Remember that, we are dust
Not arrogant like cold stone
Our revelations are social

And our conceits are for our blood
Heritage, prosperity and the like –
In dust, which suns have kissed

Unaware of reckless consequence
With floods to bury landscapes
And Golden Time to renew it all

Remember that, we are dust or dew
Not eternal devouring mind
But form, atoms, molecules

Grown up from crude designs
Remember that, we are fragments
Of a larger entity, collective, humanity

To think that we are separate
Has led to more than one ruined city.

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We lived with a wild patience
Long-dreamed involuntary listening
I have nothing but each other
To go on; nothing –

Relationship, the burning through
Of how yesterday connects today
It’s an integrity of our shared Soul
That allows me warmth

The coast to coast of my rites
Of inner prosperity, the fuel
That drives me into marriage’s stability
Spring’s calm of upper Broadway

We live with a leafbud embrace
We can look at each other though
Both our lifetimes until
The last drip of the dew cleans

Our lives, for the struggle
To attain a single drop
Of trembling water, the purity
Of a flung together in Chinese ink-scene.

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Since we aren’t young forever
We have weeks, instead of years
Our souls beat not for great emotions
But for time secured connection


Spring will wash our green-blue thirst
For years of missing each other
When we didn’t know the other existed

We are lugging our groceries home
Filed with bundles of hand-holding months
Drinking delicious coffee, with unopened mail
By our sides, we lift the new light

To our old wounds, with gratitude
Of an unexcavated divinity
We let it peel us with light from the inside


My small hands on your power-tooled body
Aware of our fragility, of how our moods
Hang on the soundless curl
Of the magnitude of our body-language

The little smiles that measure quality
And laughter that holds all the notes together.

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Poetry has been sufficient
To console all my senses
At the scenes of desolation of my life
Tragedies of intimacies rigged
The enormous continent of poverty


That I have witnessed, perhaps
Words gave me a signifying shelter
That I live with like a beautiful skin
I can’t control my appetite for language
It courses through me like a drug


Poetry has been sufficient
To give me strength in months of famine
When I have starved myself of
Social contact, I have been fed
By wrapped innocence of idealism


Coined in passages of stanzas
The fragrance joy of high wonders
Cast in the shadows of ominous alphabets
Poetry has been sufficient
Like two human figures recklessly


Exposed, the vitamins of creation
Poetry has been my escape into hunger
A kind of permanent hunger for
A better world, expressed in dream-lyrics
A loving sanctuary of the canvas of gold

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When night comes back
Back in black with her Royal dreams
Death with lift us all apart
Though aging does that just fine
Our wings of where we
Once flew, the sunlit open skies
And when red breaks out

Blood-dropped Sunsets spill
Across the ancient Lullaby
Of the setting West alongside
All that we once held dear
That nightlong spin on Time
Peels the stars from our rooftops
A canopy of light-hunted mistresses
All screaming the same name, LIFE.

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The Festival has a unique theme this time, poems about poetry, do you have any to offer up?

It’s one of the most decorated topics so if you are up to the challenge:


Theme is Metapoetry.



Silence has stripped me bare
An influenza of silver nothing
Stretched like a skin

Over meaning, Bud of transparency
Music clouds the inner listening
Philosophy, a simple play on duality

Silence, is my legitimate voice
Nearly impossible to put
Into words, the feeling of transcendence

Absence of self, how do I exist?
After questions, I will not
Let answers influence me

I become pure neutrality
I would love to cease to hear
My own thoughts, then I might

Finally clarify us together
In a stare, as wide as our unity
Where poetry could say
As much as the quiet night.

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We learned how to live from:
Our inner being, the writer that awoke
It wasn’t transformation or escape
It was nurture-nature in her infancy

Our brain listening to our soul’s
Weary shreds of music, poised holograms of
Roses left hung in mid-air
Our words shimmered there like magic

In a corner of the night, it was there –
We taught ourselves what we most
Loved, it wasn’t knowledge, but art
The appreciation of mortality

From the background murmuring
Of the strangest physics, indolent lines
Of our youth while the water was running
A criminal joy of clarifying grammer

The mutable starts fixing their gaze on us
For a brief instant of prophecy and poetry
We learned how to live from it:
The beaded threads of fierce lines

That died for beauty, and loved the frailest
Etching of invisible messages
We married our mothertongues
In deft strokes of secret litanies
The conception, of whatever a poet is.


