writing them, the calmness must be in them, for if not how can they grow on the soul. Ezra Pound, a great writer in many forms, studied the Haikus as many of his contemporaries have. And I suppose I have, and those after me will. The best we can do is to produce them with grace, and apologize for our mistakes, and stand tall for our endeavors.

Note: It should be noted, there are different styles of Haikus, Chinese and Italian to mention a few; some with additional lines, and others with additional syllables within the lines, it just happens to be the Japanese is the most popular.

Little Windows

The little silent stone windows
At Cajamarca
Stare in our face!

#1812 (The Little Windows refer to the graveyard, 200 AD, in Cajamarca, Peru, where the pre Inca natives buried their dead in the windows)

The Picture

Keep your eye steady
Lest you lose the whole objective
To paint the whole picture

#1811

The Legend of Cumbayo (The Guardian of Cumbayo, 6000 BC)

2007-05-08T17:31:00.001-07:00

The Legend of Cumbayo (The Guardian of Cumbayo, 6000 BC)

Cumbayo, the Sanctuary (Temple, 6000 BC)

Note: Half of this account was written in flight, leaving Cajamarca (5-7-2007), to Lima Peru (a few days after visiting the site of Cumbayo (5-26-2007), the other half was written a day after my arrival back at Lima, at El Parquettos restaurant, 5-8-2007.

The Sanctuary (or Stone Castle)

(Written in Flight, diary notes: part one) It was in may of 2007 I visited the temple in the valley of Cajamarca, better known as the Sanctuary, a most impressive site, dating back to 6000 BC, and the petrography (Rock Art) dating back to 1000 BC, when I, by myself entered this most famous, but most recently discovered narrow passage of Cumbayo, likened to a natural castle like stone structure in the middle of nowhere, towering into the sky like Babel, the passage going from one side of this solid rock formation, mountain size almost, to the other side, perhaps some sixty feet long, one third of those feet in pitch darkness, and tight as two feet wide in some places. I ventured to enter and zigzag across it alone, knowing here lived a people, 8000-years ago, who used this place as a sanctuary, and this narrow passage discovered some thirty-years ago, was perhaps their hidden doorway.
The rock art or petrography dates back to 1000 BC, some 5000-years after the place became inhabited.
As I wedged my way through this curving maze, I got stuck between the walls, my arms became limp, its muscles inactive, my breath almost nil from exhaustion, I remained motionless for the moment, trying not to panic, I was in the middle of this passage way, in the dark area.
I got thinking of the great stones in front of this stone castle like structure, it seemed to have been carved into a face, a section of it anyway, perhaps of some great warrior, or king I thought. This stone structure had tower like formations around it.
I was becoming more exhausted by the minute. Cramped and caught in this dreadful thin passage, my mind seemed to drift, by purpose or force, drift I say, into a dream or visionary state, who can tell at such a moment, under duress.

I saw a figure, its eyes brighten and his breath came more quickly as He replied, saying, “What is your care?” There was some kind of infinite pride in his voice and manner, he meant what he said.
I shrugged my shoulders, I really didn’t know. I nodded. His mind was working his face I noticed; he said to me, “I am the guardian, and I sense you cannot, and I can….” It wasn’t a question I noticed, rather a statement. I think he meant, I was stuck, and he could help, if he wanted to. It didn’t seem like he really didn’t want to, but perhaps he might.
He told me to tell you of their existence “Tell the world,” he said, “and for those who come to except this as an honor to enter this ancient temple and not to touch.”
I was still into this dream or trance state, perhaps he was waiting for me to say, or agree with him, yet if he could read my face, as I did his, he would know I would write this article, or story as I am doing now.

The Captive and the Walls
(Part Two)

(Written at the Restaurant, while having Coffee) At this point the whole offer was a private one—almost personal between me and the Guardian, but with a public agenda, which belonged to the ancestors. I remember now, however, there was no energy left in me, just a sanctuary of worship and a guardian, and he felt a tinge like I was invading, and perhaps wanting me to go on my own.
He seemed to know; the world would come to this location in time, and didn’t want to deny it, but wanted to preserve it for the future use in its destined way.
And now, a few days passed, sitting down at this restraint in Lima, and this is still held in mind—and unsure if he guardian was, or is devoted to his word of ultimate undoing of me, should I not do as I agreed.
I remember asking the Guardian said, “How was it back then?” and his Reply was, “Thee came anarchy in the valley, and that brought the lack of all things—with heart-breaking persistence, we tried to overcome, and this brought our writings into existence, but we could not tell the whole story until perhaps 1000 BC, from the rock art, or as you call it, petrography!”

The Walls

(I remember staggering back against the wall, I actually had room I told myself, and still I heard his utterances, the Guardian’s)
As I looked about, I noticed hands and finger marks scratched into the wall, all the way down the wall, how I could see this in the dark area was beyond me, I must still had been in a trance or dream-vision state; it is hard to tell now that I look back at it…but I do remember the thick stone walls, the deep dust on the floor, and the marks on the walls. The walls seemed to take my breath away. The walls seemed to have impulses: that is to say, they reached to the mind of the Guardian, and obeyed him.

Captive

This narrow passage was to me not only thin, but locking me up, captive, imprisoned, caged, yet I kept my head, and now I understood why my struggles ceased, and I seized the moment and found myself moving a few more feet forward in the passage, and light, yes, light appeared, and as I moved out into the day (I don’t remember how long I was in there, but the sun was like a big lamp upon me, thus, it must had been a few hours, I rubbed my eyes). So I would tell myself at the time: never go back into this cave unless you are with someone. But still I was not sure if all of this was a dream or not, so as you can verify, I am doing my duty, by writing this, and you reading this, so no curse can befall me. Inside this cave, in the dark section I read (I do not know how, for it was in a language 3000-years old, written on stone): “For men whom come through this passage, be quiet, hands free, be like feathers, thin and masked.” The Guardian.

Diálogo Narrativo y Reunión de: La Historiadora María Rostworowski y el Poeta Dennis L. Siluk (In Spanish and English)

2007-04-02T16:50:00.000-07:00

SPANISH VERSION

Diálogo Narrativo y Reunión
de :
La Historiadora María Rostworowski y el Poeta Dennis L. Siluk

Por Dennis L. Siluk
(Traducido por Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk)

Avance: Una reunión histórica, puede ser llamada esta entre la renombrada historiadora, María Rostworowski (de Diez Canseco), de Lima, Perú, y Dennis L. Siluk, poeta y novelista (quien vive parcialmente en Perú, y en su tierra natal Minnesota, EE.UU.); María tiene medio siglo investigando y estudiando el pasado histórico del Perú, y una audiencia mundial con sus incontables libros sobre su cultura, tradiciones, y datos históricos; algunos libros traducidos del español al inglés (por ejemplo, “History of the Inca Realm”).

La madre de María era una dama peruana y su padre era de Polonia, como fue mencionado durante la reunión entre ella y Dennis. María nació en Barranco, Lima, Perú; cuando tenía cinco años ella fue con su familia a Europa—y vivió en Francia, Polonia, Inglaterra y Bélgica, y volvió al Perú cuando tenía 19 años. Similar a la experiencia de Dennis, en la que él se enamoró de Perú (particularmente del Valle del Mantaro, y ahora ha venido a Perú a radicar parcialmente)

Ella se casón con un polaco en Polonia, así como Dennis se casó con un peruana de Huancayo, Perú, aventurándose en Lima, en 1999, cuando ellos se conocieron y se casaron unos meses más tarde, en febrero del 2000.

María se volvió una historiadora autodidacta. Así como María, el entusiasmo que tiene Dennis lo han conducido a explorar Perú y escribir seis libros sobre sus costumbres, tradiciones y cultura, en forma poética, y recibir reconocimientos de la Universidad Peruana Los Andes, en Huancayo, por su contribución cultural; además, le concedieron la Gran Cruz de la Ciudad de San de Jerónimo Tunán y fue nominado Poeta Laureado de la ciudad, y le fue concedido el Premio Nacional de Perú, “Antena Regional”: El Mejor del 2006 por promover la cultura.

María, en Lima se conoció y se casó con don Alejandro Diez Canseco, su verdadero amor y juntos condujeron una vida muy orientada a la cultura, quizás como Dennis y Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk lo han tenido estos años pasados, ya que Rosa ha viajado alrededor del mundo varias veces, y por muchas partes de Perú.
Aunque la mayor parte de las poesías culturales de Dennis es sobre muchos aspectos de Perú, otros son sobre el Guerrero Wanka y la Guerra del Pacífico, Dennis siendo un Veterano de Vietnam decorado de la guerra (1971), y también poesías sobre el Valle del Mantaro; como con María, en mayor grado es sobre el Imperio Incaico.

María, puede quizás ser llamada, o mencionada como la “Josephus” de Perú; mientras Dennis ha sido referido en Perú, como Julio Verne (refiriéndose a todos sus viajes y libros relacionados con viajes, y su estilo cultural de poesía, y sus escrituras), y de vez en cuando, como el Poeta Trotamundos, denominado por los periódicos y revistas en Perú.

