Sound of the Future Poetry

  To the sound of words I pay homage They could be anybody’s I acknowledge language pierces through me A composite nature of neuron hungry For a world that is describable to sense Not native to noble origin, but Managing …

Proud Artists Breed Poetry for Themselves

I will continue to work
In silence and obscurity
Loving what I do more than anyone
In this tiny world full of profiteers
I won’t profit from my art

It will rest like a blanket of
My most intimate identity
I have not a broken heart for myself
But a broken heart for this young world
That cannot seem to find its soul

Any relic of the dead is precious
And as such, the spirit of poetry
Lives on in me, like a light

That burns with the measures
Of all human words and love stories
For finally, it’s relationships
Which define and frame

Whatever uniqueness we most cherish
Comes from the dreams
I’ve had for my entire life
Though my ideas and the people
That surround me may have changed

Time and space conspire for my destiny
That my greatest love has always been
The quiet tranquility of sitting in a room
Bathed in the upstart unlimited imagination
Of the muse that can set you free.

The Talent for Lying

To be truly curious
It will take all of your heart
To listen to people and to question things
There is nothing revolutionary

Whatsoever about it
It’s the natural state of being human
You must write, read and live
As if you knew nothing

That you might explore
Every point of view
Every frame of reference
As valid, every formulas as good

Until there are no more words
And no more self in what
You have found, then tell yourself
The meaning of life

Lying is done with words
And also in silence
The world lies to itself everyday
To perpetuate ignorance

So that some might profit over the many
Poetry is a concentration on
The ultimate relationship
Of everything in the universe

With itself, the self that is only a half-truth
It’s the connections that are beautiful.

Like Golden Things

Eun Ji, will love truly heal
What language fails to know
I’ve been searching my love of words

For what seems all eternity
But if I defer the grief, will I then
Diminish the gift

All this sacrifice, all this emotion
We sift our old anomalies looking
For something new, but I think divinity

Comes less from effort, more from surrender
I want to burn in gratitude
Until my very idea of self is annihilated
Because for me, that’s the only way
To truly be, Eun Ji, can we be then

More than simply a child of time?
That our fluid love might be
More than a lost sonnet, more than

A speck of the human spirit
I miss our old city, where we spoke
Intimately in the great assembly of youth

We had golden things to convey then
And a more immediate sense
Of what love is in the first place.

On How to do Intrinsic Literature

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.

Black like the Canvas of Night poems

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.

Twisterella

A conversation with silence slips
And begins with lightness
The speaker has only a language
And words to drift apart on

A poem can be a force of nature
Inferior to the condition of the experience
But as a subjective replacement for it
Or a stylized augmentation of it

Like a drug, creation neurotransmitters
Like a music station
In the hour of uttering syllables
That have a personal meaning

Like unsaid thoughts that twist
A twisterella of the technology of silence
A ritual to self, an etiquette of art
Blurring terms of white or black

Inoffensive, tremendous, revelatory
Like the quote that felt the cosmos
William Blake and Osho on steroids
Making all other illegitimate voices

Seem like poor echoes of how to exist
And how to drink silence in solitude.

Beloved Poems

I taste a liquor of the mind of love
That’s poetry, an art never brewed
Invisible and sweet from
Molten scenes of nature’s beauty
I taste a sunshine never old
That’s poetry, a butterfly renouncing their dreams
I shall but drink one more
One more poem shall I write
Till the end of time, for Saints
To not withdraw, and
For mystics never to wane
I feel the universe, in my tiny brain.

Language lost into your tongue

I’ve lost language in my
Humanity, for what’s more important
Than connecting with people?
I communicate myself into newness
But it’s an “other” that enables
The alchemy of reperceiving myself

And of perception on the brink
Of experience, the lost art of mutability
I’ve adapted myself to your language
There is solid light in the way you speak
I hear undertones of mandarin
In your English, a second skin of voice

And I know I have been touched by it
Like a caress of another beautiful mind
We twist to flowers and fists
In language, debating and gossiping
The seasons away until there
Are no more bare words left
Only the nude memories and symbols
What is life without language?