Raw with feeling of the unearthly beautiful
I watched tomorrow move towards me
A sentimentalism of verbs with a life

Of their own, making their way
Through mysteries floating across
Distances, raw with another country

Inside of me, I stood with certain open letters
Forwarding the bitter origins
Of nostalgia for ordinary streets

Those that are no more streets to walk
That feel like home, and stressing the importance
Of identity, wonderful and bright –

Raw with feeling of the bell-struck air
I felt like a Tourist on my home-planet
When did I lose you? Whose have you become?

Children I never had, wife I never met
Friends that couldn’t find their way
To the destined meeting place.



There are no ballads, crown-nests, no Songs!
That can relate living Experience
But the dreamers attempt the impossible
The translation being their variety
Of experience, the music goes on

Dying by the movement of our
Glossy selves, impermanent transactions
The drift of what we considered
So pragmatic, so terribly necessary
Years later appears as foolishly stubborn

There will be no great feasts at the
End of this, only nature and time
And other transparent necessities
The leafless hours and departed ships
Are no more, all that we know intimately
Will become extinct, such is the exqusiite
Depth of belonging, and not belonging.



I’d like to make Amends with the Night
Who sheltered me with my tears
Laying my cheek I held her alone

In Moonlight’s picking at small stones
I was there, with sand-and-gravel hope
To find the civilization of tomorrow

Past the smallness of our fate
I’d like to make Amends
With the Day, strong and tender

Were our flowing days, our
Mornings with our hunger for clarity
Our marigold youth of never-ending longing

Nothing is finally necessary
In how the cities we live in are occupied
In how our beds are unoccupied

We have to touch life through our ribs
And hear the beating of our hearts in what we do….



I’ve felt the echoes of words
In the deepest part of my Psyche
Years later they surfaced

Echoes traveling like the
Sap of dead poets, I knew them all
The greens of language

Bitten through to the stars
To the core of semantics
Rejoincing in phrasing

Colorful floods of syntax
I’ve felt the striving of words
Not for expression but for symbolism

The metaphors that fly
To open the heart with mirrors
An association of unity
That travels, and never rests.



We nudged literature until she
Fell like a picked mushroom from her spot
We sought an old revolution that needed

To feel reborn for us to write our greatest work!
This wasn’t a Sanskrit hymn
Or a Russian poem or a Mandarin glyph

This was our life unmarked in neon, black and white
And I won’t tell you where it is
In the pocket of necessary madness

We talked about trees and the sense
That we were meeting in an abandoned
And persecuted tea-house, that existed

Across centuries, the place where
Hieroglyphics and calligraphy reappeared
In a cross-cultural hodge-podge of our form.




In the freezing nightgown of Meaning
Poetry is a torn Rapture
Chronicles of departing youth
Would it gladden you to think


The dripping names to purify
With a few hundred goodbyes
Life after youth is Peace
On a fabric of loving repetition


Writing is the changing of swans overheard
The voice in the silence that glows
The letter to another young Poet
The alphabets that want


A vividness to distract
A laboratory of delicate Escape
Metaphors without movement
Inner time without false actors


Poetry is clearly pronouncing your
Spirit, for a moment with Everyone
As if I wanted to be a last star
There not so alone between the light.



Close the door, said the whisper
To the shade, twilight is coming
Night will be here soon:

Assault of the slant of darkness
Ready to bring today to her death
On the altar of transitions
Like the Breath of the Earth

Through hours of fractured darkness
Where we are together or alone
In the room behind the curtains

Where shivering we arrive
Too frail to drive out the dark
With moths at the edge of light
And cobwebs moulding our invisibility

Our isolation of uneasily explored
Dark minutes, that’s where depression lived
In winters of the longest nights.



Silence has no plan, it is attentively
Not rigorously executed
It is the presence between history
And the future, the listening
Without any formal absence
Only, the part of not giving in
To the impulse of the moment
Silence can bridge offensive acts
Time the breaker of bad-will
Silence is neutral, transparent, unrelenting
In her execution of healing
Her willingness to give up
The inadequacy of words, analysis, division
We all begin and end in silence.