Y ahora para la narración y reunión:

El Diálogo Narrativo y Reunión

Nosotros (mi esposa Rosa y yo) llegamos al edificio del Instituto de Estudios Peruanos a las 10:50 de la mañana del día Jueves 22 de Abril del 2007, en Lima, Perú (Jesús María); justo después de acabar de llegar hablamos brevemente con la persona encargada de la seguridad, y nosotros estábamos ya con veinte minutos de retraso para la reunión, debido a que nuestro taxi se malogró en plena carretera (Panamericana) y tuvimos que salir de allí a buscar otro taxi en la calle transversal. Mientras nos apresurábamos a subir las escaleras, llegamos a una pequeña oficina, que el guardia nos había indicado, allí estaba ella sentada detrás de su escritorio, yo la reconocí al instante, había visto una fotografía de ella, ella lucía lo mismo, pensé que era una fotografía de cuando ella era más joven, por eso estuve sorprendido, ella lucía más joven de lo que pensé: ella llevaba una blusa de seda multicolores (negro, rojo y blanco principalmente). Ella tenía 91 años, pero parecía más bien de 67 años, pensé que estaba muy conservada. Ella, María dio la vuelta por su escritorio, saludándome y a mi esposa, mientras nos pedía que nos sentáramos, en aquel momento le di dos de los libros que había escrito sobre Perú, ella leyó los títulos verbalmente, mientras miraba cada uno, los leyó en inglés, “Spell of the Andes”, y “The Magic of the Avelinos”, después ella sonrió (más adelante le diría a una amiga, refiriéndose a los libros “son maravillosos”), podía ver que ella estaba orgullosa de ser peruana, aun cuando yo averiguaría que ella tenía raíces polacas por el lado de su padre, y peruana por el lado de su madre.

Yo sabía que era muy difícil conseguir una cita para hablar con ella, ya que ella había estado enferma una semana antes, y no permitía a muchos visitantes, en primer lugar, lo que fue confirmado por un número de personas antes de mi llegada, e incluso el guardia estuvo sorprendido que ella me permitió visitarla, así que me sentí más que afortunado.

“Siéntese por favor”, ella dijo con su delicada mirada fuerte, pero ojos suaves y severos.
Mientras me sentaba la pedí que firmara uno de sus libros para mí, “Historia del Tahuantinsuyu”, y mientras me puse a firmar mis libros para ella, ella dijo modestamente con un poco de humor, “Intercambiaremos firmas”, y otra vez vino esa sonrisa misteriosa, que era cálida y natural.

(Durante los pocos minutos siguientes me levanté, y mi esposa Rosa, tomó dos fotos de ella y yo, y yo se los mostré en mi cámara digital, y ella me miró un tanto y dijo, “tengo 91 años”: No dije nada, quizás nada que decir, ella lucía 25 años más joven. Ella lucía muy bien para su edad.)

Después vino, conversación suelta sobre la comida de Huancayo, ya que yo había empezado ese tema diciendo que “mi esposa era de allí”. Me gusta “cuy colorado”, le dije, y ella contestó, “¿ha probado cuy chactado?” y contesté, “¡Ah si…la esposa del profesor Pedro de Huancayo lo hizo para mí, estaba muy bien!” Entonces añadí, “me gusta Huancayo pa…pa…” y antes de que yo pudiera terminar la oración, ella me preguntó, “quiere decir, ¿papa a la huancaina?” Sí, reafirmé.

(Pienso que María estaba descubriendo, que amaba a Perú y a sus culturas misteriosas tanto como ella lo hizo, atrás cuando primero descubrió esta tierra antigua.)

“¿Cuál es su origen?” ella me preguntó, sabiendo que yo era de Norteamérica.
“Ruso e irlandés”, le contesté, añadiendo, “y su apellido no es...peruano ¿no?
“Ciertamente no”, dijo ella, “es polaco”. Entonces añadí, “Yo también soy polaco de parte de mi abuela, ruso de parte de mi abuelo, e irlandés de parte de mi padre”. Un tanto repitiéndome yo mismo.

“Es una mezcla” comentó ella. Creo que omití el decir que era polaco debido a eso, demasiado condimento en el pastel. (Y hablamos brevemente sobre esto, cómo la vida en mi clan familiar, sacó el polaco y ruso en el círculo familiar.)

Después, mi esposa y yo la invitamos a tomar desayuno diciendo, “Martina va a ir el miércoles a tomar desayuno (y su amigo)”

“¿Quién es Martina?” dijo ella, con una pizca de ingenio, ella estaba muy dinámica para ser una mujer de 91 años.
Mi esposa le explicó, que ella era del Centro de Antienvejecimiento en Lima, y ella reconoció el nombre enseguida, diciendo, “hay una reunión la próxima semana allí”. (Pensé, qué memoria tan aguda, mejor que la mía)
“Estoy muy vieja para desayunos” dijo ella, “tengo que comer comida especial, pero gracias por la invitación”

Entonces comprendiendo que el tiempo había pasado rápidamente, simplemente dije, en voz baja; “No deberíamos de tomar más de su tiempo, usted ya nos ha dado la mayor parte de este, y estoy seguro que usted tiene muchas cosas que hacer” y entonces nos disculpamos, y ella dijo en seguida, “encantada de conocerlo”, ella estaba de pie, cuando habló, y ahora comenzó a sentarse, mientras nosotros comenzamos a marcharnos.

Esta fue una reunión muy cordial, y una que siento, sacó la predecibilidad de una persona, una que no está encerrada en una caja debido a la profesión de uno. Esto fue bueno pensé: hay una gran humanidad sobre esta renombrada historiadora.

ENGLISH VERSION

The Narrative Dialogue and Meeting of:
Historian Maria Rostworowski and Poet Dennis L. Siluk

By Dennis L. Siluk
(Translated by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk)

Advance: A historical meeting, it can be called between renowned historian, Maria Rostworowski (de Diez Canseco), of Lima, Peru, and Dennis L. Siluk, Poet and novelist (who lives part time in Peru, and part time in his home state of Minnesota, USA); Maria has a half-century of investigating and studying Peru’s historical past, and a world wide audience with her countless books on its cultures, traditions, and historical data; a few books translated from the Spanish into English (i.e., “History of the Inca Realm”).
Maria's mother was a Peruvian lady and her father was from Poland, as was brought out during the meeting between her and Dennis. Maria was born in Barranco, Lima, Peru; when she was five-years old she went with her family to Europe—and lived in France, Poland, England and Belgium, and returned to Perú when she was nineteen-years old, similar to Dennis’ experience, in that he fell in love with Peru (particularly the Mantaro Valley, and now has come to Peru to retire here part time).
She married a Pole in Poland, as Dennis married a Peruvian from Huancayo, Peru, adventuring in Lima, in 1999, they met, and married a few months later, in February of 2000.
Maria became a self-taught historian. Like Maria, Dennis’ enthusiasm has lead him to explore Peru, and write six books on its customs, traditions, and culture, in poetic form, and receive awards from the Los Andes University, in Huancayo, for his cultural contribution; in addition, he was awarded the Grand Cross of the City of San Jeronimo, and appointed Poeta Laureado of the city, along with Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture.
Maria, in Lima she met and married Alejandro Diez Canseco, her true love and together they lead a very culture-oriented life, perhaps like Dennis and Rosa Penaloza de Siluk have these past several years, for Rosa has traveled around the world several times, and throughout Peru.
Although much of Dennis’ cultural poetry is on many aspects of Peru, a great deal is on the Wanka Warrior and Pacific War, Dennis being a decorated Vietnam Veteran, of the war (1971), and the Mantaro Valley, as with Maria, to a great extent is on the Inca Empire.
Maria, She perhaps can be called, or referred to as the Josephus of Peru; as Dennis has been referred to in Peru, as the Jules Verne (referring to all his travels, and books relating to travel, and his cultural style of poetry, and writings), and at times, the Globe-trotter Poet, dubbed by the newspapers, and magazines in Peru. And now for the Narration, and meeting:

The Narrative Dialogue and Meeting

We (my wife, Rosa and I) arrived at the building about 10:50 AM, Thursday, morning, March 22, 2007, in Lima, Peru (Jesus Maria, district) at the cultural center (Peruvian Learning Instituted); right after we arrived we talked briefly with the guard, and we were already twenty-minutes late for the meeting, our cab was stranded on the highway, and we had to jump off it, and catch another on the side road. As we hurried up the stairs, we came to a small office the guard had pointed out to us, there she was sitting behind her desk, I knew her instantly, had seen a picture of her, she looked the same, I thought it was a younger picture at the time, so I was surprised, she looked younger than I thought she was: she wore a silk like multi colored blouse (black, red and white for the most part). She was 91-years old, but looked more like 67, I thought, well kept. She, Maria came around her desk, greeting me and my wife, as she asked us to sit down, at which time, I gave her two of my books I had done on Peru, she read the titles verbally, as she looked at each one, read them in English, “The Spell of the Andes,” and “The Magic of the Avelinos,” then she smiled (later on would say to a friend, “These are marvelous books…”), I could see she was proud to be a Peruvian, even though I would find out, she had Polish roots, from her father’s side, and Peruvian from her mother’s.
I knew it was most difficult to get a visit to see her, she had been sick a week before, and did not allow many visitors, in the first place, thus confirmed by a number of people prior to my arrival, and even the guard was surprised she allowed my visit, I felt more than lucky.

