Ballade of an Inca King

Ah! Leave the gold, wealth and land

Says the Inca King;
In Spain, they leave the bustling streets,
For sail to Peruvian shores;

The murmur of the gold is sweet,

It glows and glistens like the sun
A mountain of gold, or the grave
Awaits the human, Inca-god!

Spaniards sing their songs of victory

Where breaks the green Peruvian sea;
Who now, worships the Inca King (?)
Guarded behind prisons doors?

They chatter about his golden rings

They watch the winds cross the shores
They count the days that idle by,
For gold they worship and will die.

Envoy.

Another spring will never pass,

Swallowed up by death, and death
The Spanish voices combine:
Will kill the Inca-King in time;

Before the gold arrives I fear

It all will be hidden low, low
In the hollow of the earth, in the
Moonlit tunnels of Peru!

#731 6/13/2005

Just a Note: Ricardo Palma has been some of my inspiration to a high degree on the traditions of Peru; as I have tried to put some into poetic verse. The Inca in general has been an ongoing theme I seem to like within my Peruvian Poetry, and several characters surrounding them, and locations, such as the Andes, Cuzco, Huancayo, Lima: all in Peru of course; with such names as: Francisco Pizarro, and Bolivar, Atahualpa [Inca King; Titu-Atauchi, his brother. Dona Veronica Aristizabal.

Poet/Dennis Siluk
http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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The Rimac Rio (a poem)

I sometimes wonder, if you are for real (My River); I see you are worried and frightened. I am sure, neither one of us have anything to fear but the element of time: some call this death, death, death!

Yet you river, coy as you may seem, go on, and on, and on (strangely): seemingly, without change.

Ive noticed youve been suspicious of many things, especially me. In this respect, I have been watching thy.

I have been viewing the world, and everyones havoc and fainted smiles, on everyones lips.

Well, I said, they have over looked me; but I am nothing anybody would wish. This little game they and I, I and you play play, is almost laughable, as we both hide from the truth, or at least dare not acknowledge it.

I suppose, I suppose, I am glad I have nothing of value other than my life. And have you for my tranquility; yet, I have learned: no matter how often a mans soul is tranquil, Calm. serene: a culprit will be hiding in the valley thus, make no mistake; pride comes before destruction yet still, none will bow their knees it is the beast within thee !

I feel like a stranger in a world of strange beings, all of us thrown together in some kind of fading mystery.

The moment occupies but an once of timewe, we, we are are all preoccupied, obsessed with time time, time, a rivers rhyme; I see even the river bleeds helplessly, that is perhaps, a weakness it does not wish for me to see.

The river just gave me one of its

most terrible looks; it summons me, as if I was on its hook.

Undress and come in, it says; then, shut up, get dressed!

It is confused like so many of us; it is fabricating something.

I dont know what you are talking about, I say to the river.

Treason, it replies: barks back at me.

I have no idea what you are talking about,

I say, almost plead.

But the river does not bend, kneel for anybody.

I leap to my feet and the wave s of the river grab me seize me: several hands around me.

Take him underneath the water, drawn him, I hear the Rimac say, then comes the words: a spy, spy, spy..! but I think: I have nothing, nothing But my life!

I figured, this was the end to it all: Timeas I know it to be (and it soon will be). But I have learned you must trust somebody, its simply healthy; for the river, well, it will find somebody more suitable than I, I suppose; and in time, it will also die: why? The river can no longer tell the wolf from the sheep; it only sees mans greed.

Note: #923 11/12/2005 (written while in Lima, Peru; after visiting the Rimac River.)

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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Antidotes for an Alibi

Amy King's first full-length collection, Antidotes for an Alibi, insists that we examine the deceptive clarity of our actions and the goals that motivate us. How does one actually get from A to Band is there ever really a B? What color is the white space between A and B? Upon closer inspection, surface realities reveal themselves to be porous and fragile, layered with textures and grains that lead the eye on varying pathways. So what are we to do in a world of newspaper narratives that instruct us toward tidy endings, murmuring that such endings are possible and even inevitable?

These Poems greet us with leaKing giraffes, dogs that lick lye, the Lone Ranger, the inhabitants of Dishwater Island, an unmarried wife and a Sikh cab driver, all acting within a familiar environment of telephone messages, factory work, walks through woods, red robins and hummingbirds, war zones and American histories. Both the characters and their shifting frameworks combine and overlap to p oint out the strangeness we tend to overlook for clarity's sake. King wants us to reconsider the possibilities of current events, to see that Truth is no longer a series of fixed notations in black and white, but is a shape-shifting, multi-faceted chain of perspectives. Her Poetry celebrates the multiplicities that sing within the surface of every object and action; she aims at delectable surges, so that readers may touch and revel in the uncertainties of a complex world in motion.

