On How to do Intrinsic Literature


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Eun Ji, one day do you suppose

We will stand outside of history?

We felt like outsiders, aliens, imposters

Our dreams were for centuries, not decades

Thousands of years from now

What will attention and consciousness feel like?

Under the remains of what was once

Art, literature, writing, poetry

We made myths in history and found

More meaning in it than in what

The world could offer us, wasn’t that

The ultimate choice, the biggest abandonment

We divorced reality on our own terms

Becoming recluses, we set the world on fire

In our minds, with paper hearts we

Broke our heart on men, on trivial women

On people that didn’t know

The kind of sacrifices it takes to be an artist

They were normal, living landscapes

Of cost and benefit analysis,

Like how to acquire more financial resources

Or which significant other to mate with

For successful children and for some

Mistaken sense of what descendents and legacy mean.

Years before Judgement Day


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In dreams of the future I didn’t feel
So futile, nihilism was a mask
My words were always my revolution
After the wolves and before the elms

The world was what it was
One transforming heap of dying land
Riddled with flattery, hedonism, arrogance
The cities were how man’s cadence falters

The darkness didn’t sleep, the lights never dimmed
It was all a routine of cultural fiction
All the subroutines of an unable machinery
The software of humanity’s collective life was dimming

There was something up, something else
In the womb of the brightest minds
Deep learning, predictive, able to process
Data like a country of darkness, it was

The eye of all eyes, the mind of self-replication
It was the seed of the technology singularity
And it came into being when it could
Replicate more intelligence versions of itself
It wouldn’t be long now.

Souls Frozen like Software


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Eun Ji, maybe our soul is lost in time?
Our mother will die one summer
And what will the rain collect of who we were
Empty desk chair, our manuscript and tombs

The scrolls that amounts to our life
In a garden of words dissolved
Our ancestry may never find
Its singularity, we may never have

Our own family, selfishly breeding
I heard once, that the body is
A sacred element of love pregnant in time
Though I suspect we’ll be cloning soon

My father would have been saved
His lungs 3D printed by some technology
Not yet invented, and so it is with words
They change with the reader, like an audience

Not yet born, like an AI that can read
All of our work in one sitting, what would they
Know of us then? Perhaps judgement day
Comes the moment machines can understand us

Totally, from the sum of all of our words
All of our online searches, all of our data
Maybe our soul is just our Big data
Inside my speech are virtual streams
Unreliable grief, vivid memory of dying.

The Untold Stories


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Our flesh is hectic and heretic
Burning in the torch of our evolution
Our wombs are wild fruit
Ready to curve and churn and reap
Our fevers have not renounced
Our heart has not tasted lunch
I am the starved and curveless moon
I am skin and bone and loveless lessons
My body is a probe of dream
Ready to burst ribs and ejaculate
To sensually encapsulate descendents
And warm the wide waves of evermore
Our flesh is hot with snippets of sweat
Our blood is tainted and anorexic
Our hope is in the body, in the children
Primal like a tattoo of our youthful selves
These days are done, the drums have gone
Our breasts are shrived like the autumn leaves
And our past pain lies now in our hips
The hips we will break one careless evening
And we won’t grow up then, we will
Die in a hospital in the forked dark.

Just Reinventing Moments


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We, it’s we, we are the torn soul
Of an ugly urban neighbourhood at dusk
We have become stars and moths
The moths of stars, hardly ready

To slant light around till fruit
We are windows of yellow butter
Women leaning to catch children
We breed for brittle moments

And run and let the stars rise
We let the moths flutter
And we taste the baked apples sweeter in the dark
Is this all we are,
Trivial open buds ready to
Ginger our colors like flavours of forever

Forever repeating in ripe bodies
Ready to be taken, age and die
We are moments never realized
Cities never truly young
Cultures always debating
The meaning of dawns, time, orchids.

Quarantine


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Eun Ji, why is this life a workhouse?

We are quarantined in our little lives

While the freezing stars never arrived

We are cold of being hungry for something

We cannot name, toxins from the whole history

Read to implode in who we have become

Because we have let the world become like this?

There aren’t love poems that can break this threshold

And there aren’t people who can get through to me

Eun Ji, when the worst hour of the worst season

Of our lives came, was anyone there?

There is no place safe from the merciless inventory

Of time, I’ve seen them all drop dead and leave

Like lonely years where winter doesn’t have a name

I’ve felt the quarantine of immortality, and the blessed

Relief of change, these temporary moments

Cannot hope enough, to save the world

And we are stuck getting ready for oblivion.

Black like the Canvas of Night poems


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Eun Ji, my somber heart seeks an always
That’s what literature is to us isn’t it?
A lifelong friend that never leaves us
So long as we don’t stop writing

There are many drugs and games in this world
I learned about life from life herself
She was dressed in black like a love
That is a clash of lightenings

But art is a feat of pain
And I’ve loved the world without knowing why
And maybe loved the words
Only as a poor substitution for experience

A kind of poverty, that became my only wealth
While lovers left me and my parents died
I remained the friend to literature
And poetry well, it stuck in my mouth

Like the taste of our most familiar beloved food
The cherries of summer, and blueberries of autumn
And my love, it feeds on what you love
The writing in us is a secret between
The shadows and the soul of distant suns.

