I Started a Manuscript as a way of living


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I Started a Manuscript as a way of living

It’s arrogant I know, but it’s as if
I wanted language to end with me
I’ve decided to let poetry
Into the center of my life

I’m dating myself as a writer
I turn the craft of the poem
Over on my lips and
The pages don’t cancel each other

I’m not like others, editors, marketers
I’m sick of hearing myself
But no one is as sick of me as me
And that’s okay, I can stand rejection

Joblessness, not like I haven’t done it before
Twenty, thirty, forty years old
Without a bank account, a wife, a hot meal
It’s arrogant I know, but

I always wanted to write in Mandarin
Better than Du Fu, that’s the dream, right
To turn into a Dragon and fly
Through a waterfall, that’s poetry to me

Swimming upwards and reaching for wisdom
That is not intrinsic to my usual self
Going up rivers, coming down as rain
Symbols sleep in me and I carry them

I don’t require national poetry month
To write a poem a day, heck
I’d confess that poetry is like
My breath of exercise, when all other

Systems have shut down, the light
At the effervescent end of the tunnel
I’m dating myself as a writer
And that’s okay, it doesn’t require

The approval of parents
Or the idea that it has to be profitable
Because as an altruist, I’m just a vessel
The Great Love of a Poet

Reincarnates in me, each
And every day, I don’t know the word
Failure, it doesn’t quantify,
That’s the only reason I’m not Asian.

Titled Below


87

Like words never wholly kissed

We played our words for keeps
Aware fully of how ephemeral
They make vowels these days

Sheep, that flood the ether
The best gestures o f
The brain went unread

And the most talented beauty
Were paragraphs unpublished
I think there is no parenthesis, love

Alphabets are ruined by the internet
Poetry lives on trapped
In the syntax of the human heart

Who will never wholly kiss you
Or find the meaning behind
The trapped sentences of our lives

And these thoughts that do repeat
We played our words for keeps
Bitter for not having more

Beauty to offer, and to share
Love made our eyelids all aflutter
But innocence died

While the spring of the world
Invented a more holistic verb

To express not what was lost

But what was gained by
The new verge, enchanted vocabulary.

Passenger of poetic arcs


66

Passenger of poetic arcs

I am not an original creator
I never loved poetry
As a young person
Nature taught me alchemy
Through a speech impediment

My brain existed around
A deformity, giving me
The possibility of linguistic adoration
A phenomena of thirst
That was never quenched in words

Only the dream of embroidered
Feelings that were vision
From another world
There was no essential musicality
No particular evolution of healing

I didn’t explore complex ideas
Or traverse steppes of philosophy
But I yearned for something
And words emerged
To conjure a caress in silence

For a little saving bath
In the horizontal language of English
And the pauses before mandarin
I felt a cruel hunger for experience
The inner experience of waiting

At the harbour of the future
For a temptation to dream
And an anticipation for tomorrow
That consumed and whitewashed
All of who I once was until

My flesh knew the golden dazzle
Of lines, pages, cursive lyrics
Slim innocent agile limbs of syllables
Terrific married to grief longing
Encapsulated as a passenger in a poem.

Whatever author doth yield to divine love


44

Whatever author doth yield to divine love
*
Like a small boat
Carried down the river
Of mystical Voice
I followed my way
*
Surrendering to
The poetic content
I was given, the few
Paragraphs I would write
*
That would be written
Through me like the last love
Of the little love I
I could give
*
To die of love
Beneath the veil of all bliss
Is listening, silence, stillness
The truth of no-language

And a music of nature/
Without symbol, duality, information
No binary code to ruin
The blank page, the white

Page that is not white/
Like a bubble on the lips
Of the river that carried me down
I wanted to be drowned

By language and arrive/
At the suffocation after idea
Where words buried themselves
In the silver bottomless sea

Of universal energy/
That is the end of poetry.