A Thousand Leagues of Silence

I am the living silence
Inside me are the seeds
Of the greatest conversations of poetry
Silence does not and cannot
Break my heart, it is intimacy with nature

I learn from her like a teacher
And my tongue is purple in her
Sunsets, silence denotes images
Without words, spaces without people
The moving waters of time

Will not slow down for us
Or for the sake of the silence of inner peace
I cannot substitute anything for her
She is the meditation of non-being
I will hold her golden nothingness

Long before I ere to speak again
For words are over-rated and a luxury
Of the ignorant, from the tree of silence
I will pick the fruit of eternity
And learn to pray to no God

I will not require cowardice of faith
To not act or to submit to some power
For I am already submissive to divinity
In allowing the silence of the cosmos
To be with me always, like a cloth

Of the most invisible and beloved fabric
I can feel the pulse of silence
In neuron, axon, dendrite, atom and cell
Speech measures moments with each other
But silence is the wisdom of books

We once read and books that have
Yet to be written and feelings from
A future where our decedents know
The power of silence that is an
Action without the arrogance of will.

Follow me on LinkedIn

Author As the Bridge

Author As the Bridge

Dear writer, are you soaked in words?
Like a sea ready for the sun?
Completely transubstantiated with its inner nature
Ready to be a reflecting bridge to light?

Dear writer, have you acknowledge
The ecstasy that makes your life whole,
Walking hand in hand with honest years
With the cosmos in language

Your language, the one that stirs you
When your primary presumption
Is not simply sight, but vision
You know it quite well, the organic manifestation

Of soulful narrative, the core of
The voice of the characters you speak for
Dear writer, we are all bridges to something
Symbols of some poetic fancy

That reaches across years, pages, distances
To be directed to the storytelling
That is innate with history and identity
That we are not one person, but one people

And our experience is not simply our own
But the experience of all imagined things
All light-years of culture, species, planets.

The Unnameable Fiction

The Unnameable Fiction

Eun Ji, on days when I know
The top of my head will be taken off
I know that I have reached the immensity
That is the poetic-state of illuminated evidence
I’ll wear those Sunday clothes for sure

With a dangerous beautiful illusion
That the words that grace my presence
Are secrets that are essential
To a spiritual state of well-being
Poetry ennobles the feeling journey

Of our souls, which is why our
Machine-learning descendents will know
Humanity, through a poem, the algorithms
Will unlock the psyche of the brain there
Here, in the burning life of poetry

That can resurrect a life from disability
And take a lonely introvert into surrealism
So deep into the mysticism of life
That heartstring are no longer in the heart
But by the majesty of the universe all around

Nature’s delicate web is an essential graffiti
That poetry which is an eternal scripture
In the heart of everyone, like a Ferlingghetti whisper
Or a Hart Crane ode, until we become priests
Of the invisible, and stumble into Paz-like palaces

Legislators of dream and queens of our own amazement
The poet listens for the cosmos to act
In a melting symphony inside of them
That frosted fire that is an alchemy of the genuine
Finally, to be a poet may be a condition, rather than a hobby

More vital and representative of the human spirit
A bird of the flight of language that ignores all frontiers.

Gospel of What we Have Writ

Gospel of What we Have Writ

Eun Ji, I found that perfect love casts out all fear
That I could love one another as
Nature hath loved us, or ancestors, or descendents
If our refuge can be found here

Let its strength be a very present solace
In the sorrow, trouble, obstacles
If love be the way, then we must
Work together for some greater good

That salvation might not be personal at all
But something shared, given, freely?
Is this not then the altruism of art
That it gives freely like the Saint

And loves the sinner as much as anyone
For how different are we truly in our weakness?
That strength is just life and youth
I can do all through meaning that strengths me

Finding meaning in this or that, does it matter?
For psalms, poetry and the sweetness of labor
That only gives in the doing and revitalizes all experience
That the inner flame in me can only be sufficient

And such is the inner-life that buds and bleeds and jewels
A stronghold of beauty, a tender gratitude which ascends.

It’s Dawn in Seattle

It’s Dawn in Seattle

Eun Ji, if I die at daybreak then
Let my night be the doom of poetry
The place where I extinguish all longing
All wishes that felt the weight of empty years

For if I am to know heaven’s daughters
Then I must be ready, to profit from sacrifice
And bear the burden of immortal dedication
For these words have their own kind heights

Which but from a gentle style un-kissed my cross
And toss the coins that land in the fountain
And I am the hand that puts a lock on the fence of locks
and I am the feet that must tread this lonely path

And these are the hearts that I have torn my fingers
On, like roses and felt the prick of mortality
All for well, an experience, so if I am dead before tomorrow
Let it be known that e’en in death poets speak

And answer with a fathomless smile, that echoes
The goodness of the swan-like sufferers
Who came before, and will come again
To write becomes the great abyss and the ultimate
Silver realm of pleasure, an organic virtual reality.