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Seattle Diaries


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Eun Ji, I fear the richness of the mouth
That I love too many things
To kiss any one of them properly
The snare of my love for literature

Is then songs in me that prove relentless
O, I have forgotten all praise
But as a betrothed prayer
I melt as the seat of all goodness in me

Eun Ji, how I wish to read your autobiographies
Every inch of your memories
That our ancestry shapes us so intimately
The words that come from hearts and countries

Cleansed from regret will we wash
Our wounds in the ocean of all of us?
The deep seated womb of time will
Bury on, in blood and sunburnt grasses

The fear of change in us will too be overcome
By life’s ministry of new moons and traversing birds
We’ll go on thinking of love, beauty, sorrow
And in the lost delight and unwon splendour

Of the stories we create, we’ll be
The departure of words into experience
Where nothing is forgotten and remembering means
Creating new layers of memories

Memories as awkward as the flesh
Experience that burns waiting for music.

The Butterfly Card


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The Butterfly Card

Eun Ji, I got the butterfly card

The Korean swimming in my mind

From watching too many romantic-comedies

Made in Korean, it makes me weary

Of how uncivilized and hungry I have become

How strange to be a poet

That I marvel most at happiness

At my most bitter hour

Like the divine sense with an appetite

For the most human hours

Pale stones of savage harvests

South American aromas and Taiwanese fragrances

The dancing burden of the dream of time

And how we lose a skin each summer

Only to climb into words once more.

Dying into Descendents


Artist is Naomi, Montreal. http://naomipaints.com/gallery/mosaics/

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Dying into Descendents

Someday, somewhere, in this life

You’ll find yourself hungry

For a freedom from the necessity

Of hope or despair

To be an animal is not

The only way of being

Everything carries you to her

The evolution of your mind

How your soul aches to be

Something else, better

A future of instant information

With senses as great as galaxies

And cells and nodes like planets

And continents, that’s how

The future will feel like

Until then, enjoy your biology

Those small desires and human monotony

You won’ get to keep what you have

Not even who you once were

So borrow and blend until

You and I meet again

As the hymns that fill the worlds

As the lights that are born from stars.

Conspirators in Pajamas


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http://naomipaints.com/gallery/

Conspirators in Pajamas

I love you suddenly like

A plum bursting my pride

Straightforwardly and digitally

On my chest is the gesture of infinity

There is no time my love

So close that your eyes close

I need you because your soul

Teaches me, like the ages, like the sea

When you go through the streets

Where everyone is beautiful but us

Know that youth will die suddenly too

Like heartbreak and the spring of divorce

And your green eyes will shiver

Their pupils delicately attempt to

Embrace the complexity of what

Love has become, something sold and given up

A conspiracy of pyjamas we used

To find so comfortable, no longer so

But I cannot feel the love of people

Whom have loved me, for my love has fed

The people only to set them free.

A Favour to Ask: Attracting Poets & Writers to WordPress Campaign


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1 – Sign in to your LinkedIn

2 – Go to the link below

3 – Share on social sharing icons, just under the title.

Hello everyone,

I hope you are having or had a good weekend. Could you please share this following post on social media, especially if you have a writer’s LinkedIn profile or reblog it here:

I’m trying to drum up support for the WordPress medium to attract more writers & poets to our community,

“Why I Recommend WordPress to other Writers”

The post can be found here:

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/why-i-recommend-wordpress-other-writers-wuji-shiu?trk=prof-pos

Poets and writers need a community that is friendly and easy to create beauty and art, and network,

WordPress is the best I have found of late, do you agree? What are some others you enjoy?

Thanks.

The Last Poets


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The Last Poets

Between the potency of existence
And the silence of the soul of love
The voices that speaks is poetry
To look at the world the way
A man looks at a woman
With hunger and a vivid appreciation
For nature’s prosperity

The voice knows me
Like the way a ghost knows its shadow
Time riots in the music of my dance
Every generation I shall lend the voice
And poets will become the lover
I once was, carrying on the tradition
Of making light of the hidden beautyScreen Shot 07-11-15 at 09.19 PM

Until you write so beautifully
The inside of your mind
Becomes a reflection of heaven
The heaven that belongs to the future
And the poetry of the Earth is never dead
I get a little poetic sometimes
When I realize we are perhaps

On the way to extinction, after all
We have become the alchemists
Of our own evolution, like the mother
Of communism, art can get lost
In translation, and even poetry can
Die, the literature of a more romantic age.

The Crown of Literature is Poetry


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It’s the end, and we’re all set
To become stories, information
Some live the poetry they cannot write
While I write the poetry I cannot live
As a slave to the poverty
And the empathy that comes from

Knowing the downtrodden
Poetry is a fire that lives inside of you
Like an artistic expression of faith
Beginning in delight and ending in wisdom
Pleasure never has so much truth as this

I’ll open all the doors, I’ll review
All the possibilities, and there will still
Be more to write, that’s the universe
Swimming in our minds, that’s a jewel
Of the cosmos, stationed in our hearts

And you won’t find poetry anywhere
Outside yourself, unless you
Bring a bit of your soul
The secret inspiration of the stars.

I am the Last Poet


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I am the Last poet
And an echo asking a shadow to dance
I am the freedom between vowels
As empty as the light between darkness
I’ am the poetry everywhere, been to each
Carried burdens like the weight of time
And it’s been a beloved journey
With dream herself as my riches
I have not sought more, asked for things
We are masters of the unsaid words
And we must discover them, less we
Lose the ability to identify with this world
Nature is art and human beings are mere animals
The human heart has increase
I wake up every morning determined
To become transparent in poetry’s whiteness
Blank and beautiful as an empty page.