“Sit down please,” she said with her strong looking frailness, soft but stern eyes.
As I sat down I asked her to sign one of her boos for me, ‘Historia Del Tahuantinsuyu” and as I went to sign my books for her, she said, modestly, and with a little humor, “We shall interchange,” and again came that mysterious smile, that was warm and unspoiled.

(During the next few minutes I stood up, and Rosa my wife, took two pictures of her and I, and I showed them to her on my digital camera, and she looked at me somewhat, and said, “I’m 91-years old:” I didn’t say anything, perhaps nothing to say, she looked 25-years younger. She looked good for her age.)

Next came, loose talk about the food from Huancayo, since I had brought up the subject of my wife being from there, “I like Cuy Colorado,” I told her, and she replied, “Have you tried Cuy Chactado?” And I replied, “Oh yes…Professor Pedro’s wife in Huancayo made it for me, it was very good!” Then I added, “I like Huancayo po…ta..” and before I could finish the sentence, she corrected me, “You mean, Papa a la Huancaina?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.

(I think Maria was finding out, I loved Peru and its mysterious cultures as much as she did, back when she first discovered this ancient land.)

“What is your origin?” she asked me, knowing I was from North America.
“Russian and Irish,” I said, adding, “And your name isn’t Peruvian...?”
“Of course not,” she said, “it’s Polish.” Then I added, “I’m Polish also, from my Grandmother’s side, Russian from my Grandfather, and Irish, from my father.” Somewhat repeating myself.
“It’s a mixture,” she commented. I think I left out the Polish because of just that, too many spices in the pie. (And we talked briefly on that, how my extended family life, brought out the Polish and Russian in the family circle.)

Next, my wife and I invited her for breakfast saying, “Martina,” was going to be over Wednesday for breakfast (and her friend).
“Who is Martina?” she said, with a speck of wit, she was quite lively for a 91-years old woman.
My wife explained, she was from the Center of Anti-aging, in Lima, and then, pondering a bit on the name, and center, she recognized the name, saying, “There is a meeting next week there.” (I thought: what a sharp memory, better than mine)
“I’m too old for breakfast” she said, “I have to eat special food, but, thank you both for the invitation”

Then realizing the time had gone by quickly, I merely said, in a low voice; “We shouldn’t take anymore of your time, you’ve already given us much of it, and I’m sure you have things to do,” and so I excused us, and she said promptly, “Nice to meet you,” she was standing, when she talked, and now started to sit down, as we started to leave.
It was a most cordial meeting, and one I feel, brought out the ordinariness of a person, one that is not locked into a box because of ones profession. This was good I thought: there is a great humanness about this renowned historian.

Trout, of the Mantaro Valley (of Peru)

2007-02-03T16:09:00.001-08:00

Trout, of the Mantaro Valley (of Peru)

When day has come—the sun breaks
Early the wives lift the heavy pans
(get them set for lunch)

The trout rise (white and pink) in its
Blue and greenish waters—down
Through the mountain streams…

Fishermen wait along site the banks,
Lunch has yet to be prepared.

Each night the crimson moon comes
Over the edge of the mountains
The twilight is beautiful, also…

The twilight is beautiful, also,
The common animals also the
Valley people and their delicious trout!

#1670 2-3-2007 I can’t imagine a conversation on or in, the Mantaro Valley without a spoken word of one of the main foods, the trout. Just mention any city in the Valley, while in any other city in Peru, and the word trout pops up; and for good reason, it is a main dish, and very desirous to say the least, as it can be prepared a half dozen different ways. The folks of the Valley are very much aware of their appetizing, yummy, mouth-watering, trout; proud may be the word, or even conceited in the sense they feel they have a treasure, having the trout. I’m originally from Minnesota, the land of 10,000-lakes, and we have many fish in them, and trout is among them, but when I’m in the Mantaro Valley, I am skeptical about mentioning we have good trout, in that, many things don’t bother the Wanka folks up there, but this may start a war, and thus, I pull away from that, and just say, ‘yaw, we’ve got trout, but this is of course, very special trout here in the Mantaro Valley (or Huancayo).’ I’m not actually lying, but, perhaps distorting the truth a bit; but no matter what, the trout is most delicious in the Valley.

Yessenia (A Wizard's Faithful Tale))Children of the Amuc)

2007-01-31T17:26:00.000-08:00

Yessenia
(A Wizard’s Faithful Tale)) Children of the Amuc)

Done in Spontaneous Poetic Prose

(Prologue) The origin of the name ‘Yessenia´, can be linked to a variable of truths, we know the name to—perhaps to be—Spanish in origin, (but could also be Chinese); it’s also spelled Jessena, with a meaning “Palm Tree”; yet still it can be linked to Arabic also: meaning: Flower. In this story, “Yessenia…”you are about to read, there is a Peruvian link, and it links to the Amuc (the small people), and its underworld metropolis (and the mother of Yessenia: Florencia, whom perhaps named her Yessenia for special reasons, such as, she knew her daughter would have to be strong as a tree, and soft, with fragrance, as a flower to survive in her time, and world).
This is the second part, or sequel you could say to the famous, ‘Florencia’ (saga) that takes place beyond the Andes in the Mantaro Valley of Peru. But not in antiquity, as Yessenia lived and her mother, but in modern times; so be ready to go back into the crust of the earth, the tunnels and mines of the Mantaro Valley, where a portion of the Andes surround it like a mother cuddling her child.

Index of Characters

1—The Amuc (little people of mines of the sierras)
2—The Wizard (the narrator for the most part of the story)
3—Yessenia, (Queen, and daughter to Florencia)
4—The Gardner (the antagonist of the story)
5—The King (of the Eastern Kingdom)

Note: the story you are about to read was written in what the author calls, spontaneous poetic prose (similar to the way ‘Florencia,’ was written), which took two days); Yessenia was written in two hours, not to include two poems at the end, which the author did the following day. This is not the first time he has done this kind of writing, without pause, and at the very moment it comes to mind; much of his poetry is written on the spot, and stories likewise; it allows for a free flowing mine, and it seems to come out more genuine. It was thereafter corrected. With only the prologue added on 1-31-2007, and the change of the main characters name from Ariel to Aurea to what it is now, Yessenia; done on: 1-26-2007. Rosa Penaloza de Siluk
´

The Story

1

The old wizard (hunchback) sat back against a hard and wide root hanging like a string, like a thick python snake from the dome of the cave, from the upper part of the inner cave of the earth (the crust of the earth), perhaps this section being 400,000-square meters in circumference. Thence he started to tell his tale of tales among the Children of the Amuc, above them, the Mantaro Valley of Peru. Here he sat gazing into their eyes, a jug of wine by his side, said he (in his charming and witty, rustic voice):
“Listen well, my young Amucs,” (pouring down some wine from an animal skin (odre). Then he placed it back along his right leg, and started to huff and puff, as if the air was too hot and thin, and he could not get enough, and when he did, it was to hot to hold in his lungs, and the children chattered about, waiting and listening.
Next, after a moment had passed, the old wizard, white bearded with long stringy hair, moved his poncho out of his way, waiting to get the children‘s undivided attention—and noticed an old man, a Gardner with tools, a pick, rack and ax, and bag of sawdust, standing by the children—bending a tinge as if wanting to, and getting ready to, listen.
Sweet, with smiles were the children as they looked on, here and there, and back to the old Wizard, several of them, all anxious to hear the tale from this wanderer, this wizard-barb of sorts.
“My great, great—seven times over, grandfather’s wife was the maid to the Great Queen Florencia, of the 7th century, if I recall correctly, and I know you’ve all heard of her, but have you’ve heard of her daughter’s striking tale?”
All the children looked dumfounded, and one said, “No,” and all the rest nodded their heads.
The old Gardner closed arms, wide eyed, bent himself closer to the speaker, as the young Amucs—remained in a daze and disbelief of suspense, —said the Gardner, “Forgive me sire—wizard for sure, such a tale no one knows, only legend says she had a daughter, no more!”
“Ah, pardon me, old Gardner,” said his equal in age, “a lion you are like she, and should you doubt the truth before you hear me?”
“Then speak on,” said the old Gardner, breast out, lips tight, as if in unbelief. Then the old Wizard put his hat down for those who wished to drop a coin in it for him.
“Now listen closely, I will tell you the tale, faithful it is (the old Gardner smiled as if he knew something, but was tightlipped).”

The children now sat back against rocks, one another, and so forth and on, focusing their attention on the speaker; you could hear also—here and there— hear little Amuc groans (heavily), then the old wizard poured himself another wine, the children had never seen a man consume so much wine in such a short time. Next the wizard pulled out a danger, a relic of sorts, very pleasing to the eyes. This startled the children, and got their undivided attention, as if a monster lizard had stuck out its tongue, ready to grab them.
“My greet, great… Grandfather gave this to me, it is the king’s knife, the one he went for, but could not find, because his wife had hid it under the bed, Florencia that is, as her two assailants cut off his head.”
“Holy root!” said a voice among the children of the Amuc.
“The maid, my great, great…seven times over, grandfather’s wife, took it after all had left the bedchambers,” explained the Wizard.