Alchemy of the Blessed

Alchemy of the Blessed

Eun Ji, sometimes in secret I think of you
And I bless you as the night is your abode
We writers must be part omniscience
Part prophet, for we imagine what

Is possible and must translate divinity
It’s our duty to take a piece of the universe
And place it as a hidden gift in the mind
We are alchemists then, with an eternal glow!

O God, how blest we are forever in this magic
That I could endure any external hardship
With a touch of the familiar weaving of poetry
In my psyche, I am the night, and judgement

Disappears and mercy is for every dawn
The dusty stuff of past years is no more
Only light settled in my brain when I am alone
And I write for the love of the dearest way

For we are all seekers somehow in our sport
And waiting to find the right vocabulary
That best expresses our original spirit’s incarnation.

For Poetry’s Sake

For Poetry’s Sake

The urge to write poetry
Is inborn, like prophecy
Not all poetry wants to
Be storytelling, or rhyme

Or sound like other poets
We might have heard or ignored
Neither does poetry require a topic
Or a message, it can be

Just a matter of lovely language
Just beauty on the stray and loose
It doesn’t need to suffer
For the page or owe the pen anything

Poetry is of so subtle a spirit
We might as well discuss with our soul
What to write next, it’s learned
Through decades of loving

Words and having an itch
To write when nothing else is going on
Speculative metaphysics and art?
Try poetry, and unremember your life

Create layers on top of memory
Write poems, create destiny
Out of the fictions of your mind
It’s like a spell and a sacred hearing

Learning poetry by heart is then
Learning yourself by heart
And there is nothing like
Loving yourself in a poem.

Talking poems that speak of poetry

I Like Poems that are Little Games

I sometimes talk to you
About making a poem with a poem
Within language I end in pleasure
It’s not like pain filtered

It’s like bliss and peace
Usually a life turned
Into a poem can be misrepresented
Or divinized, you don’t make a

A poet with ideas, not with words
You make it with feeling
Poetry is not a memory
It’s an experience you write down

You don’t help people
In your poems, you just
Relate your view of beauty
And they can participate or not

A poem is born of revelation
It cools in the night air
It pops the end of tragedy
For poetry outlives us

And it can reveal everything mysterious
Because itself is intuitive
Dancing in the heart of
Sonnets and odes that became

Birds of musical merit
That’s something I’d like to talk
To you about, how a pencil
Can become a painting

How a piano sonata can
Become a young woman.

One Book of Poems is like a Novel

m

One Book of Poems is like a Novel

You do not seem to have
The heart of poetry
You do not suffer tragedy
Like a liar who always speaks the truth

A poet looks at the world
The way a man looks at a beautiful woman
As if he will be haunted by her
All day long, the poet doesn’t

Have to invent, she listens
She listens all day
Like a solider ready to liberate words
From their steadfast possession

Of definition, form, ignorance
A poet must be a psychologist
She must find secrets
And tell them in some grasping narrative

For too much feeling unearthed
Like the soul lost, a mother-tongue
There is poetry as soon as
We realize we possess nothing

Then all the world comes alive
Sometimes poetry is inspired
By the conversations of life
Other times by the readings of other poems

There you go again, plucking
My heartstrings and making
Music with them, each word
Bears the weight of your loneliness
I’ve read my own quite slowly too.

On Saying what you feel freely

Let’s not try to define ‘Poetry’

I have been self-indulgent
With the most transient of art-forms
Not music, but poetry
Embracing imagery so light and immediate
As to be considered a kind of jazz

On the beat of the unfinished work
Of moons, on the anonymous audience
That is everywhere and nowhere
Let me ready you some of my
Poetry, it’s just the sign of the whispers

That took me to another level
The comedy of being myself and learning
To be other than what I once was
Most people ignore poetry
Because it doesn’t live in their chords

They don’t have inner guitars
In the heart-chakra, that fit
Upon the little words they use
In the days, in-between their thoughts
I think poetry always lives

In-between people, in the energy
That they release when they
Come into contact with each other
Nobody ever tells us what to read
Poetry’s always dead you know

Reading it is like getting ready to die
And looking at all we have done
And said in retrospect, like a ritual
Of how we summarize meaning.