I admire Amy Kings Poetry tremendously for the way it manipulates apparently plain language into thoughtful audacities. But her work is never in love with its own spiky cleverness. Quite the opposite: it is marked, even at its most pointed or witty, by an austere refusal to giggle at its own surprises. I first came to understand Kings Poetry, quite appropriately, by the accident of seeing what the British call English mosaic on a lamppost at the northeast corner of Eighth Street and Broadway in Manhattan. English mosaic is what happens when someone willfully creative takes pieces of porcelain, china, eArthenware ordinary, rare, or irreplaceable smashes them (that violence being essential to rebirth) and forces the pretty shards into new relations to one another. That lamppost seems the perfect tangible representation of Kings work, which takes up the tactile and moral world we perceive, holds it tenderly for a moment in a cherishing embrace the better to dash it against a hard surface and rearrange the new fragments in strange, indelible ways. Reading Kings Poems makes the eyes smArt in every sense of the phrase: readers are compelled to see as possible juxtapositions they never would have envisioned on their own. English mosaic also describes the cool fun King has with plain nickel Words, Artfully reshuffled. Hers is not a surrealists Art she does not embrace chaos but she does want to make readers feel that the comfortable rug and chairs they sit on have somehow grown ambulatory and are threatening to walk outside into the yard to sniff the air. Nothing is quite safe; nothing remains the same deliciously so.

Michael Steinman has written and edited six Books, including The Happiness of Getting It Down Right and The Element of Lavishness, which was selected as a NYT Notable Book in 2001.

Amy King grew up in Georgia and now spends much of her time in Brooklyn and Baltimore. She teaches English at Nassau Community College on Long Island, and her first collection, Antidotes for an Alibi, is available through Blazevox [Books.

Author:: Amy King
KeyWords:: Poetry, Books, Poems, Amy, King, Words, Art, Experimental
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Musings of A Lover

I am the sadness in the joy ...

I am the stranger's lonely glance ...

I am the undiscovered land ...

I am the single grain of sand ...

I am the world you will never see ...

I am the truth you will never know ...

I am the place you will never go ...

I am the sound you will never hear ...

I am the course you will never steer ...

I am the spirit in the sky ...

I am the twinkle in her eye ...

If these lines fail to express clearly the pain within, the sea of sentiments within, the hollow within, I know not what will. Sure, these are not my lines, these are the lyrics of Gin Soaked Boy from Divine Comedy, but they come agonizingly close to expressing my heart's deepest feelings ...

I am the sadness in the joy ...

I am happy ... yet I am sad ... in joy I am the sadness ... there is happiness, then there is sadness. Joy brings sadness, and sadness gives way to joy ...

I am the stranger's lonely gl ance ...

I am a stranger to everybody ... nobody really understands ... and the one who I feel understands is the one who plays a sweet game of hide and seek ... when she shows her care, I feel no one could care better; and sometimes the attitude is simply go to hell ...

I feel like a person glancing into emptiness ... not knowing what will happen, and what is right ... there are so many thoughts inside that I prefer to be silent, for want of proper words to express them ...

I am the undiscovered land ...

Nobody knows the real me ... I am undiscovered by anybody ... nobody knows what exactly I am, what exactly I feel, what exactly I want ...

One might say that what exactly I want I must tell, but I do not want to ... I want that special someone to feel what is inside ... if you want to argue that this is my fault, I admit; it is my fault ... that is just how I am, and I won't change ...

I want to be discovered, I want to let that someone i nto my territory I call my thoughts, my heart, my mind ...

I am the single grain of sand ...

Sand is united as well as disintegrated ... each grain looks and feels exactly the same, but is a unique entity ... and so am I ...

I am the grain of sand who is surrounded by other grains, yet am lonely ... yet am sad .. I am surrounded by people who profess they love me, that they care for me, that they understand me ... yet I feel they are lying. I feel that there is only one who does really understand me, who does really care for me, who does really love me ...

I am the world you will never see ...

I am a world in myself, as are you and as is everybody else. To unravel this world, to see this world, you must fully understand me, you must love me, you must hear my unspoken word ...

I am not open to everybody ... I do not let any and every one see this world within ... those in contact with me, my acquaintances, they may catch glimpses of this wo rld, but they can not see everything. They can not see THROUGH me...