A sentence begins with a lie
The common language already
Filled with duality, an imperfect means
Of understanding, semi-true literacy
Of our unity, the loneliness of
The liar endures, like false-love

A poem can be torn up
Never read again, but
The innovocation has already been set
Words of anger, cannot be taken back
Words, infiltrate our blood
With cortisol and neurochemicals

A sentence begins with a pause
For the heart’s twisting dials
There is no technology of silence
Only rituals of communication
Etiquette of what was not said –
The blurring terms of our inadequacy

At connecting, our inability to hear
Words in the music of our faces
The blueprint lost of our authentic sameness.




Here is a map of our country
Our souls glazed in books, language, ideas
This is the birthplace of our truth
In the aristocracy of craft


In the feudalism of art
We are like painters on caves
Loving our canvas, more than our body
Here is the map of our journey


I drive inland over poetic roads
Every person is a character of my muse
For life and death, is finally the same
We dare not taste its water


The battlefield is a myth, there is no
Right or wrong, only neutrality, nature
Creation, we became poets
To find our way back to the light


We wrote of the promise
Of a thousand pregnant suns.



I know you are reading this poem
Toward a new kind of love
That filled you last night from somewhere
You cannot name, it’s source

The latitude of rush-hours where
Revelation comes, who knows why
The bedclothes of our last
Tattered garments of faith

Towards a new kind of breath
Your life has never allowed
That speaks of volumes of flight
Before the alphabet of precious

Dedication of some philosophical flowering
The enormous sense of being more
Than what our lives seems, as pure
As early spring days covered in doubt

A good kind of anticipation for
Beauty, health, renewal, the touch
And the thirst to live, like reading
A poem silently in our open minds.



I remember landscapes of vanished whims
Dreamy artifices of twisted Bronze
Wishes of creamy abandoned doves
Balconies of stone sculptures

I remember gardens of younger games
Flowers where I left half my heart
Evenings that celebrated the Sun’s wild embrace
From dawn to dusk with cinnamon-trails

I remember drifting catalogs of candles
For festivals I can no longer name
I remember sins for which they
Cast out angels, fallen to be sure –

Stern to forgive warriors, only doing
What they were told, I remember
Sweet and outrageous ideals, ideas, proclamations
All to afford the luxury of a better future

I remember friends with tongues of gold
Whose sophistry was altogether too charming
And how those gilded trees melted into
The green and white perfection of Spring.




But now it is us who pauses
The author reading for writing a story
The language that reverses us
To a most primitive lucky passenger

A witness where the light breaks
Into a reverence for literature
The spoken, written, mutable word
All symbols that connect the dots


The dots that were stars, people, children
Young as life seems to new eyes
Full of liquid cherished wonder
I remember the dazed starling

Of the joy of writing, reading became
A brilliant daring of how I sought
To imitate a world that had come and gone
And to give new meaning to old words


And to combine Sanskrit and mandarin
Ideas into contemporary English
But now it is us who pauses
And I dream fluently

And I give in to the neurological pangs
Of melting into the created word
The unity sentences of all belonging
To the same story, of the same source.



Let your burdens, and our blind mischances
Rest, this is the luckiest to know
That we are not unique, the kindest truth
And that our souls may freely come and go

We must at least renounce breath
And the musky annointment of tired lungs
The certain tang in an off-beaten heart
The weary weight of years in bones

It is not for us to say, what were the fruit
Of blooming wisdom or peace that stepping back
To loving simplicity, the omens of
What comes next, that we have not always

The time to say goodbye, because we live
By instinct, and follow particular bearings
From the source, no backward glances then
No ceremony, for irregular events that fit together

In the story of our time, whose full dimensions
Remain unknown, or without prescident.



On the Egyptian papyrus
I read the star-chart of the future
There are no credits in fate

No discretion in life-experience
As if life were a mere accident
In some ghost-continuum of

Many possible futures, variables
Of natural algorithms of what
Was meant to be, after all –

Beneath Spring light as lovely
As candles in the Earth’s own womb
I felt the racing of embryos

Life, love and the plummet of years
Priceless as the attendants of lost hours
I sought to unloose the perfect

Formula of being, but there was none
No happiness that led to lasting joy
Except for the strange spiritual instinct.