Why The Spirit of Poetry Moves Me

Why The Spirit of Poetry Moves Me

Poetry is a vibrancy of how
Emotion can shift time-space
A storytelling of first love
Repeated in an indefinite number of degrees

I started reading poetry
After I studied philosophy
So the two seem fused to me
Like a brief delight of everything

And a freedom of hearing Nirvana
Poetry is a written form of
A language that is now silent
You can’t speak it and expect

It to sound the same, it stretches
Across lifetimes and endangers
Even the most well-established security
It’s a universal solvent and dissolves

The illusions of what we supposed
Was stability, for enlightenment
Always aches in us to move on
To further states of mingling

Poetry is like an orgasm of language
It’s the most exciting to write
And over the quickest and has
The most potential attractions

Who cares if people stop reading it
I’ll still be writing it, or pray tell
You can find thousands of these things
If there has been an apocalypse

Shakespeare is praised more than the Bible
Fame exhausts all eulogies
And poetry likes to sink and swoon
Under the weight of the times.

T a l k i n g P o e t r y

T a l k i n g P o e t r y

All poetry is an ordered voice
That we can summon forth from
Several stages of our lives
It’s a little voice with big heart

I don’t think poetry
Is something that can be taught
It lives in the brain of lovers

Who can only let it guide them
The very essence of poetry
Lives wild in experience
A first tribal mutation

Of the music of mutation
I like poetry even when I prefer
To write it than read it

It’s wide open and wanders
And wonders in a permanent state of grace
With a mutability of spirit
It’s a vision of what could be

And an ocean of our inner-being
Poetry is the secret in all nouns
And the transcendence of all verbs.

The Poetry we Brought With Us #amwriting #AppreciateAnAuthor #wordsmatter #blog

The Poetry we Brought With Us

I’ve found evidence of life
In poems, the dash of dictionary
Spirit’s metamorphosis
Ink stains on my smile
What gets lost in translation

Is a lot, the silence and the person
The Imaginary gardens
The collected experiences of the individual
We were poets even in prose
Even on our break, in steadfast definition

Of being possessed by beauty
Of being distorted by gratitude
Our identities were vital truths
To history, that’s how intimately
We related to words, we made rhetoric

Out of the quarrel with ourselves
We founded our own kind of poetry
It was, the liberation of the senses
Divinity’s distinction of image and soul
It was a Plato tattoo on the back of our hand

Always ready, immediately syllabled
We kept invisible keepsakes of our tribe
Like misprint of reincarnations forgotten
We felt the summer skies in books
And heaven’s lies in paragraphs

We became prophets of philosophy kidnapped
And activists against ugliness
The secret suffering was ours
We found beautiful music even in
The most tormented of societies

And we envisioned the future
Wed to the joys of the past
I’ve found evidence of life in nature
And an unknown author
With appropriate ghosts

Exploring my own amazement
I felt the symmetry of poetry
As precise as astronomy
Portraits of revelation lost
In Haikus to the infinite

Maybe we all carry the soul
Of a poet who died young inside of us.

Introduction to Dreamlike Metaphors

Introduction to Dreamlike Metaphors

Do not be too harsh with your art
Do not be too hard to these poems
Great is the hand that holds
Dominion over a poet’s scribbled name
Not the critics of the day
But the audience of tomorrow
Birds and symbols to our flying name
That our birthday began with water
For the romance of a life’s possibility
Venus lies star-struck in her wonder
And the sensual ruin that we made
Upon the flesh of our own miracles
The experience that were seasons fluid
The brains beyond age, the dark veins
Of our aging mother, the many deaths
We had to go through to get
To the mercy of the means of vocabulary
We laboured a lifetime just to find our voice
To sing in our chains like the sea
And to charm the golden heydays
With our eyes for beauty and dingle starry heights.

Tomorrow is Today’s Dream

Tomorrow is Today’s Dream

March on, do not tarry
Said the tip of the soul to the pen
The pen whose laughter
Could be heard
Across the centuries
Laterally from planet to planet

Star to star
To go forward is to
Be aware of your own perfection
If love is a real force
That surrounds every being
Internally and externally

ii

Would my letters slowly embrace it
Like a witness, of liquid gold
To print cherry fruit fragrances
On the lyrics of my days
March on, do not tarry

Said the tip of the sword to the pen
The pen whose muse was revolution
And could be read
On graffiti walls
In some war-torn future
As if the pain we were exposed to

iii

Broke the shell that enclosed our ignorance
Out of that suffering we stood
Stronger souls with massive
Characters and impressive scars
We wore them with pride.

