C a n P o e t r y M a t t e r?


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There is a proliferation of new poetry
You won’t see it called poetry
It will be called sunrise
Like an anthology of all the sunrises

And it will have ingredients of
Dawns and sunsets and won’t care
Who is the poet laureate in that state

It won’t wake up to be famous
It will be just, words on public loan
For a species going extinct

The will be in denial that
Their world is going extinct
Just as poets are in denial true poetry

Is dying or has died, and nobody will know it
But the hearts will only echo it
And closed groups will try to invent it again

There is a frantic literary ambition
In writers, for they know they
Don’t have many decades in which to make it

Poets like to dream their work
May be discovered posthumously
But the problem with that is
There are too many good writers

And nobody might be around in two hundred years
To discover it, and it goes on
Poetry will be published in the
Hearts of youth, by unknown authors

And we won’t call it poetry
It will just be something that reincarnated
In them, something we inherited
Something in the brain

We didn’t’ have to take credits for it
In some undergraduate program
It will just be innate like speaking
And describing, what really matters.

Further reading:

http://www.theatlantic.com/past/docs/unbound/poetry/gioia/gioia.htm

Like Voltaire in a Frenzy 


17

Like Voltaire in a Frenzy

I am in exile from prosperity
I study the downtrodden
Minorities, elderly, disabled, the poor
I’ve become one of them to

Realize what it means to be human
Perfectly happy in struggle and stress
I wonder why this is, for poetry
And prayer, and meditation

It’s the gardening of the spirit
In this culture of materialism
Sometimes to live you need friends
Partners, lovers, inspiration

Cajoling life from festivity
Scolding life from monotony
Screaming life from anonymous cities
Cleverly hoping to civilize

I am in exile from justice
I face discrimination, I would know what it means!
I eat poisonous GMO food
I am becoming obese and with diabetes

I hold religion up as an icon of identity
But I believe in the human spirit
In how to overcome adversity
I’ve met my match in this generation

Too poor to be a father, too poor
To know how to be patient like a peasant
I become my own revolution
And find in society a kind of apathy

That the uncomplaining stars understand
But in my lucid song, I do not
I suffering a martyr and I doubt
The world is a kind or good place.

We A r e What we R e a d 


15

We A r e What we R e a d

To some of us, failed writers
Poetry is the human heart beat of language
Something that vaguely “saved us”
At some point in our destiny

When we maybe had nowhere to turn
No one to see us through our ordeals
Poetry began the telling of all tales
It lived and breathed our history

It immortalized our most grandiose love-affairs
And insulated us from our tragedy
To some of us, word lovers
Poetry is the human heart

On a tree of life where each voice
Is a sacred leaf, each a note
In the immortal prayer of poetry
Back to the nature of language

Odes to evolution, mirrors of our neural states
There is a discourse in the wane of beauty
And when art dies, we lose a bit of our human spirit
And the memory of renaissance

And the reincarnation of golden ages
It’s a failure of society of literacy
That goes from books to computers to cell phones
Not really a cultural apocalypse

But a monopolization of the channels of content
The incorporation & assimilation of our attention
But who I am to say if we are literate
I don’t have time to read seriously
Only enough time to write moderately.

Some things poets seem to have forgotten 


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Some things poets seem to have forgotten

My Grandmother turned me on
Poetry and philosophy
She used to collect clippings
Of poems from the local newspaper

I read Tennyson, Yeats, Blake
In her book collection
She read those poems often
The pages were old and bent

Years later, I would write
My philosophy in poems
With my own clippings
Of Taoism, Buddhism, Sufism

And transhumanism, but I knew
By the time the singularity reached us
Poetry might have gone extinct
The poetry of the high-bow

Is now so inaccessible, without
Seemingly, any deeper meaning
The trend to write dead things
That passes as coldly as a poor display

Perhaps the future of poetry
Lies in the fringe verse
Of the downtrodden and in the
Privileged academic babble

Of poets who make art without
A true connection to the zeitgeist
I don’t need a Masters in Fine Arts
In poetry or creative writing

To feel entitled, but women like my grandmother
Will die out, millennials are making
Other choices, they don’t need to
Be starving artists to get that poetry is dead

And even the idea of becoming a writer
I once had a roommate who became
A famous journalist, maybe he
Knew something then that I only realize now.

Preface to Old Age 


14

Preface to Old Age

In passing a stranger
On the first summery day of spring
It struck me like true lines

It’s not happiness that makes
Us grateful, it’s gratitude that
Makes us happy, so I opened up

To the silence who had accompanied me
Since it was determined
The location of paradise was internal to me
So, acting on the anonymous tip
That love can be found inside

I decided to take a vacation
In the pursuit of my soul
To find an ethereal sense of hospitality
For living in my own skin
I learned that I’d have to work hard

As hard as any job to calm the ache
And as I count the stars before bed
I’ve come to realize

The celebration of life is all of it
Stars that disappear, people that leaves
Their bodies for other bodies, all of it.

It Fled from A l l M y E c s t a s y


New stars shed light on the past

It Fled from A l l M y E c s t a s y

Whoever has found himself, his soul
Must only seek obedience of divinity
What is divinity but the most natural
A longevity of following inner-beauty

Fading morning star to light of dawn
He who praises must become
Cup of gratitude, and luck of empathy
Found on the journey is the

Secret of compassion
Until we stop being so religious
And stop being so materialistic
Only then can we find the thread

The river of divine happiness
And peace like silence that hums
Tender offing of the soul’s common speech
In prayer, meditation, poetry, art

The ecstasy that the white birds bring
The heart behind the veil
This is what the angels weep
To unfurl its thousand saying voices
The arms of divine beauty are supremely glad.Screen Shot 05-03-15 at 09.44 AM