“And what of it?” asked the Gardner, a haughty implication to his voice.
“It has special powers,” clarified the Wizard, taking a drink of the wine, adding, “it can made a duck into an eagle, or a Gardner into a toad!” he said laughingly, which triggered laughter into the children until all were laughing, all that is, except the embarrassed Gardner for making such a statement. The old Gardner now had a flatly look on his rosy face.
“Let your eyes,” said the Wizard,” be your best judges.
“Perhaps a curse is on that dagger,” implied the Gardner.
“Yes indeed, there is one,” replied he Wizard, and I shall now tell you the legend behind the dagger, the curse, and the Queen, Queen Yessenia.”

In the face and heart and eyes of the Gardner, if one could see, and if any one had paid attention, one would have seen: frustration, anger, pain, hurt, he was shamed, or was he, he knew there was a curse, how did he know, but no one thought to ask him, or gave him much attention at all. Thus, he murmured, “Let the children go to Hell with you Wizard,” but no one heard him, except one lad sitting on a root near by him.
“Let us hear more, old Wizard,” said the child Amuc sitting on the root.

2

“As the fable goes, that has more truth to it than myth, Yessenia, was now the princess of the Eastern Kingdom, as the young king had taken her as a child, and raised her, now fifteen-years of age (the king in his mid 20s), he married her, and she gave him a son. Thus, she became Queen
…she had a tender heart, and gave him, the king, her husband, her foster father of sorts, whom was ten-years her senior, here heart and soul you could say, but it was in a normal day, un-expectant, he said to her, out of the blue, “Be gone…” just like that, not a frown, smile or any expression on his face, flat as could be. He threw a sack of gold coins on a table a few feet past her, he tossed them, and so he didn’t have to get too close to her. “Be gone he said,” a second time, “before I kill you,” then he added to that, “hurry” he said, “before I change my mind and behead you here and now.” She didn’t even have time to think (but her mind was racing):

(In the background you can hear and see several folks walking by the so called countryside as it is considered in the underworld, which is not of course the same as the surface: here in the underworld it is much more: rocky, with rocky formations all about, dishevel or rumpled landscapes, and deep crevasses in the earth all about, liken to glaciers, that if one was to fall into one, hundreds of feet he’d fall.)

Yessenia’s Heart

Beware, when love seems too fair
Too charming to judge,
It shall come, too hard to bare.

The hidden heart does not speak
It just shreds—rips, tares, and creeps.

3

“Tell us more,” asked a voice from the Children of the Amuc. Several more children had gathered about the several that were already there, a few parents had stopped by, children in hand, all anxiously listening now (waiting for the next sequence of events), and the pretentious Gardner, commented: “Tell us more about that dagger!”
There was a long moment of silence, darkness had rippled the circled of folks. And then after a drink of wine, the Wizard started back up:
“She was looking at the King, as he was looking at her, not a word was said for the moment, he was her morning and night, now in her mind, deep in a tomb, black rage was settling in (somehow the king must had know this, a few of the by standing folks thought as they listened on)) perhaps her mother had transferred her flaming genes as well as her flowery ones to her daughter)) Yessenia’s heart was lifeless, quenchless.”
Now the Wizard pulled out the dagger for the second time to show the kids, the one the maid had taken and handed down as an abloom, from family to family, the one that was proclaimed to have a curse on it. This startled the children again, to the point of grabbing back their attention.
Continued the Wizard, now holding the dagger in his hands to express by showing, the moments emotion, that took place a thousand years previously “Soldiers came suddenly upon the Queen—alas, with the dagger of her deceased father, the very one that her mother had hid, that the maid had found, and given to the daughter, whom kept it in her room.) They cut her throat with it, but she did spit out a few last words before she died (the king in fear, she’d get revenge on him, he felt he had to act quickly, or face the same fate, her father did against her mother: thus, like to like, child and mother.) So as the Queen bled like a pig, her words were as follows: ‘I will not rest in my grave until revenge on your family has been taken.”’
The Gardner now withdrew from the assemblage; the children were hanging on to the story like white on rice, “Tell us more, what happened to the King.”
“It was an empty curse, just a tale,” responded the Wizard, putting down the dagger for a moment, to hold the wine skin over his head, so as to allow the wine to pour into his mouth. Then he heard a voice behind him.
“No,” said the Gardner, “it is a true tale, my great, great, Grandmother, told me of it, and that every seventh born son, was obligated to seek out the holder of the dagger, even if it takes a thousand years, and cast revenge on the holder of it; Yessenia’s son, was my great, great, seven times over, Grandfather.”
The old Wizard turned his head, and as he did, the Gardner plunged the dagger deep into the Wizard’s heart. And so it was.

4

After Word

Sometimes those that seem as innocent as young flowers, swim in a bath of dark shadows—if triggered it can lead to flames; that is to say, if you take all, and she gives all, expect to receive nothing less; she had only time to give burning death from her eyes of the betrayer, as it was in this case (the king gave the dagger back to the maid, he was cleaver enough to see perhaps what the Wizard did not, life after death has a strong pull). It is what triggers t he sleepless powers of pain in the lost world of death and love, inside of us, we all have triggers. Who dares to pay the price, the king in this case was cautious indeed, and he counted the cost, to him, not to others. And the Wizard wasn’t faithful of course to his on tale, such as life, in the real world.

Haiku for the Ruins at Unishcoto (Peru((and other poems))

2007-01-30T13:43:00.000-08:00

Verses in Haiku and Other Forms

Ң

Haiku for the Ruins at Unishcoto

Its summer here
The Road to Unishcoto
Is just over there…

I walked her every inch
Like a fly caught in a web…!

#1651 1-31-2007

Haiku for Minnesota Winter

Its mid winter
I wonder how they’re doing
In Minnesota.

#1649

Old Poet

Close your gate old Poet,
You complain for solitude
Refuse Visitors.

#1650

My Poem

When my poem grows steadily
My tongue can taste it—
Thus, my poem is done!

“I try to make my poems as luminous and genuine as possible, where one can travel and thrive in them. They have steadily grown in Europe, Asia (where they are presently translating them; some in German, and other languages of East Europe), in South America (where hundreds are already translated), and North America along with Australia. I hope you enjoy them.” D.L. Siluk

Snapshot of Time

The sun is burning my neck.
The waiter walks by
Throwing images in color
That rush along my side.
A man is standing with his child
In front of the table across from me
The waiter is standing by.

For just a moment, a second,
I sense this is the center of life;
Voices and faces crisscross
Over, under and around me
(at this outside little café).

I’m sitting in the cool heat
(like a duck floating in space)
Like a man in a box (somewhere)
A snapshot of time and life spent
Never to return again—just moving.

Dedicated to El Parquecitos Café in Miraflores, Lima Perú, #1656 (1-32-2007)

Cultures of the Viru Valley

2007-01-19T18:32:00.000-08:00

Cultures of the Viru Valley

A small area perhaps, with a big dent in the cultural field of Peru (a river valley leading out of the Andes to the Coast), perhaps dating back to 1050 BC, with several cultures coming out from the valley, or call them cultural shifts to AD 600, and beyond (I have spent some time in this area; as I have in most if not all, areas I write about).
From a period of agriculture (1050 BC) came, textiles and ceramics, and of course basket making.
The maize (corn) appeared on the northern coast with the Chavin cultures (such as in Trujillo)) south)); but we have in the Viru Valley the Salinar Culture which gave rise to the Moshe, which you can see remnants of at the archeological site in Chan Chan, amongst others (Chan Chan is worth the visit, and the folks are friendly, and the site is huge).
The detailed ceramics of the cultural inhabitants of the Viru valley, especially their soldiers, are quite impressive.
The Viru Valley is perhaps the oldest area where researchers have continued to study in Peru, from around the world. Sipan, which dates to AD 200-250, in comparison is far from the oldest civilization of the area, although the most famous, with its golden treasures to adorn the eye, and mystic black ceramics, to make one spellbound.
The Viru Cultures, are most ancient and interesting, and worth a look for the common eye; don’t let all the archeologists have all the fun. Machu Picchu is not the only place worthwhile seeing in Peru, perhaps the most crowded now. (Written in Lima, Peru 1/19/2007—dlsiluk))Article))

Down the Old Inca Road (and two other Poems)

2007-01-14T15:43:00.000-08:00

1)

Down the Old Inca Road
(Cajas)

The minute my hands
Touched the rocks
(of the Inca stone wall,
Upon the edge of the path)
Everything had changed:
The sun had come
Around and down
The Old Inca Road
(where I was now walking);
The air was warmer than before,
And I, I could smell the dirt;
Thereabouts, came sounds of nature
Steadily thundering into my
Eyes and soul…

The blue sky above me
And the Inca world beside me, and I, I
Walked down that cracked road
Along side its stonewall.