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The Soul selects her own Society
A county of Faith, path to Ideas
And Friends that point to her

Divine majority, that include
The chief work of our Fate, if any:
The unmoved low gate-river

Of how we made the World
A better more beautiful place
Life’s opportunities do not always

Escape the circumference of our birth
But sometimes an alien Will
Gives our spirit ideal conditions

To do what we were meant to do
Our bit of Bliss before we forget the light
Those dawns and sunsets that

Stamped our brow, the soul meanwhile
Lives on, in the sweet curve of years
And desires wonderfully renounced!



The Prologues are over, they are done
The questioning is a fiction of not accepting
A Life we are given, choices in a fiction
An ultimate Elegance in an imaged land

Surreal are the chapters that made up
Our stages of experience, our stories
Of belief, we were islands of voices
Each playing out our internal narrative

From the inside-out, like a diamond pattern
Of the algorithms of fate, it wasn’t a rumor
It was the feeling of being burried in Jasmine flowers
The weight of walking over newly fallen snow

We lived without external reference
Hoping to reinvent ourselves in some design
But the Sea is so many written words
With vowels that all sound the same

Made of white foam and water molecules
With a rosy-golden rain of the same waves of Light.



Death is the pure potential
Of a life to be more, to go Beyond
Anyone, still we meet God

Though if God be but not Immortal
But a cultural refuge, this must be
An instrument for our Creation

The longest enduring Friend
To hope, with faith, for a Future
That might evolve from our Pursuit

Itself, everyone, to be dissolved in God
The Galaxy that remembers
Ancients, inheritance, ancestors extinct –

Death is the pure potential
Glowing in the metaphors that endure
And Everything that happens
Should be perceived as a Miracle.



Berries are sure to redden on
The body of whiteness, entry of Spring
White shadows will collide
Drunk with the juice of Moonlight

Life will explode from the bony Mother
Earth will weep rivers, fountains, lakes
Birds will build fortresses
Time will drag a harmony of balanced ruling

Promising a silence as deep as the source
Buds will drift up the Great goddess stems
Flowers will steer countries to sunsets
Blue water-mists will flash by naked

Startling fishermen, colors will
Taint the margins of everything old
Owls give way to Peacocks
Midnights to quivering fields

Berries are sure to redden
On the fertile mounts of Spring.



Low tide, flat water, sultry sun,
How I wish I could adore
Human beings, as I do the Earth

In her millimeter’s measures
The grasp of days on wings of transparency
The dauntless leaping of the

Holy day to sunshine’s earlobes
Neat night, tucked ocean, blinding ray
Of morning upon my cheeks

How I wish I could find the truth
Of our species, in these yellow afternoons
Arormed with bronze, against our folly

But the love given to us by the Earth
It’s not an end, it’s just a beginning
Silence wraps silence, and answers
Run mute to a future that is divergent.

Birds of Earth


I listened to the birds
And they spoke to me with counting breaths
With a beat of wings and color’s snare

I felt them disband
Into the caravan of night
I was a part of this
And they, were a part of me

Morning of the birds
And a county of the Spring
Their songs still sing in me

Like ancient figures of speech
Feathers of Earth, dream of eyes
Everything in history is part of us.



Those who have been without the longest
Thou who have Craved the Most!
Those that know their lives begin Today

Equally to perish in the wishes
Of the present’s Practice
Death to ourselves is a White Exploit

That even Cherished Goals fade
The annuls of the years transform
With symbols of fixed Delight

Retrospection, doubt, anticipation
Those who once knew Themselves
Must start again, as Achieving
Is a Latitude, with no Umpire Sovereign.



I was burned in the Night
Awoke to my own blister of Dream
Awaiting Dawn, I heard the voice
With every Morning’s Beam

I felt the lids of Memory break
Like an open Seal of all that
Can ever be Experienced
My Sense featured only Beloved images

Which I saw to my surprise everywhere
I was created Mystical in the Night
Distilled from Sunday Twilights
I Harvested from every Sun

A bit of madness in the Source
That was a Love no mind or soul
Might Contain, only envelope
For a very short interval.