There will be only one who I will allow to see THROUGH me, and who, without my consent, will possess the power to do so. That someone will be the only one for me... that someone will be the only one I will show my world inside ... the love ... the pain ... the joy ... the sorrows ...

I am the truth you will never know ...

Nobody in the world can say that he is always true to everybody. I wouldn't say that either. My public face is different from my private one. I may reveal parts of my true self to a select few, but only parts. The complete, full me is revealed only to one person. I am not going to reveal my true self to anybody other than that one person.

I am the place you will never go ...

We all like to travel. Colorful, vibrant, mesmerizing places interest us immensely. Nobody likes to visit a dull and drab place. A place which promises no adventure. A place which promises no thrill.

I am also one such place. I am a place you will not find joy unless you really know what joy is. Joy comes from understanding. Joy comes from loving. Joy comes from caring. Joy comes from sharing. If you did not understand the full purport of these sentences, you will not understand what real joy is.

Real joy stems from the heart. If you think being surrounded by people who apparently care for you, apparently, not really; is joy ... you are wrong.

So, I, and my heart, are not the places you might want to go ...

I am the sound you will never hear ...

I am a quiet person. I do not like to argue. I do not like to pick up fights. If you make me feel bad, I will not tell you that you made me feel bad. I will cry within, but I will not let you know that you made me feel bad.

If I let you know that you hurt me, you will feel bad yourself. I do not want you to feel bad, never!

You do not believe my word. It hurts me. But I will n ever tell you. I will feel bad, I will cry as to why this is the case, but I will not tell you. May be, just may be, by talking you would understand. And may be, if I tell you, you will feel bad. The chances of the latter happening are more, and I do not want you to feel bad, ever!

There always will be a few things I would like you to know on your own, and there will be a few things you would like me to know on my own. If we fail to understand those few things, let us together make each one of us understand, in order for our relationship to be complete.

I am the course you will never steer ...

Due to my being different from others, you will find navigating through me a bit difficult. You will have difficulties understanding me, and you will have problems knowing what I want.

So you might not want to know me. You might not want to come my way.

But let this not deter you. I want you to know me, I want you to understand me, I want you to have your say in my life, and I will help you in every possible way I can so you do not encounter any difficulties doing this.

I am the spirit in the sky ...

Vasudhaiva kutumbakam ... The world is my home. I am the spirit in the sky; I can rest anywhere I want, all world is my home.

I believe in nature. I believe I am free. I believe everybody is free. I can not force anybody to know me, understand me, love me. It has to come from within.

As it does in me. This also means that you can not stop me from loving you. You can not stop me from not marrying anyone else because I love you. You can not stop me from living alone in tribute to my love for you.

I pray. For myself, my family, the world. And I pray for you, your family. I believe what He does is right, whether we feel it otherwise. He knows better.

Do not think I will be alone. Your thoughts, your memories, shall forever be with me.

I am the twinkle in her eye ...

I wish to lead a fru itful life. I want to do something for my love. And I have some plans. I want to do something so that she will always remember me when I die.

I want to do something which would go on even after my death. My exact plans I can not reveal here; but I have a draft. I told you what I intend to do, did I not? But you do not believe.

I want to do something for her which will make her feel proud that she knew me... the way I am proud that I know her ... I want to do something which would tell her how much I love her ...

She does not believe my word, so I want to so something to prove my love for her ... for actions speak louder than words, and she has shown multiple times that she believes in this sentence.

I want to live as the twinkle in her eyes.

Once again, I want to say much more, but the thoughts are hazy ... will say more when I am more clear ...

Shubhanyu Jain is the co-founder of Inmistia and the Editor of Inmistia Oneness. His site provides valuable information and tips on health-related issues. This site touches various topics related to personal health, suggests tips for various health disorders. Visitors will revel in the sheer abundance of information available on the site on everything related to their health. Visit Inmistia Oneness for more information.

Author:: Shubhanyu Jain
Keywords:: Thrupthi, Shubhanyu, Inmistia, inditing experts, musings of a lover
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Commuting Hell!

Its dark, its cold, its just six thirty,

thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,

As I huddle down, inside my coat,

a Commuter clone, just waiting for a Train.

Insidious rain, just drizzling down,

through weak light of creeping dawn,

Paper sandwich bags and old coffee cups,

blowing past, look so forlorn.

We huddle together, like a colony of penguins,

sheltering from the rain,

As we struggle through, another stressful day,

wait for the downtown Train.