When I pass thy door at night poetry


34

——————————————————–

In the strange destiny of men
I must confess to be lost
Or having gone astray
To have gained little in action

————————————————————–
Accomplished little with art
But loved the silver songs
Of guess and soul’s weight
With human flight, I have loved

——————————————————-
Gone wrong, chided, sworn
What a lover Sappho was
In my merry mind, the indignity
Of poverty, the distance of loneliness

————————————————————
I lived lazy hours and soft summers
With little to show, strange and far
Until my heart stopped for
Wild, keen, tender trembling

—————————————————————–
Making magic music in the dark
The life of a poet, that was my lover
In the blue foothills of faint and dimming dreams.

Jami’s Last Words


10

What is poetry? The heart standing
Still, in the promised land

The song of the bird
Of the spirit-mind

The simplicity of the world of
Eternity, where light echoes
From word to golden word
And we are not won yet?

Our body forgets beauty?
Our love grows faint yet?
What is poetry? The soul mirroring
The love of more innocent hearts

The youth of the Divine rose garden
That outlasts all suffering, separation
It draws its faith and power
From a unity with the sacred

What is poetry? It’s the voice
Of god speaking from our heart
In feeling-words, shadows of

Left-over tears from the hardships
Every being must live through.

Who Killed Poetry


8

Who killed poetry?
Did your grandmother write
The last one in your bloodline?

Did it fall away with the fad of music?
Did it not shine enough in those
Pesky dark anthologies
Hidden in your school’s library?

Or did it get less valuable
Force fed in bad English classes
Where poetry seemed a dead thing

Some structure of how it works
That had no life or beauty
Who killed poetry?
Did you ever think of it as

A lost art you were re-creating?
That might have been closer
To the truth, your truth

That’s the lifeblood of things
It must have fled mainstream minds
The moment philosophy died
For the philosophers were closet poets

Alchemists searching for higher answers
Occultists of nature searching
For a deeper communion with simplicity.

Poetry of the Human Psyche


7

What is this poetry, you keep talking about
This poetry, you keep becoming
Like a neurological stimulation
You can’t give up!?

An imported art for the few
From some peculiar time
When people read and spoke of

Their innermost feelings
Is poetry to be felt as something
Fundamental, then, or a shape produced

Or a fictional narrative
Or a sculpture of nature reproducing
Something or copying something other
An architecture of the human condition?

A caricature then, a blank slate that is
Never truly neutral or objective at all?
Or a failure to integrate into reality?

Some verbal instrument of our subjectivity
A popular language of futility
Like philosophy, or something to be hidden
By teenagers on secret blogs

All appearances do seem fallacious
And we disdain to be ourselves classified
As the formerly neurotic, or spontaneously flawed

But who cares, we trace our own definitions
Right down to the words we choose to affirm
However our psyche breathes, however
Our art can account for our genes

In these environments, this snapshot of history
These ruined cities and corrupted nations
So poetry is not meant to convince or persuade

But to reveal, offering a sense of
The human to the intelligence machine
And offering a sense of the past to the future
A passion of the elementary kind

We wrote our best poems when young
Considered poetry, it’s an elegance of interpretation
Which takes greatest delight in hearing

Our own voice, like a vanity of our griefs
That’s the state of society, measured
In linguistic trends and masquerading as art.

New Words Advent


Photograph courtesy of : http://www.deviantart.com/art/Into-Dust-502341255

 

35

 

Language is a flirtation

With flexibility, the mind

Empowers the image

The image empowers the

 

Alphabet, the energy

Is a conference of belonging

There is no buzzword in poetry

Poets reside in the

 

Chatroom of the spirit

It’s a captcha of lingering

Imagination on the brink of

Extinction, a cloud computing

 

Of beauty, a purist busking

Not for profit, so unlike

The Affluenza of our times

The stark money divide

 

Poetry is an algorithm unsolved

Forever like a kind of tourism

The soul’s App for bromance

A buzz for civiliation’s

 

Gratitude and ruin, simultanely

Depicting the carjked destiny

Of utopia in dystopia

Englihs is the most flexible

 

If adopting mandarin and Sanskrit

The baggravation of always

Being stuck between worlds

Or the realization that

 

Every city is a homogenized urban

Simulation of what it means

To be alive in 2020, the breakdown

Of new world dilemmas like

 

A post antibiotic world or

Environmental migrants scrambling

For new homes, new identities.