I had not been born when they had placed
The last stone to this wall—
When someone wedged in,
The tightly nit stones.

#1576 (12/19/2006

2)

Calicanto —Vita
(The Old Wanka Bridge of San Jeronimo)

Let beauty form its own heart
‘tis a perspective for the best
for ones true image is never pictured
on ones face—but rather in his trying past.

When I looked upon this ancient Wanka Bridge
Calicanto-Vita, no shadows to flatter her stones
Only a reminiscence, of long past battles.

12/12/2006 #1566

3)

The White Winged Butterfly

She comes around this White Winged Butterfly—
All day long: floats or flies on and within my air,
In my garden, in this Peruvian city, unescorted:
She has now, going on eight-weeks, done so—
(as if I didn’t notice or know).
How did she find mine, amongst so many?
Perhaps she smelled the greenery? Trying to
get away from the car fumes.
Or perhaps she found the sunshine, after
spotting my roses.
Whatever, its been eight-weeks now, I hate to
see her go (she put on a good show).

#1609 (1/14/2007); Dedicated to my wife Rosa

The Central Railroad of Peru (poem with commentary)

2007-01-14T14:22:00.000-08:00

The Central Railroad of Peru

The most distinguished in the world
Engineering feat of land and steal
Perhaps was: the Central railroad of Peru?
Where it reached to heights of thirteen thousand feet
(Above sea level); to the city of Ticlio,
Then down to Bone City (La Oroya)
And on to Huancavelica:
One thousand miles of rail
Through mountains, over bridges,
Around zigzags, and up hills…!

#1580 (12/19/2006)

[Engineering of Poetry] In writing this poem, “The Central Railroad of Peru,” it came to mind what some folks are saying nowadays about poets and poetry, that is to say: some folks have said: poetry is like engineering, in that it has to be exact, its pulse, its mathematical genius, its hidden agenda; that under its shell are the real issues, the surface. These folks really mean, poetry needs accentual meter, or syllabic meter, I did that in my first book called, “The Other Door,” which was acclaimed in 1981, as a gifted book by much of the Midwest Press, in the United States. It also had that engineering kind of touch.

But what these gifted folks left out was common sense, in a world much lacking it. Poetry is basically focused on rhythm, meter and sound, and should have meaning and a voice of communication, one that demands effect. Involved with this is description and again, a narrative voice. Thus, poetry is much more than engineering ones way through the valley and through tunnels, and over bridges, it is figures of speech, interesting relations between reader and writer, examining traditional distinctions in culture, and showing the most basic language to its world of its intimacy. It has a voice, a theme (or should have), not just mathematics; it flows historically, and that is my kind of poetry, for this book: “The Road to Unishcoto”.

Historically if we look back to what poetry was originally concerned with, it will be auditory and visual, and cultural—from religious rituals to other functions. We have the old English barb (or Greek barbs that went from city to city to perform their cultural and historical plays in poetic form) manuscripts in monasteries showing verse showing Pagan and Christian customs, traditions, war, as in the Norman conquest (1166 AD); and the French culture was the culture that influenced Anglo-Norman poetry. Actually, rhyme didn’t appear in English poetry until this period.

Three Poems for the Gate Keeper/one for Peru

2007-01-13T10:40:00.000-08:00

The Eyes of Chucctolomos

On a Hill over looking a village called Quilcas in little stone rounded huts carved into stone walled pastures—thereof…here is where the Wanka lived, families, side by side: in the center stands a small stone structure, it stands alone, with eyes, nose and mouth (looking down the hillside)!

From inside, I stood, looking out (through its stone eyes)—out beyond the Mantaro Rio below, below and beyond the village that guards these stone ruins, out beyond its grassy meadows, to its residing mountains: then I felt it looking back at me, as if…if, my glance bounced off those residing mountains, to tell me: ‘…time was not real.’

Notes: The legend, the folks told me of, linked to this site that is, is as follows: whoever goes into these structures will soon die of an illness or disease. I found for myself, the spirits that guard this archeological site were more concerned with folks distorting the site, and disrupting their quietness. I didn’t get the feeling they wanted to curse anyone, perhaps that is mans choice. The site dates to about 700 AD.

Three Poems for the Gate Keeper

1.

Just Visiting

The difference between
You and me
Is that I’m just visiting.

#1608 (1/12/2007)

2.

A Glance of Light

I grabbed a glance of light
Asked for faith and a year of life,
And somewhere in-between
Forgot to ask
For
Peace…
And tranquility.

#1606 (1/1220/07)

3.

Ship in a Bottle

Life has many surprises
Like a ship in a bottle
We often wonder how we got into
Such a spot…
World War III—will not be
Much Different.

#1607 (1-12-2007)

Four Poems from the Mantaro Vallley of Peru

2007-01-12T15:11:00.001-08:00

1) The Old Sheep Hearder
(Cajas, Peru)) Mantaro Valley))

He roams the hillside, the old man—
Thin and bowed—arched like a tower
Donkey by his side:
Goats and sheep, leaping up the side of the hill
By the Old Inca Wall;

He roams the hillside, the old man—
Stops to talk to me
(It’s a way of life you see))
In the Mantaro Valley)).

Not sure if he likes strangers—
But he smiles nonetheless.
(His wool sweater tight against his thin chest.)
He looks up, up into the atmosphere, says
(As if measuring the slow moving air) says:
“Rain, it will rain late this afternoon!”
And right he is.

(It’s a way of life here you see))
In the Mantaro Valley; that’s all it is;
Roaming the hillside, donkey’s and all,
A few strangers, now and then,
And a tight sweater between
Him and the cool air.))

#1568 (12/13/2006)

Note: The old sheep headers, the ones that are left in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, bring their own food and water usually with them as they go daily up the hillsides with their sheep, and other animals (in this case, Cajas, a city of less than 10,000-inhabidents). I kind of think their days are fading; moderation is filling up their bellies nowadays (in the Valley, and nearby towns, such as Huancayo); I feel fortunate to be able to be one of the witnesses (perhaps one of the last, and one of the few who is writing this period down) to an end of an era; or, this old way of life that is, simple as it is, nonetheless, its nature will be buried with me I since.

2) A Dusty Day in Cajas
(Part One: the poem)

I couldn’t see clearly
down the old Inca Road—
in Cajas, (Huancayo) by the
old prison ruins—El Obraje,
(on Puna Mountain)
but I knew it was long—I
suppose.
Said I,
“There are perhaps old bones
or spirits at its end,”
the how or why of it all
who knows, the Spanish took
many prisoners back then.
Nonetheless,
I had to reach it (reach the end)
for the thrill of it, I
suppose:
—
and when I did
(did reach its end),
it was as I thought:
somber-grand
with so much unknown.

The Prison Cell
(Part Two)

(The Crescendo) I stood in those ancient prison cells where the Spanish incarcerated the rebellious Wanka and Inca populace of the Mantaro Valley (in the 1500s), and here is what I felt:

I was drifting into my own grave, descending, is more like it, into the upper bowels of the earth, into a past darkness that was so dense, it constricted my breathing. I stumbled a bit, from wall to wall; saw hard black eyes (they moaned)—.

The decay that took place among the living of its day, were huddled in darkness: they were to die here, and they knew it.

(11-30-06)) 1554 & 1557)) Dedicated to Mauro Rosales and Karina Rojas, who live in Cajas; for they took me on a Saturday morning and afternoon into its wondrous hillsides, in November of 2006; took me I say, trekking the mountain side (Puna Mountain, as they called it); we explored the Inca Road and old Wanka prison cells, along with the geological landscape.

3) The Wild Chicha
(Of the Mantaro Valley)) El Tambo))

The Wild Chicha—
At a years age, is old (so I am told)
But no one cares, nor really knows
(in the Mantaro Valley of Peru);
The inhabidents just drink it down:
From town to town, to town
(with their many, many fiestas)—
And it seems to me
At times (easing about)—
If I had one more Chicha drink
I’d be a roasted trout..!

Written while in El Tambo, Huancayo, at the El Caserio Café (1556 ((12-3-06)); dedicated to Joseito Arrieta, and his son Rey Enrique, whom had breakfast with my wife and I, and provided me with the background of the drink, Chicha; although I’ve had it twice myself.

4)

Godfather of the Haircut

There’s an old tradition
Called: Godfather
Of the cut hair…

I really didn’t believe it,
Until I was asked
To be a Godfather!

“What are my duties?” I asked,
Dreamily—
(Gazing, gawking on, dumfounded).

“Oh, to cut a lock of hair:
Here and there,” so they said…
(“from the child’s head…”).

((I wondered what then?))

I learned in Huancayo,
There are Godfathers
—for most any and everything;

I get the feeling,
The more Godfathers
The more spoiled the Child gets…

The child
Even asks for them nowadays
(at any old age).

Note: #1498 (11:43 PM). Inspired by Alfonso, a cab driver in Huancayo, and his grandson; being an American, or half Peruvian, since I am Married to one, some of these Wanka traditions are unusual to me (as with the Godfather of the Hair), but it is not my intentions to make fun of them, but to have fun with some of them, as I learn and enjoy the culture and customs of Peru, and the Mantaro Valley in particular.

