Hoarding Poems Mine


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Hoarding Poems Mine

Eun Ji, our hearts were like poems
Resilient, created early, so unknown
We’d had the patience to count words like coins
Not that we wanted to accumulate
The ruin and heartbreak that comes from this work
The unread poems of ruin and youth
And dreamy sanctuaries that would
No doubt ultimately devour us!
We disappeared in our dusty craft
Without readers, sometimes silent and forlorn
We craved the ultimate turn of poetry
In our hearts, that racing feeling of being alive
And we more or less went about our way
To get it, to achieve the neurological experience
The nirvana-state of what a poem could mean
To a pen, to a hand, to a little voice
I had never fallen in love with a poet
The sparkles, jets, black flame, the idealism
Of it all, being poor but doing what you love
It’s something I think I could bare, bourne, become.

Aphorisms to the Anonymous #PoetryMonth #proverb #aphorism


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Aphorisms to the Anonymous

If you can get answers
From asking the wrong questions
Then it proves you have lived
If you have fallen in love
Then you know

Short cuts make long delays
The journey is when
Everyone helps to hold up the sky
The one person
Does not become tired

So is it with art
We all give a piece of ourselves
To the color book of humanity
I’m going to write a poem
Forging a tongue on truth’s anvil

Because I never found
A good teacher, so
I read a lot of books
I having a generous eye
Was blessed with the appreciation

I gave the bread of my soul
To the poor and became a beggar
For more spirit than I could
Ever consume or unite with
I’ll sleep for myself
But I will dream for others.

Afraid of Big Cities


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Being Eaten by the Big Apple

The big cities can kill you
Like how they can make you poor in a month
It’s unforgiving to move
To a bit city if you are poor

In debt, alone, or any of the above
New York, Toronto, Tokyo
What’s the difference, they swallow
The soul, perhaps we should avoid them

There are too many people
On any given corner to get
Through, to reach your destination
Unless you become one of them

Cold, hardened, not stopping for
Just any homeless man, walking over
Their old guitar, not crying in public
There are days I have no retrospect

I have purposefully forgotten
Some of the Godless situations I’ve lived
It’s for the better I think, I wouldn’t
Want to live with the humiliation

The wide-dilated embarrassment of pupils
And fear it took to communicate abandonment
The insomnia of old wounds rubbing sweat
All over my half-starved body

Everything was a ghost and I’d pray
In my own rituals for God to
Show me a life beyond this
I remember not feeling rationale or sincere

I remember imagining acquaintances
Were friends or people in coffee shops
Were people I could get to know
Adversity does strange things to you.

Fragments Beneath Eternal Trees


16

I am a fragment on the white clouds
Of Apollo, Vishnu see himself in me
I am the Autumn silver of first snow
Washed on my morning face

I am the stubborn silence that accompanies
Too much happiness, the foreign
Country love. I am the last request
Of a golden heart gladdened to be poor

That the purity persists despite that
With a prayer book full of lyrics
Sutras of the melted precipice of self
I am a fragment of all that was once divine

Set in empty volumes of diamond flesh
I am the end of an invisible dynasty
Poetry dies with me, as a window
To the gray-maned mythology of italics
Where words became monuments of Autumn herself.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/she-409922245

V


11

Voices, cherished and most dear
of those who we left behind
they are too lost for us like the dead –

Voices, loved and so idealized
of those who formed our minds
they are there, sometimes

in our dreams speaking glowing alphabets
deep in the heart of our self-prophecy
when sleep cleans our neurons

Voices, remain, loving and old
as the first dawn of our being –
and then, the sound of their poetry returns

as life’s first cry of language
like music in the night, sweetly fading
a chorus of moments returned

all at once, spontaneous synchronicity
Voices, the cherished melody of being human.

Photo Courtesy: http://zemotion.deviantart.com/art/Motherland-Chronicles-37-Masked-407999452

With Specimens of Song


– Where Hart Crane once jumped

43

You love the invisible
You write IT everyday
You claim your little notes
Further the language of the Day

With ample letters, of your love
To witness the light which delights
The air is clear and transparent
Where your voice speaks like a melody

Your love is for the invisible
With incorporeal pillows vain
Your sunrise is a spiritual event
Somewhere inside your little brain

Your love, it is for the invisible
A dreamer interrupting his own ground
You write journals for eternity
God bless your suddeness
that which you call dear poetry.