On the pursuit of Beauty


21

Beauty is not
In what words you use
But in that which you say
Without having to use words
My rhetoric never felt

The true impact of silence
My naked veils never
Completely came undone
So I remained an imitator
An imposter of art

Armed with repetition and homage
But in art, there is non one
Behind and no one ahead
We are alone on our own path
And beauty is neither here or there

That is why we must continue to write
That is why we became writers
Became we felt alone
And in finding our way
We felt the beauty

Of the passing years
In a whole new way….
Beauty is not
In what fine craft you make
But in the effort to love your craft more.

The ghost writers


17

Art by: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Salzburg-s-unicorn-499959719

But as for me, the smell of books
Is perhaps enough, my bride
The gracious literature

Who does not threaten to leave
Or say I do not make enough gold
The holy emblem of this art

Whose pen is its own reward
A kind of artistic altruism
That plunges itself without restraint

On a canvas, spelling “freedom”
Over and over until
My heart might warm divinity

From the cold world’s touch
But ah, the libraries are lonely places
And the authors must fight

Lofty ghosts, that swim in the brain
For to write is to sacrifice, I know
It well, so find delight, go

In cheaper things, more easy investments
For this is a passion not for the meek
And this is a love that is not
As fickle as the illiterate barbarians out there.

The Pleasure Before and After Poems


7

What is poetry?
Poetry is the night-magic
Of prayer, the last resort
After reality has hit

It’s the splash of appreciation
For beauty as the eye of
All tenderness and last lyrics
Poetry is the sound device

Of your heart as it
Smiles in metaphors
And transforms in tone
To the pattern of your genius

There is no good or bad poetry
It just exists, like language or
A calligraphy of sense and style
Mood’s personification in

The haiku of lasting resonance
A punctuation of grace
A syntax of serendipity
What is poetry?

It’s the last smile of movement
In alphabets, in the joy
Of laughter for any age
Poetry is what we feel

Before we say it
It’s uncensored melody
With a human voice
It’s the flower on a page

Of what we love in word-play
It’s the gratitude of being able
To see beauty and cherish the sacred
What is poetry which does
Not save nations or people?

The Message of Poetry


6

What is poetry?
Poetry is the presentation
Of your inner life
The partners of your
Deepest thoughts, they

Are seen there to celebrate
All that you are
Poetry is freedom in literature
A final frontier of knowing
Yourself, like no other art

All the tribes have written it
All the mystics found themselves
Speaking in it, and countless
Others stumble across it
Like a strange fruit on a

Famished day, it has fed
Travelers, monks, mothers
Don’t waste time with explanations
Simply do what you love
Poetry is that gift

That was given to you
When all other avenues
Were taken away, so what
Will you give to her?
Poetry is a language of the soul

And each poem you write
Is one lifetime
So how will you choose to live
Your inner life, what melody
Will you pronounce

What energy will you align to?
Poetry is born like a trance
Like an unexpected visitor
That surprises us into dancing

Poetry is the love
We always wanted to give
And never had a chance to receive.

Poetry is the First Pleasure


5

What is poetry?
Poetry is a whisper
The quiet voice of dreaming
That can never die

So long as civilization
Makes art, poetry spreads
Poetry is the eyes of things
In the soul of words

She is the ancients
Transcending time itself
Poetry is beauty
Unchanging unlike truth

A rhythm of sentience
On the face of rhyme
She is the admired song
Of the sweetest voice

She is the heaven-rapture
Dancing on the tip of bliss
What is poetry?
Poetry is of the wood

Poetry is the making
Of water and stone
She is the building of
Literacy in a world

Of discrete poems, where
We originate, create, evocatively
The poisis, the first-awakened
A realized feeling expressed

For all our eternities
So imagery, form, rhythm and sound
Might trumpet, flute and come
Alive in the music of our
Deepest lack of inhibitions.