Eulogy to Poetry

Eulogy to Poetry

Think in the morning
And poetry has died
What would you say to her?
First language and eldest daughter
I saw you in grains of sand

Your love trapped in wild flowers
I set the seas to your lips
And burned a thousand dreams
In your skies of velvet pink
I knew you as infinity of evolution

Guiding me to future hours
The trees cried flowers because of you
And the sun made songs of her Spring
You never know love of language
Until language is gone, like Sanskrit

An exuberance of many ways
To the say the same dear familiar things
Which to another generation, might be unknown
That’s poetry, a rare bird going extinct
That’s poetry, a strange magic being replaced

That’s poetry, the kind of book not published
That’s poetry, the kind of soul that can’t be bought.

Upon Writing an Epitaph for the Universe #NaPoWriMo

On Writing an Epitaph for the Universe

I was a man made out of words
With the whisp of whispers
Held like treasures, for tomorrow

It was for celebration, not for profit
How can you profit in eternity?
I am a man made out of soul

Of spirit-stuff and fundamental particle
Of joy, I lift the mood of
Alphabets and kiss the spring-odes
I am the early book of youth
On replay, I am the unpublished joy
Of how many writers on the way?

I am an artist who has no canvas
I am the voice that has no audience
I am vanilla love that aches to write

In a brain designed for poor speech
My ballads come as surprises to myself
I write the epitaph for the universe.

A Grand History of Culture #poetry #writing

Fed on the Universe

In the belly, in the brain
Vocabulary is drawing
The long-dead past
And the descendent divinity
Of the future
The sun producing

Powerful dreams
In space-time
A word can do this
The stove of love
It burns, cooks, is fetched
By hungry onlookers

Underneath my skin
Even in the simulations
I observe and create
The layers of magic
In the heart of mirrors
That print, rock, hologramize

II

And for a moment
I knew the hand
That is the mover
Nature, God, Time
Feeding on everything

More than dopamine
Fill there is nothing
But one supreme
Love of life, the endearment
That survives all wars
The gratitude that endures

All obstacles, persecutions
Struggle, that spirit
That feeds the fire
To create, to sing, to write.

Hearing voices like a Poem

Why Read Poetry

I have translated voices
To the ends of beauty
I have known intimately
Such wild abandon of soul

I cannot translate that
Spirituality transcends poetry
That I have experienced
I read poetry to get glimmers
ii
Because at times I have stopped
To look through the rain
For the wished for words
The wished for loves

The intimacy we are nomads for
I read poetry because the lady
Next to me on the bus
Is reading a book of poetry

And I wanted to know her
It all starts innocently enough
I read poetry because I know
That in the space between poems
iii
I will be looking in life for
The symbolism of her pages
A manticore muse I never find
The imagination of faery and ocean

And an intuition of whim
That undresses all other pleasures
By comparison of how superficial they are
The enjoyment of the spirit

I cannot translate that
But I can pretend.

Like words on the tip of the tongue of Silence

Going Blank Again

i

Is there an expiration date
On silence, the silence that begs us to write
In bloom we are silent
In dialogue with the universe
Then to remember the moment
We write about it for the

Rest of our lives, that is how
Mystic writers are born
Prophets who go by the name
“Anonymous” nice to read you
You will notice many of them
Shuffling down the centuries

II

With a surreal smile on their lips
In the arms of Spring
You will see them
Somewhere on the street
On the first murmur of the wind
Across the ember of the months

Through the river of language
Untying what you were taught
With hurried words that doesn’t
Need many breaths, they can say it all
Ageless, with buried open eyes
Unhearable, with the quality of silence

III

Beneath their stainless anthems
Nameless speeches to humanity
Is there an expiration date on silence?
I think not, only the extinction
Of an audience, only the missing
Information in the cloud

In the space between planets
In the time between civilizations
That’s the eternity were beautiful words go.

When Machines Learn to Write Poems

When Machines Learn to Write Poems

Words unspoken spill
On to virtual pages
Dreams encapsulate poems

Poems selling dreams of paradise
Speculations of the infinite
Heroes of art telling commentary

Reviving in waters
Inscribed in the cuneiform
Of writing on tablets of steel

Capsules of poetic chronicles
Burning the trials of lost tribes
Into the future where language

Will travel at speeds between stars/
Trying to break surfaces
Of quantum beliefs in illusion

Engaged in poetics we’ll spill
The puzzles of machine-learners
Instead of primitive opinions

Poetry will be their thirsty key
To understanding humanity.

Inspired by: Mark Olynyk, contemporary Canadian poet.