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Bridge-at-night-II-403312876

Sleeping on the wings of poetry


15

I’ve satisfied the poetry in me
by mastering luminous humility
I can chew personal poems in
the meditation against coercion

it’s a lifelong habit to read & write
though I’d prefer a mandarin certificate
than another restoration of crisis
through and by writing, soaring there –

I’ve satisfied the poetry in me
or so I always think, before and after
I wrote the last, till the penning of the next
veering upward like a pigeon with

an unworldly frown, I laugh to think
at how the car honks, door slams, angels cry
of a trillion worlds, while I can simply write
poetry is the last beautiful language
difficult though it has always been to me.

poetry courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Scintillate-402634741

This is the poetry


14

This is the poetry of all my years
with the rhythm that drops like water molecules
and the tongue of holy fires
that shoots with the breath that never-stops

This is the poetry designed for rants
that elegantly convey the big-mouth chanting
of an oppression and growth
of a thousand preaching words of subjectivity

This is the poetry of freedom
it gets enchained in singularities
and skips over synchronicity for thrills
of divine flavors past Shakespeare

This is the poetry that dares to search
for new manners of the riddle of words
into the silence of the great canvas
of art always becoming more personal

This is the poetry of body shaking pride
the quick and childishly glib facade
of the imagination stretched as far as a new nation
that connects all philosophers and poets in time

chanting a single written phrase
This is the poetry from the universe of life
the experience that no sociology can comprehend
the dreaded degree of loving necessity

when I talk to myself in poetry I talk
through all the wild poetry of your eyes.

Poetry Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-zoo-397858926

Song of These Last Encounters


I have lost self to love
Permanently, now by this heart
Furled, in primitive ecstasy
My relationship with the world
Is now a suppliant violin’s moan

That drags itself to dovelet cooing
These moments are lucid gifts
Of touching and nearing
The broad brightness where self is forgotten
Pain lurking in an unknown smile

I have lost the bravery of battle
Against this harsher world
I have only whispered steps enshrined
Left to twist my path, a needlework
Of rustling greenery, I am not real

Life’s touch is an unflinching desire
I follow her narrow canal to the light
There I will consent to rest my head
On your womb, enter you heartlose on the scale
With lots of luck, songs of last encounters

I have lost self to love, cast adrift
In one-night stands of the dark house
Where lovers whisper “come die with me!”

The Death of Love


34

Now we return to what we were
A solitude, very gentle, very dear
It’s all I have, like an animal without
The language of love, primal

So instead, I fall consistently –
In love with words, like little vows
That I will write again, to live
Now I return to what I am

A solitude, an oracle of isolated inner beauty
There will be no prophecies which wash
Over the night, or rise at Noon
Only, the little gains of meditation

A finality to be invisible
Or create autonomy as an order of survival
The earth has vanished, I am alone
Nothing proves I am alive

I become transparently slowly rippling
My years away, though I’ve
Come to cherish them, tenderly
They say at the threshold of birth

We come into the world alone
Now I’ve come to terms with certain things
Like birth and death, and the necessity
Of loving or falling back to only, loving ourselves.

Lament of Individual Freedom


18

Love walked alone
With a companion of the Self
That wore a heart of pain
In a name, a vacant horizon

Without a descendant line
Love walked alone
Accosted by harsh individualism
Autonomy became an exaggeration

Of running strong without limitation
Love walked alone
With no common goods
Of things to trade from the heart

Life became an anonymous journey
With a lonely middle without reward.

We All Arrived from Grandmothers


3

How noteless is this life
The Real is an instinct of locality
All a question of proximity
And sense to spirit integration

I’ve forgotten all odes familiar
Whims to bloom, and buttercups to smell
I’ve spurned Daises and rules of Noon
With Recollection of your numbness

How irreverent and cordially anonymous
Is every moment from the next
That fancy and sunrise
Are simply doors left ajar

This world a simulation of requests
That you disdain men, and I find women
Like Oxygen, necessarily toxic.

Building Up Summer Afternoon


8

Summer idle, I can feel it now
The enormous backdrop of expensive
Experience, the shrill stillness
Between suntanned now
And spectacular discovery

I want summer afternoons
That schools me outside
Searching for an anonymous evening
The jazz festival of bruised hearts
Summer idle and tempestuous

With roses of women past their youthful years
Erupting into cheeks and friendly kisses
With strangers, I shall never see again
And sweat that pours from an urgent sun
The views with red jumping borders

And skin, indulgent Augusts and Julies
All those mixed emotions
How the heat can make you weak
Where it counts.