Four Poems from the Mantaro Vallley of Peru

2007-01-12T15:11:00.000-08:00

A Brief Overview of the Historical Wanka (from the Mantaro Valley of Peru)

2007-01-11T19:48:00.000-08:00

A Brief Overview of the Historical Wanka
(And Introduction)

The Wanka culture is rich in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, and perhaps we could start any corner in the Valley and present a good history, and come out with the Kingdom of Wanka at the end, and provide a good history at that. So let’s start right from the beginning, 10,000 BC, known as the Litico Period. Here we find Archeological sites called Callavallauri, and here we find nomads and hunters for the most part.
From there we can shift to the Arcaico Period, or 4000 BC. A time when agriculture appeared in the Valley, and throughout; here we can find ruins called Chanchas Puquio (Huancan0.
Now we shift another 2000-years down the timeline, a period of the Ceramic, along with the growing of corn, and an archeological site nearby. The nearby Andean city is called: Conception (Junin).
Now we take a big leap, to 600-1460 AD, the Medium to Late Horizon periods; this is really the Wanka Period at its brightest. A time for breeding stock, agriculture, more villages, and of course war (the Huari)
The Huari Empire in the Mantaro Valley connected with one another, that is, the valley consolidated for the most part. The Huari disappeared and was replaced with the Wanka Kingdom about 1000 AD, although everything was somewhat really interconnected prior to this.

Now we must go to about 1200 AD, the Wanka development is well on its way, I shall call it its middle glory: here we see Jauja, San Jeronimo, Sicaya, Chorgos Bajo connect with one another.
The Capital of the empire was Tunanmarca and the Huari culture, perhaps between 500-900 AD. After their influence disappeared, the Wanka got more independent and adopted what may be considered the God of the Wanka’s. Huallallo Carhu (The Great Wanka Warrior who became God of the Wanka). He was punished by Pariacaca, and made to eat dogs for his last defeat. It has been said; the God of the Wanka’s ate a people. Really was not that uncommon back then for that environment; and to repeat myself, He was to eat dogs for penitence.

Ode to: La Dama De Cao (A Poem)

2007-01-05T10:25:00.000-08:00

Ode to: La Dama De Cao
(The Lady of Cao))Peru))

The sun no longer strikes down on me
How close I was to life, how hard life was
How false ones gaiety can be.

Lonely at times:
Not in the soul
But in the sky of the mind!

My whole horizon ringed
With the morning birds;
I had a collection of things and people.

I have been a Queen, ruled the village of Cao
That was my love you see
Yet I did not live long—, twenty-five years is all.

Queen-chief they called me—,
My body tattooed to show such;
Bound in ceremonial wrappings…

Like a cocoon (a mummy)
Hence,
I was found in such garb.

Sorry to say, but I will:
I died from childbirth—
Buried in Trujillo—a thousand years ago!.

When I died…, then awake
It was like daybreak—I seemed to have
Had a sad feeling upon arrival.

Now harshly, all the sounds and voices
Of one moment to the next
Is simply fleeting.

Yet, up there I will never be again:
Still I hear my child’s voice
From time to time..!

Note: No: 1596 (1-4-2007): a most recent finding in Peru (that is, perhaps less than a year old) is the Mummified body of “La Dama de Cao, (The Lady of Cao)”; whom was really more than a lady, but a queen. As I have said often, and will again, Peru is the land of discover, perhaps the last of the main Ancient lands to have been only half discovered. It is the Egypt of South America you could say. I was in Trujillo, some three years ago, a northern costal region of Peru, where they have funny looking boats called Canotaje´s. I don’t know of any another land that bares so much fruit in Ancient discovers today, other than Peru.

CHRISTMAS MESSAGE (in Spanish and English)

2006-12-19T12:49:00.000-08:00

CHRISTMAS MESSAGE

PART I
ALTER OF CHANGE

Life holds an alter of change
For our whole life can
Be alter in an instant—;
Thus revealing sunshine
Or perhaps, rain—but …
Happiness is always a
Byproduct of giving.

PART II
SUICIDE

It is always foolishness to
Contemplate suicide—
In that, what appears today
(maybe sad and distraught)
Tomorrow may hold
For one, new changes
(a new life),
Revealed in sunshine,
And perhaps, partly rain.

PART III
CHRISTMAS

So I shall wait for
Tomorrow—(Christmas)
See what the Good Lord,
Reveals to me;
Partake, in the passing
Of his birth; enmesh
Within His forgiving grace—
And let Him
Delivers me, the victory.

Note: Dedicated to the Lord Jesus Christ and to my wife Rosa.

Spanish Version

MENSAJE NAVIDEÑO

PARTE 1

ALTERACIÓN DEL CAMBIO

La vida sostiene una alteración del cambio
Porque nuestra vida entera puede
Ser alterada en un instante—;
Así revelando la luz del sol
O quizás, la lluvia—pero
La felicidad… es siempre una
Consecuencia de dar.

PARTE II
SUICIDIO

Siempre es insensatez
Contemplar el suicidio—
Porque, lo que parece hoy
(talvez triste y afligido)
Mañana deparará
Para uno, nuevos cambios
(una nueva vida),
Revelada en la luz del sol,
Y quizás, en parte en la lluvia,

PARTE III
NAVIDAD

Entonces esperaré por
Mañana— (Navidad)
Ver lo que el Buen Señor,
Me revela a mí;
Participar, en el paso
De su nacimiento; enredado
Dentro de Su gracia misericordiosa—
Y dejarle a EL
Me entregue, la victoria.

Note: Dedicado al Señor Jesús y a mi esposa Rosa.

A Night in Huancayo (A Short Story))Suspense))

2006-12-13T09:23:00.000-08:00

A Night in Huancayo

By Dennis L. Siluk

In English and Spanish

Copyright, © December, 2006
By Dennis L. Siluk
“A Night in Huancayo”

A Night in Huancayo

Chapter One

1

He stared at the red capped cathedral. Sparklingly lighted, it laid enveloped in the Mantaro Valley, in the city of Huancayo, surrounded by what he called Mountains, and the inhabitants called hill.
He had been in Huancayo for two weeks, hand not really got used to it; the Plaza de Arms carefree composure he liked.
In the countries he had visited—which were many—few were lit up like this church. Yet he been told, and was aware the side streets were to be feared at night (ah, yes in deed, there was a difference between day and night in this Andean city); likened to the haunting-ness of the Dark Ages, with its cobblestone streets, and its Spanish balconies. He had come form the 20th century, United States.

2

The bus was a passenger vehicle; it was being loaded, he knew it was going to leave by one O’clock this very day, leave to go to Lima, Peru, through the Mantaro Valley, and then the Andes, and onto the Imperial city of Kings. They put boxes upon boxes in the side hold of the bus, along with the baggage left on the outside of the bus, two men lifting up the heavy loads, baggage and boxes, silently, as if they were on a mission, throwing them into the hold like sacks of potatoes, tossing them into the deepest part of the hold.
The bus was being made ready for its trip to Lima, and the Huancayo rains had stared (December rains); the rains rose and descended from city to city, town-let to town-let, village to village, black clouds shifting all day long, drifting throughout the valley.
The rains engulfed the whole region (within a short period of time), from, and to include Concection, to San Jeranimo, Cajas, and Sapallanga, was flooded, and the heavy downpour in Huancayo, flooded the street likewise.
The rains were heavy, and the cities first stank, and then got swollen with the seepage of waist, especially in Huancayo. He felt he was not all that safe in the rains, and wanted to get onto the bus.

3

Beyond the Andes had become the last hope for an American fugitive, as he called himself, a veteran of the Vietnam War (know in Huancayo as the Americano). Here he thought he felt safe, avoiding justice to keep his freedom, which could be purchased in Peru. This was the gate to tolerance, so he called it, if it was not to be had here, than where (?) He was lost for a plan ‘B’ perhaps condemned to be imprisoned in a concrete jungle in the United States where his visa was a one way ticket to Hell and freedom unobtainable. Only one thing mattered, a new identity, and here he found it.
He had blackmailed fate, married a Peruvian, found his way to Lima, changed his name, got a residency card, and paid a few people off.

4

The Bus tickets were sold out, and he could not pay even double the amount to get another ticket (even too late to bribe other passengers).
He had made his plans to move on, not sure where, but Lima would be a centralized point to start, and then elsewhere, he was familiar with the city slightly. This bus was the last way out of the Andean city, on this holiday weekend. He was the only gringo, in Huancayo, and felt he was the only unescorted foreigner.
He asked the bus driver if he could pay double fare, and sit in the isle. An absurd idea for even if he had talked the driver into it, allowing it, where would he sit—everyone had mounds of luggage by their seats in the isles…but I suppose in desperation or despair one tries anything.
(Haunted he was, and paranoid of capture)) who knows what logic was reasonable for his reality)).