The Pleasure of Poetry II


4

What is poetry?
Poetry is a painting
That requires not logic
Or sequence, it is
A painting heard but not seen

It is the vowels that are
Fully oval, that heave learned
To find inspiration
In tragedy, poetry
Is a reset button in the brain

It is magic and dreaming
Half-awake, in the author’s
Trance, it is the fragrance
Of verse, brightly lit
On a surface of pain

It is the white page
Begging for a lesson from faith
It is not rap, it is not spoken-word
It is not clever lyrics
Poetry is aesthetic, intelligent

Intellectual, asking us to
Redefine who we are
At every breath, it does not
Simply mimic, or repeat
Poetry is that life

That we could not live
That we did not dare to realize
In everyday course of events
Poetry is the mirror
To the inner life, and door

To the very psyche of the author
It does not require audiences
Fans, likes, or even acknowledgement
It’s the journals of the Earth
The earth that is never dead

But will keep writing
As long as the human heart beats.

Pleasure in Poetry I


3

Art by AF-studios (http://www.deviantart.com/art/Fire-Within-Me-155600530)

What is poetry?
Poetry is the silence
Burning with all-time
History echoing in the

Shadows asking them to dance
Poetry is the first memory
Of language, when women and men
First began to distil symbols

Using words to fill emotions
With light, but we forget about the light
A poem begins as a spark
In the brain, a neurotransmitter

Of homesickness for something divine
For a present with beauty
Poetry is the least imposition
On silence in a world of chatter

Where information is censored
And the truth is not to be found
What is poetry?
It’s that which drives my soul

In a precise thing like mathematics
To reach beyond language for the stars
With audiences that were literate
Asking words to become butterflies

From the usual caterpillars
Anyone could be a poet
Poetry are thoughts that breathe
And burn in our minds until

They hit the page softly
Uniting pleasure with truth.

Like Aristotle’s Memory


77

I go in search of wonder
By doing so I find it everywhere
In the savour of breath
And in the flow of blood
Biology is an antique song

Who showed you the path
Of the poets?
The heart of silk
And the pen of light?
You leave us singing

In the little square
With lost bells
The lilies and the bees
Are gone, but wonder
It’s rippled like a legend

Everywhere, enormous
Pupils of gigantic glee
Injured somewhere in the wind
Farther than the seas
Intimate as every star

And I wonder, why is
Beauty and truth sprinkled
Like leaves in the galaxies
Did Aristotle look upon
Purple plains and wonder?

It’s a broken harmony
In the mind, in the protests
Of silence, in moments
Shrouded by desire
And the frozen sleepy pause

Of cities gone to sleep
Very bitter is the wonder
Of change and time’s labyrinth
I need search no longer then
Rocking the dawn
It’s found me here.

Into the arms of Writing


75

Art by Agnes Cecile,

I draw these letters
Out from the silver silence
And pluck them from the golden void
They were given to me like,
Ice flowers, fire roses, spring water
And I can taste them like
Images from a painter
From Rome or Colombo
That’s the presence consumed
Of art and her rare birds
A flock of paradise traveling
Through time, beauty undressed
In her double-blossomed glory
In feasts of imagery and cliffhanging
Night, I could feel the morning
In her painting and all that
Transpired in feeling as the body burns
With life’s ironies, improbable spells
The river of your hands
Was a fever of a dream
The burgundy tongue
Of the flayed sun knew
I would write poetry
Like hot wine, spilled.

