After Taking with Miss Sun


 

Screen Shot 02-09-16 at 10.18 PM

 

We, do not sleep at night

We collide with stars

Our cold part goes into the Milky way

To be swept by the tides of clarity

Neuron reaches albino heart

 

Hope bleeds victory plump as the Moon

For a time, it’s 3am when you realize

That I labour like an Asian, but to no avail

Work does not win us friends

Success does not win us love

 

Nothing else matters but poetry and love

We can die in poverty, happy, finally

For simplicity is what it is

Our soul the necessary action of

Mortal hours wasted, or won

 

Like the calm hush of a thousand winters

We’ll only see sixty, maybe a few more

I won’t live forever, I’ll go hungry

Into the beyond, writing poems for reincarnations

Where I will forget what poems were or are

 

Or who made them and by whose hands

I’ll go like a surrendered flag bloody

With no business writing, I’ll just write

For myself, like a lost soul without a Sun

No map will recover who I was, that

 

Being who was never understood, nobody knew

How the pale baby of our dreams slip away

We, do not sleep at night

We just remember that thing that escape memory

It plummets like the night sky

 

Walking past the lives we could have had

Ignoring who was our wife in an alternate universe

There’s no composure to wasting potential

It’s just all we can do in the bottleneck design

Of a capitalistic world created to eat itself

 

There’s no room for love for me, only survival

I am a masochist, martyr, beggar and dreamer

That’s the last monument to my failed Ego

I have enough ID to last me into dog-eared certainty

I’m certain I love life more than others

Even if it does not always seem that way.

 

The Butterfly Card


Screen Shot 07-30-15 at 07.32 PM

The Butterfly Card

Eun Ji, I got the butterfly card

The Korean swimming in my mind

From watching too many romantic-comedies

Made in Korean, it makes me weary

Of how uncivilized and hungry I have become

How strange to be a poet

That I marvel most at happiness

At my most bitter hour

Like the divine sense with an appetite

For the most human hours

Pale stones of savage harvests

South American aromas and Taiwanese fragrances

The dancing burden of the dream of time

And how we lose a skin each summer

Only to climb into words once more.

When my Soul Returned to Me


Screen Shot 07-01-15 at 07.12 PM

-Painting by Thu Nguyen

I was born a revelation in a brain
Without prophets I learnt
The triggers of the rose and the majesty

Of simplicity, without ownership
I travelled to the spiritual reality
Where my soul was sent on a journey

Across invisible landscapes
Towards a purity of reincarnation
We remapped our vision trance

Until everything become part of the same thing
And everyone in those places
Actors of the same divine entity

And by and by my voice returned to me
My native voice of oneness and poetry
And that it answered with sweetness

And a kindness of dreaming friendship
with the players of every walk of life
With the homeless, the downtrodden and its as if

Everyone here is on a seeking quest
To go through stories to reach for a source
These are the revelations of wonder that came

To visit me, that I have writ but only translated
From a thousand mystics, from a hundred climes
The moving finger writes, but the heart serves.

Photo Courtesy of:

Support the artist, like and comment on their work:

https://www.facebook.com/ThuNguyenFineArtPainting

https://www.pinterest.com/thunguyenart/original-oil-paintings-for-sale/

Verse Crafter


Screen Shot 06-11-15 at 08.09 PM

Verse Crafter

So Eun Ji, if every verse is a child of love
Shall we keep on writing for a lifetime
These destitute hours of waiting
Doing what we love, like firstlings

Abandoning tradition and expectation
To become a writer, simple, blessed
With the expectation of the gulfs
Between our lives and those of common folk

Left by the road asleep, we memorize alphabets
In our instinct for narrative
We keep notes on the feelings
Who was our liege, who were the thieves?

Who ruined us young, that we might outgrow
Personality, ideas of greed and competition
Maybe I will be left alone here, waiting
Forever in the study of verse, that has

Only children of the mind to show
And a short list of failed relationship.

To Black Swan Job Applicants III


Screen Shot 04-05-15 at 06.26 PM

To Black Swan Job Applicants III

To be a writer is an opportunity to
Live as if you were to die tomorrow
I’m so clever sometimes, as often
I don’t understand a single word

Of what I have written, does that mean
I have graduated to my own form
Of Magical realism, my own enemy of surrealism?
To live ourselves truly, to become

Into ourselves, that’s the rarest kind of writer
Will the light of writing, drive our darkness?
My neuro-spectrum become defiant
To misery, develop such complex

Internal dialogues that I become immune
To self-doubt and self-criticism?
To be a writer is so much of chasing forever
It’s the gamification of all art-forms

It’s the singularity of consciousness
Without music, without people
The audience could be not born yet
The writer chooses to be themselves

In a world constantly trying to
Make you something else
To put your identity to the page
Is the ultimate act of freedom
Explore. Dream. Discover
Because that’s the only way
You will write anything authentic.