Alien voices, from hidden speakers,

say there is a change, go to platform four,

Some move fast, must be beginners,

veterans stay still, heard it all before.

Styrofoam flavoured coffee,

Giant cup for 10 cents saving!.

Smells like an accident, in a science lab,

But quells my caffeine craving.

Lurid posters, on the wall,

Sell things, we just dont need.

Early morning papers rustle,

As some attempt to read.

Alien voices, another problem,

With the downtown Train,

Can all Commuters, on platform four,

go back to platform one again !

Those that stayed, have a knowing smirk,

written wide upon their face.

While all the new boys, like compliant sheep,

Back across the station race.

In the distance, the lights of a Train,

Raise Commuters hopes so high.

But its just a local freight Train,

That mockingly thunders by.

But then at last, a Train pulls up,

And we fight to claim a seat.

Lay back relax, in steaming clothes,

Commuter hell, finally complete.

John Roberts is a Freelance Training Consultant in the UK and director of JayrConsulting Ltd.

http://www.jayrconsulting.co.uk

Author:: John Roberts
Keywords:: Train,Commute,Work,Subway,Commuter Train
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Reading Poetry

In Ancient Greece, the most important form of entertainment was provided by the bards. Bards, or poets, traveled from place to place reciting Poetry, often accompanied by a cithara or lyre. As time passed, Poetry took on a written form and orators fell by the wayside. This took hundreds of years to happen, but happen it did. Soon books of Poetry flourished and the educated could read at their leisure. However, Poetry was still written to be read aloud and still is today.

Most poets choose their words, Punctuation and Spacing of their Poetry for very specific reasons. Besides their meaning, the sounds of the words play an important roll in the poem. If the poem requires a faster pace, then shorter words with sharper sounds can be used. If the poem is meant to be softer, then longer words with more delicate sounds are used to portray the feeling of the poem.

Punctuation and word Spacing also aid in the recital of the poem. For example, a dash requires a longer pause than a comma and no Punctuation at the end of a line indicates a very short pause or sometimes none at all. Some poets, such as e.e. cummings used a variety of Spacing techniques to slow or quicken the pace of poems.

In Just- by e.e. cummings isn't a poem meant to be read silently. Of course, the first time you read any poem, you often do read it silently, to get a feel for it. Your next step, though, should be to read it aloud. Follow the Punctuation, whi te spaces, and indentations as you read. Use a natural, conversational voice and don't rush. You will notice in this poem that you can almost hear the long whistles of the balloonman in the beginning because of the white spaces in between far and wee. Then you quicken the pace as the children come running from their games since the names are mashed together. In the end the last far and wee is also at a quickened pace due to the lack of white space. This poem wouldn't be near as interesting or effective if it were written in basic stanzas with even Spacing.

So remember, as you write a poem, you are Writing something that is intended to be read aloud. Use all of the tools available to you to make your poem sound the way you, as the writer, have it in mind to sound. And, don't be afraid to experiment!< /p>

Terry J. Coyier is a 37-year-old college student studying for an Associates of Applied Sciences degree. She is also a freelance writer who writes about a variety of topics. She lives with her son in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex. Terry is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Writers and her personal portfolio can be viewed here.

Author:: Terry Coyier
Keywords:: Poetry,Reading,Writing,Punctuation,Spacing
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A Color Called Me

Into this world, as all men do.
Flesh and blood; just as you.
But, sometime came a darkened scheme;
it seeks to drain my every dream.

Misconceived by lies to you.
A shameful tale; misconstrued.
Distortions tell my evil kind.
Treasured hate in which to hide.

Is this what you see, that myth that you bring?
Ignorance plays the hate that you sing!
Ive sought, Ive thought, Ive tried, Ive cried,
Ive pushed, Ive shoved, and still you wont love!

What may it take? What must you know?
These elements of light have no place to go!
Youve thought and youve dealt me a horrible fame!
What rights do you have to bring shame to my name?

I want you to know, I want you to hear.
I love who I amI hope I am clear!
No matter what libel or slander you say.
No matter your deeds to claim your own way.

Ill never give up! Ill never refrain!
Ill seek out young minds; he lp them re-train!

I will not become what you say that you see.
I will not accept what you want me to be.
I am what I am, this beauty I see!
Im proud to declare this color called me.

L.J.Riley Jr. - Compassionpwr@juno.com

Author:: Laverne John Riley Jr.
Keywords:: article submission, Articles, Writers, Writing, Publishing, Ezine, Email marketing, Email newsletter, Email
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