Simulation of a Dream


72

Stillness
In the middle of the night
Hush like centuries
With each other
Only to know that we were not fixed
But changed, in the silence
Where nothing moves and everything
Flowers and exchanges
Reincarnates in place
It’s the quantum structure
Of how mutations occur
Like syllables on the vacation
Of the summer, that was
The rest of our lives
The hour grows and falls over us
Luminous, like the moonlit window
Clouds full of sunsets behind them
Surround us with poetic insomnia
I hear an anthem in them
That could be a teleportation of history
In the middle of the night
Where revelations occur
With each other
Tomorrow, the hours will be larger
Than ever and pregnant with something
Other that what I was today or ever was
I am here, at my beginning
Free in the will of the invisible
Where we are all algorithms.

Artist: Agnes Cecile (http://www.eyesonwalls.com/products/this-thing-called-art-is-really-dangerous-fine-art-print)

Eating Poems as a Life Choice


71

I’ve loved many women
In my time, but not like this
Not like the love of words
The divinity in language

The riches in the poverty of poetry
Ink runs like liberty
From the fruit-craving mouth
Of this appetite, of poems

Like a librarian without a mate
I vowed long ago to marry literature
Here I am, alone and happy
I’ve loved many poets

Long dead and not famous
There is no bliss like art
There is no happiness like mine
I’ve eaten poetry for decades

In my attic, as a recluse
I am a new man because of her
She withstood my moods
And understood my aims

She did not chide me for my
Uneconomical strategy of living
Ink runs like milk from my face
I am a baby mad with wonder

In the open arms of books!
Who’s to say that this was not
My chosen aspect of hope
Who’s to say one’s greatest love

Must be a person, surely not mine
I romp with joy in the bookish dark
A happy nerd, a loving friend and
A devoted servant to literature
May all rejoice who know this joy!

After a Thousand Poets


64

To dream myself, to be dreampt
By other eyes, on other worlds
That was the prophecy of
The written word, to be fluid

Like a medium, to pastel the words
Into new forms, to climb
The towers together of meaning
And visit the citadels of angels

To explore rooms, walk streets
Of singing combinations never
Before experienced, like surrealism
In a bright sunlit room, and art

With trends and sublime gulfs
Where only a few artists can reach
And cities of culture’s inheritance
Where philosophers must tread

To dream myself, being more
Than just idle dreams, to weave
Looking out into new enchanted sentences
That come alive in their own way

That can speak to sense and soul
Moulding kaleidoscopic clouds
As easy as the fountains of day
And water of enormous glimpses

Of prosperity, the light of the future
Golden mornings, youth transformed
Some transparent shimmer
Of alphabets that can suffice the
Difficult diamond thirst.

Paradox of Thought


58

I aspire to silence the voices
That I may speak for all voices
The function of a room is
To keep the body well

The function of a mind is
To keep the soul serene
I will never hear the one true voice
But in the Tao I find ultimate empathy

And I give it to all creatures here
And in silence I feel the snowflakes
The clouds, the trees, the light
In a whole new way against

The night, alive in the day
I become like the breeze
That rustles the leaves
And by disappearing to myself

I have room to identify with everything
That is the function of silence
My friend, we’ve thought of how
The poet spoke the thoughts

Of history, well as a finger points
To the stars, the mind dreams
In silence, language finds God.

We Write


55

To write is not to presume creativity
To write is not to add something
But to take away, to cleanse
To dispense with the enormous

Personalization which is an error
Of an unnetworked brain
Men commit monstrous acts
In the hopes of becoming great

But to write is the most human act
Since language is our Tao and birthright
To live in harmony as an author
Means to write from the perfect

Symmetry of your soul, since
That is instinctive, move with its
Effortless flow, understanding is not

Righteous, it’s a perspective of dominance
Humility requires to let go of intellectual ego
And to empathize on a more fundamental level.