To Name is to Create


36

I draw these letters
Alphabets I was taught
The day draws its images
The night will blow them over
Forever, they are mere words

Writing in the sand
Symbols do not return
They are invisible
For the rest of years
No one will read

Poems left unpublished
No one will read
Novels burnt before
Marketing, but writing
Is my way out, my music

And my bread, the milk
And wine of my loneliness
So what am I to do?
These poems sharpen
My emotions, they love me

Across the night
Where I am but a ghost
In the conjunction of stars
I drew these letters on
A white canvas, they are

More me than anything
Else I have or will own
They know me better
Than the women who come
And go in my life

I will tell them my secrets
Poetry has set fire
To all poems, but I am that
Living fire, I am that warmth
Of a thousand glorious sunsets.

beautiful dolphin jumping from shining water

SONG OF POETRY


15

i

All literature and anthologies
Celebrates what I assume you shall assume
For a unity of atoms in hearts
As distant as the big-bang to the furthest galaxy
Writing is then a leaning and a loafing
A waiting for poetry to start

ii

My tongue to my blood
My children to my ancestors
It all started from an original energy
That can still be observed in the summer grass
My soul speaks sometimes, so I listen
Across centuries, to a thousand poets

iii

I hear their songs in me, hoping for beauty
And the distillation of a lifetime of observation
I am mad for it to be in contact with me
The full-noon arpeggio of my greatest works
Perhaps I shall never discover the love-root
The undisguised heart of the language
Of the spirit for which I seek

iv

The mystic thrill beyond words surely
But I wait for the lyrics of a silk thread
For some golden and silver moment
When my vowels listen for greatness by the shore
And I steal a play of shine of forever
And infinity washes over me changing
My cells, my brain, my organs my expression
The meaning of poems is finally to be liberated.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Autumn-Ethereal-81379364

Prince of Fools


40

In the warm sunshine, of a beautiful mind –
I rest my head, I do weep
I of all people know, what it signifies
Brief mortality, organic vulnerability

I could die of shame/
For knowing, how a writer
Is circumcised, like love without a clitoris
Who can pounce upon that

Dream, there is no rule/
Who wins in literature
I won’t get an MFA
Or become a publication whore

But in the countryside of /
Amber singing alphabets
I’ll die of humility
As if I lived in unemployed Spain

In some little villages, where the flock is thin/
In the warm sunshine
Of a fellow artist, I’ll cross my heart
And shed a tear, and tell them

‘Nobody mourns the giver’
Because the beauty
Is in the message, I see a sadness in this
There is no salvation here

Back to the king’s court/
Where everything is political
And everything is ugly
I strive towards your mandalas

That you hide in the courtyard/
There is no such thing, as the death of the muse
Beauty lives too brightly in us
I’ll be destroyed like a prince of fools.

No Remedy for Being Human


28

We couldn’t contain the sunsets, or
The sunsets were lost on us
So stranded were we in our personal tragedies
We didn’t stop to let beauty matter

Grudging and thin, we wanted
Our place in the hierarchy
The artificial world we created
Inside of nature, unnaturally warped

By being a consumer, by exploiting others
We didn’t have the time, or
The sensitivity, to let the light in
The swirling colors, they

Existed outside of our ambition
Our pressure to be respect-worthy
We weren’t artists, we were just people
Trying to be normal all the while.

Paddling With Breathlessness on Stilts I Write


15

Until now, I knew I possessed nothing
Damned by decrees of my own
Selfishness, I pretended

Behind a circus show of reason
At the Ball of tantalized feeling
But now, I know the way the world ends

Whatever else I might succumb to
It will be the poetry of freedom
Without rhetoric, or tricks of lying

Or slang speech particular to my times
Until now, I hid in incredible musical scales
Behind melodies, beneath the chorus

All poets pick themselves out of rivers
I’m half-deceived, by the lovers who left me
Because I was nothing but a poet

But it’s my first white wave of climbing hope
The last word I say before my doom
Whatever else, poetry is my first freedom

So don’t ridicule me for loving a kind of art
My dream is an impatient cadence pure
That gives me resurrection, when life

Offers me none, these flaming parenthesis
Have become my means of transcending you.