Chapter Two

1

It was early in the morning (3:00 AM), and the Plaza de Arms was almost deserted —but for a vagabond (beggar in the morning, vagrant at night, he had seen him before), sleeping hunched in the doorway of a shop, across the street stood, Lugar Cathedral. The vagrant was sleeping, hunched in tightly. He became aware of a second homeless soul, as he walked indecisively about, paced the plaza platform, and stared at the two street people.
He took no further interest in the two down-and-out, as they wakeup and stared, watching him pace. He kept his watch, still fearful of the police, though he had done no wrong in Peru.
Fearful, he kept in the shadowy areas of the plaza, the cathedral. He walked about slowly, as if he were about to be captured at any moment, while trying to design a new plan.
He stopped for a rest, heard steps behind him, nearer and nearer they came, he then started back up walking. If he got arrested, he would be questioned, and his wife would find out he was missing (leaving), she was sleeping at her sisters in El Tambo (a district of Huancayo), thinking all was well.

2

He then disappeared down a side street, a very narrow cobblestone street, adjacent to the plaza. Now those footsteps were next to him. The shadow of the man behind him was large, larger than his.
“Are you lost?” said a voice in Spanish.
He shook his head ‘no’ and kept on walking (the street lights allowed the shadow to see).
“Americano?” Indirectly, questioned the voice.
He didn’t answer the voice, but continued walking, looking at the red-shadowy tile roofs on the houses and the moon’s glare. (He knew very few people in the city spoke English, and he spoke very little Spanish.)
“I’m not the police,” said the voice, in smooth English, with no British accent.
He did not believe the voice and continued his pace, although he did take a quick look behind him, noticing the large man was not wearing a police uniform, but rather rough looking civilian cloths, with a motley looking jacket on (gloomy like his facial appearance).
It was a chilly night, wet, light rain intermittently. He had been arrested, he told himself: too many times in America, he wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances now, not here, not anywhere. He knew he had papers on him, showing he was a resident, but he’d have a hard time explaining himself with the little Spanish he knew to the authorities, and he did not, DID NOT! What them to find out that he really was, not who he was, or what his papers said he was suppose to be.
“I saw you looking at the itinerant men back at the Cathedral,” said the large man (who seem to be educated but down and out himself), “So I got thinking…!”
He showed indifference to his statement he didn’t care what he looked like, he wanted him to vanish. He needed to find a place to stay, figure out his next step, a new plan, he was wet, and getting hungry, and he had missed the bus, he wanted to get out of Huancayo.
“Do you want to get out of the city?” the voice asked.
He did not reply. A few more feet, and he could turn about and knock the guy out with a solid punch to the side of his head.
“Here,” said the voice, holding out a set of car keys, “I can help you, you can help me, even you can go to Bolivia you wan, fro a price of course!”
He swathe keys, they looked like car keys in the feeble light. He felt it was now safe to stop and confront his ghost, his second shadow…
“Porque! (Why!)” He asked in Spanish.

3

“Do you think I need to get out of dodge?” He had learned a few words in Spanish, but only a few, but the shadow seemed to be quite able to carry on a good conversation in English.
“Come with me, I can assure you a way out of the city, and on your way to wherever, even Bolivia.”
“I’m not in need of a taxi!”
“Ah, yes…!” then he stared at who he figured was the taxi man, who wasn’t really a taxi man, whom didn’t seem to be a policeman neither.
(‘He must have known it was a holiday weekend, and all the buses were full, that is why he is perhaps offering me a ride ’)
He said to the person who he thought was a taxi driver, “Your car is worth its weight in gold this evening, I mean, early mourning! Whoever have not left, are stuck in this isolated city. I’m sure you can get paid double for your services.”
(The big shadow didn’t fully understand the Americano, stared at into his face.)
“I’m not worried about the fare, do you want help me amigo?”
This surely was his way out, if the large shadow, Peruvian Shadow, was upfront about helping him get out of the city, and it seemed he was sincere, yet he was puzzling. Yes indeed, hope was no the table, as they say, or in his bowel of soup; with his American passport, he did not need a visa until he got to the boarder and they would just stamp it automatically there, and the car perhaps was full of gas, so he hoped.
“I want to leave Huancayo before sunrise (he murmured:’ I hope’).”
His arms were tired and wet, lying like a rug hanging on a cloth line downward by his sides.
“Se Vende (for sale)” said the Voice, adding, “the car.”
“How much?” he asked the voice.

“You help me, and I’ll give you the car, no dollars involved.”
This was too good to be true, and He knew when such deals emerged, there was always, a hidden price.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing too difficult,” the voice implied.
“What is exactly…nothing?” he asked.
He looked at the large man, perhaps in his 50s, but looked more like he was close to 70, yet he was to agile, for that age. He looked deep into his harsh eyes, hard dark eyes, life had been unbreakable on him, he concluded, as it had been for him, yet we all have a breaking point, so he pointed out to his second self.
This large calm, quiet total stranger could provide his salvation, but the question remained: what did he want in return, if not money?
“You help me, I will help you, and the car ill not cost u a dollar.”
He was becoming a broken record, repeating himself.
They both started walking back to the plaza, side by side, passing ‘Koky’s’ restaurant,

Chapter Three

1

“Wish we had time for a cup of coffee,” implied the Voice, “but I suppose we are both too much in a hurry.”
“Coffee, yes, why not, I have a little time to spare, if there is a place open at this hour of the night, or should I say morning.”
“There is a place I know of, they make Huancayo Pancakes, as some American called them, big as elephant ears, in hot oil, and with …”
“Let’s go…”
“As I was about to say, it is an outside café of sorts, stools around a wooden table, a big umbrella for a roof, but you get what you pay for.”
Having said that, they both entered the man’s car that the Americano thought was a taxi, and they sat in the front, damp, dark mildew smelling front seat.
“A tinge wet,” commented the Americano.
(‘He will fulfill my destiny’)) both putting their faith in the hands of the other.))
He wanted the car, it was his salvation, and the voice wanted what he wanted, an end to his dilemma—perhaps both would be saved once and for all by the other, this thought had entered both their heads, they both (strangers and all) got sight of faith, in each other.

2

The car circled around the plaza, down several streets and the headlights found the outside dingy and grayish café— a few folks sitting on stools, eating those elephant ear-pancakes, and pouring some liquor (hidden in their coat pockets) into their coffee cups.
You could hear the oil boiling, sizzling in a large heavy looking metal container, over a small gas stove.
“I don’t know this part of Huancayo;” He told the driver, he was only acquainted with the plaza are for the most part, and a few streets in El Tambo, where his sister-in-law lived.
They left the car and sat and drank coffee, ate a pancake, hot and greasy, but tasty.
The dark sky, and misty lit moon, gave a somber silhouette to the mountains that rose up behind the city.
He looked over towards the mountains, beyond them was freedom, Bolivia—(Bolivia although were among the Andes), this was his new vision, his plan ‘C’.
“Yes,” said the driver.
“With the car I can be in Bolivia in no time.”
He put his keys in his pocket and drank a second cup of coffee.
“Let’s go,” said the Voice, “and get on with it, get it over with, so you can get on your way,” then he pointed his finger towards ‘Liberty Hill’ saying abruptly, “that is where I want to go! We will not attract any attention there.”
A moment passed, the cup of coffee was finished, the driver looked up as if he was visualizing something, then down, as if he was emotionally drained—a sigh came out of him, a long sigh, quiet sigh, said, “Do you believe in life after death?” he was looking at the perused when he asked that question.
“I’d like to say I’m not sure, never known anyone to come back from the dead to explain its environment, but I’d like to believe there is a heaven and hell.”

Chapter Four

1

As they drove up the hill to the Park, he earnestly said, “There is only one think that can match poverty, and that is death. It’s been one hell of a life trying to survive. If there is a struggle to survive after death, I will soon find it out.”

2

You could look down upon, and over and throughout, the city of Huancayo, see its roof tops, see it all, all that was there to see that is, and at night, only lights, and shadows, and noisy cars, musical garbage trucks.
The driver got out of the car, with a sigh of relief, and a grinding of his teeth, said (after filling his lungs), “I am prepared.”
The other man sat stone still in the right side car seat and thought (‘…he wants to go to sleep forever!’)
“My name is…” said the smaller man, and before he could give his name, the driver standing outside the car by the car door, said, “No, I don’t want to know, just run me over, promise me you will, I’ll turn my back, walking down the road.” (The keys were in the ignition, and the car was running, and the big man was moving slowly down the road, as he said he would be, and he meant what he said).
He nodded his head in dismay, trying to figure out what to do next. They were both happy, both had whet they wanted; both would get want they desired in a moment that is, providing a certain criteria was met
The big man turned around in surprise (the car had not moved). His eyes said: what are you waiting for, but the Perused could not of course see his eyes, but he felt them. (‘He doesn’t look like a man that wants to live, rather one that cannot kill himself, needs someone else to do his dirty work for him.’)) The following moment of silence is nondescript.))

3

‘Yes,’ he told himself, thinking of the past, ‘Vietnam, 1968, war, heavy. No one understands war, how can they, I can’t even explain it to myself. That is why I have to have these keys, have to go someplace before someone finds me. If I try to explain it to anyone, tell someone about it, it all will come back to me, and haunt me, it never becomes clear in my mind.’ (He shook his head out of his trance state); the large man was moving along, moving down the road, in the middle of the road, as he had said he would be.