The moment scatters itself into a poem


43
The moment scatters itself into a poem

I am full, of unwritten poetry
My life is an experience
Of the lady of secrets
And the labor of art

I craft, I write, I want
To go to the beyond
Through the gift of the gateway

Of intuitive being
Until I become a poem
I am pregnant, with this
Reflection of resurrection
Words dance in my brain

In somersaults and fountains
Of the purest aroma
A vistas of the clearest day

My pen is not a pen, my page
Is not a page, I write for the future
To the future, arriving forever
Through the lens of beauty
I transcend and I perceive

Through until the lady of secrets
Down into the sea of mysteries.

Ode to Derozio


41

Last night, it was a lovely night
Very blest beneath the Moon
Shall it not be for memory
A happy flower to bloom

Yes not in our distant backward past
I felt the soft hours on my cheek
Hours which rode the distances still
And shined on, mildly but not burned

O’ how sweet is yesternight
Though only for its light dreams
That mist of who we once were
For all becomes a universal law

So let my mind touch yours
On its way returning home
I’ll meet you by the gates dear friend
Come who will walk with me

A little way’, I said and lo!
I straight was joined by the
Soul of thee, in purest ray, not blind.

Post Haikus and Poems Given


35
Poems were given
Like wine from the Universe
When all we had to
Drink was water
All we had were empty words

Now I raise
A dead butterfly
With a smile
Without make-up
It will fly differently

A poem is an autobiography
A selection of subconscious
Lines, given as the world
Sinks in made-up news
Hang on, it will leave you

Alone in the sun
That’s art, it has no eyes
But listens everywhere
Poems were given
Like salt at the banquet table

When all we had to
Dine on, was the
Quiet desperation of our lives.

Bouquet on an old wave of silence


19

I sang into an invisible Country
I called it Home, breathless
For the future and poetry
I sang a canto in stuttered
Hope, that filters through
Years full of sunshine
Pillars of sacrifice and people
People who unknowingly
All contributed to the same aim
In a harmony of music and energy
I sang into a moment, that kept
On being timeless, a transcendent breach
Into the clean air of worlds
I stood and sang with the voice
Of Silence, I wanted the diamond
Pivot bright to bathe me in
Transparency and wonder
So that the luminous pages
And on my knees, I might
Whisper something of a lost divinity
I sang for all the creatures who had died
For principles, ideals, survival.

Self-Portrait of a Poet


18

I wish I was twenty and in love with life
And still wanted to change
To change the world
Inwards, old brain!

Who has the heart of a universe
There is no adversity
Only the opportunities
Given by evolution

Roses and blooming
For those who see God
In created things
I wish I was twenty and

So ready to make a self-portrait
That had dreams beyond ambition
And still wanted to love
The goodness of this world

Onwards, fantastic spirit!
We have lives for this yet
And hours, and days, and years.

A Civil Nakedness of Poetry


16

Poetry is the x of music
The hum under the Sea
Too exactly the wind
A dirty silence of the stars
Poetry is not what we say
To ourselves but to the nature
Of syllables behind speech
From the floor of philosophy
Where feeling is her own author
Poetry is not for particulars
But for universals, an elegy
To the creation of sound that
Had a human voice or felt
Vulnerable and ready to dream
For the imitations of better realities.

Octopus Poem


59

There is a silent street
Where poets go
And a tiger color of light
Rains down, a search

That is never found
Via symbols at the end
Of literature and pages
Mere metaphors for

The creative process
Of image and narrative
The act of encapsulation
Experience, such a myth

Like memory, only a ripple
Of the original, so the authors
Glimpse something unreal
And seek to translate it

But the poets know, they
Will never come through
Their vertigo of dream
Writing in the wind

On the sand in the desert
Catching reflections in the river
Of the sky, the essence
Is forever lost, of each moment

Only we can approximate
In art, part of the beauty
Of creation and hunt persecuted
Through time, the testaments

OF sun, wheat, flower, pomegranate
Bumble-bee, united at the same
Address, of autumn on a terrace
Somewhere near you.