Words, towards a poem
I have profited from them, quarter-hour wrenched
From these hands, survivors of poverty
Enter and exit, hope
On the corridors of Earth
From the charred tree of language
From noplace to now-here
Lost, between the good mornings and goodnights
Words, as an umbilical cord with faith
They are all made-up, I know it
Bibles, sutras, mantras, poems and history
Faceless divinities, abstractions
In the mineral belly of imaginations
The Modern poet must dare futility
To find a way out: the poem
To speak for the sake of speaking
In tongues desperate and incredulous
Hours of the somersault, myth, savior
So I spill these phrases, syllables, stars
That turn to a fixed center on paper, screen, eyes
Indelible letters that no one can dictate
Until I ignite and burn this dreamy gold to nothing
This is how poetry exists, how love exists.


    • Thanks, it’s a passion floundering in futility as it happens. All my life, those in my intimate circle have barely understood my quest to be a writer, nevermind a poet. I’ve lost girlfriends over it being unrealistic. Likely lost grades due to it. But art is its own reward. Despite all struggles, I do believe in doing what we intrinsically are most drawn to doing.

  1. Wuji, you touch the heart of the poet with no regard for level of talent or capacity; simply the passion. Thank you for sharing!

    • We are all living the writer’s dream WD, thanks for your comment.

      I do tend to encourage young writers and I’m finding, most of them do have talent. In the sense that art evolves with exposure to more art. New generations push the evolution of culture our self-aware decades could not fathom.

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