4

Big Man

“Yes, he’ll come, it’s not hard to understand him, and he’s killed for fewer reasons. He has violence in his eyes. The only thing worse than being dead is poor and I’ve been that for a very long time. And soon I’ll see if fact is fact or fiction”

Vietnam War

“We had many losses in Vietnam (the war), hard to take at times, it comes and goes, comes and goes, like a plague of grasshoppers in the middle of a desert, swarming overhead. He’s really just one more—nothing to sustain him here on earth, terribly strange, is this night in Huancayo.”

Morning

She received the news her husband was dead, some kind of a car accident, or perhaps a robbery (the police said, yet were still investigating it), where the robber also took the car. The news was received with cramped insides.
She gave the death certificated to her lawyer, a few day later, and surprisingly found out she had an insurance policy. She would be rich now, and perhaps have that bowel of shrimp soup, Cuy Colorado, her husband used to tell her he was going to buy her at the most expensive place in Lima.

Afternoon

She looked about for her husband, in the house, calmly—he had not been there all night, so she told her sister.
She showed no sign of irritation, she didn’t listen to the radio, or turn on the TV for news, either, didn’t know of the man run over by his own car. She showed no sign of irritation, and tried to show proper etiquette to her sister throughout the afternoon.
“Where do you think he went?” asked her sister.
“After Vietnam I met him, and he was exhausted from the war, he had jitters all the time. Smoked cigarette after cigarette, he was always unhappy it seemed, and often unfeeling. In the beginning he talked so sweet, he caught me off guard, like a fish hooked me and brought me into his heart, yet I never understood him.”
“Well then, we must find him,” said the sister.
“He made me think he was happy when it was just a moment of happiness in our life. I do realize seldom is one fully happy let him go, let him be, and we can keep our pleasant moments, I sense they are all we got, or will ever have together. It is the best thing we can do for each other, I fear. He keeps thinking someone is after him. Not sure where it all comes from: a dream perhaps, or illusions, a war thing, you know, that PTS soldiers get, or some unknown reality he never told me.”

If Death Had Wings

If I saw death and death had wings
I know were I would go—
Someplace between heaven and hell,--
In the form of an eternal soul:
Where peace and hunger is no more;

If I saw death and death had wings
That is where I would go—,
Yes, that is where I would go!
If only death had wings
Wings, wings, wings
I’d put them on my soul…!

#1562 12-10-06

Epitaph

—For the Voice, faring forth from day to day was too punitive for him to live among the human race—(or so it would seem). He was not thinking their thoughts; liken to the perused, but who was the pursuer (?) He had had enough—whatever must come did not come quickly enough to change his mind. The staggering thought perhaps became synchronized simultaneously with the other’s to run; the invisible pursuer; thus, both accomplished their mission (even though it may seem, sound and be, frail and feeble.
No one awoke either one—of the terror that evidently griped them. Two engines of self destruction—the effect of their actions upon others was little less remarkable. They halted their lives but an instant, then sprang forward to finish it, renewed.
I have no words wherewith to describe the aftershocks—all I know is all involved disappeared into the tangled undergrowth of the forest of life and death.

2006-11-24T15:15:00.000-08:00

11/23/2006

[Elegy]

“Adios Mr. Don Cipriano: Lima’s Monkey Man”

Don Cipriano Benites, his last name isn’t needed, everyone in Lima knows him, I think perhaps in even beyond Lima, he died a few days ago, a sad day indeed. I wrote a book, called, “The Mumbler,” and he was one of he characters in it. I gave him the book one day, and he was so happy. I even sat and talked to him for an hour, to find out about his life; he was in the papers in New York City once he told me, and a few other newspapers, he was proud of that also. Anyhow, I was about to say, I wrote an article and put it on Ezinearticles.com Internet Magazine, he liked that also. But I suppose if you are not from Lima, Peru, you are saying: who the heck is the Monkey Man. Ah, let me explain, he was the last of his kind. When I was a kid in St. Paul, Minnesota, 1953, and so, there were men who had monkeys and music boxes, and you’d give a nickel or dime, and the monkey would dance. Well, Don Cipriano, was of that stock. He died at seventy-six years old, for 59-years he worked in the Miraflores Park, in Lima, Peru, everyday, even Sunday, as the entertainment Monkey Man. I’ve had 9-trips to Peru, and every time I stop and talk to he Monkey Man (he was always there, I say was, because I stopped the other day, and 12-hours before that, he had died); as I referred to him, my wife calls him Don Cipriano, by his first name. He has more of a grin than a smile, or had. He was a small man; small boned, narrow looking eyes, and a white hat on usually, a blue suite coat, and somewhat polished shoes. Had three or four monkeys these pasts 59-years. He got his first monkey free, he once told me. He worked in the park system for some five years as a caretaker and when the first monkey man, retired, he gave him his monkey, then he bought a few years later a Music Box, Red and White. He never retired to my understanding, but took two weeks off a year to rest. Other than that he was in the park from 2:00 PM to 9:00 PM.
He was the last of his kind in Lima; you can find a few like him up in the Mantaro Valley region, in the small town-lets, and only a few. I expect they will be gone soon also. But for Lima, that spot he put his music box on, the one the monkey danced on, and the one that sat near Victor Anchayhua the Camera Man, with his 1820s or 40s Camera, who has been in the park some 45-years and stood about fifteen feet away from Don Cipriano is having a hard time with this, grieving, yes indeed, he will miss him dearly I would guess. He is busy now, answering everyone’s questions, “Where is the Money Man?” everyone wants to know, and so I suppose he can say (The Monkey Man where ever he is): I sure had a lot of friends!

Spanish Version

Versión en Español

23 de noviembre del 2006
[Elegía]
“Adiós Don Cipriano: El Organillero de Lima”

Don Cipriano Benites, aunque su apellido no es necesario, porque todos en Lima lo conocen, aunque pienso quizás más allá de Lima, él murió hace unos días, un día triste de verdad. Escribí un libro, llamado “The Mumbler”, y él fue uno de los personajes en éste. Un día yo le di el libro, y él estaba tan feliz. Incluso me senté y hablé con él durante una hora, preguntándole sobre su vida; él estuvo en uno de los periódicos de Nueva York una vez, él me dijo, y en otros periódicos, él estaba orgulloso de eso también.

De todos modos, estaba por decir, que además escribí un artículo y lo publiqué en una Revista de Internet llamada Ezinearticles.com, lo que a él le gustó también. Pero supongo que si no eres de Lima, Perú, tú estarás diciendo: quién es ese Organillero. Ah, déjame explicarte, él era el último de su clase. Cuando yo era niño en San Pablo, Minnesota, en 1953, entonces, habían hombres que tenían monos y cajas musicales, y si le dabas una moneda de un centavo o cinco centavos, el mono bailaría. Bien, Don Cipriano, era de aquella clase. Él murió a los setenta y seis años de edad, por 59 años él trabajó en el Parque Kennedy de Miraflores, en Lima, Perú, todos los días, incluso los domingos, como el Organillero con su Mono que entretenía al público. He viajado nueve veces a Perú, y cada vez me paraba y hablaba con el Organillero (él estaba siempre allí, digo estaba, porque el otro día que pasé por ahí, él no estaba, porque 12 horas antes él había muerto); como me refiero a él, mi esposa lo llamaba Don Cipriano, por su nombre de pila.

Él tiene una sonrisa abierta, o tenía. Él era un hombre bajo; de huesos pequeños, ojos de mirar estrechos, tenía un sombrero blanco siempre puesto por lo general, un terno azul, y zapatos lustrados. Él tuvo tres o cuatro monos en estos 59 años pasados. Él obtuvo su primer mono gratis, él me lo dijo una vez. Al comienzo él trabajó como jardinero en el parque durante aproximadamente cinco años y cuando el primer organillero se jubiló le dio su mono a Cipriano, entonces unos años más adelante él compró una Caja Musical, de color rojo y blanco. Él nunca se jubiló según tengo entendido, pero cada año se tomaba dos semanas de descanso. Los otros tiempos aparte de este él estaba en el parque desde las 2:00 de la tarde hasta las 9:00 de la noche.

Él era el último de su clase en Lima; tú puedes encontrar algunos como él en la región del Valle del Mantaro, en las ciudades pequeñas, y sólo unos cuantos. Pienso que ellos pronto se irán también. Pero para Lima, aquel punto en el que Don Cipriano ponía su caja musical donde el mono bailaba, aquel lugar en el que él se sentaba cerca a Víctor Anchayhua el Fotógrafo estará vacío. Víctor con su antigua cámara de los años 1820 o 1840, quien también está en el parque unos 45 años y ha estado aproximadamente a 3 metros de distancia de Don Cipriano, tiene un tiempo duro con esto, apenado, sí de verdad, él lo echará mucho de menos, yo creo.

Víctor, está ocupado ahora, contestando a las preguntas de todo el mundo, “¿Dónde está el Organillero y su Mono?” todos quieren saber, y entonces supongo que él puede decir: ¡el Organillero dondequiera que esté, estoy seguro que tiene muchos amigos!