#TheStruggleIsReal


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Eun Ji, do you remember me?
I was the one that heard thunder
When you most wanted storms
We’ve always been about burning stars

Our letters were unearthly and radiant
And we took all our cowardice
And wrote it down for all the women
Who never dared to speak their minds

We were, feminists before poets
And for the festival of the dead
We rot their sacrifice in our rituals
And if all is looted, betrayed, sold again

Our words will flash with the wings
Of black deaths, brief plagues
And all that was once glorious
Will be glorious again, aloof with

The smell of honey, I’ll be the one
Walking you to reincarnation
I know you know this, that when
The dust of freedom settles

We’ll be the gold smell of the
Mouth of sunlight, when the
Future ripens suddenly, in a terrible
Festival of dead leaves and brief realizations
We were made for this #TheStruggleIsReal

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Prophecy Rising #poem #singularity


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After Atlantis

I have been mystic and child
In this fragile world, corrupted history
I’ve washed the seashore of endless
Evolution and found trackless water

I’ve led Tempests across deserts
Out of Africa, I’ve met fragments
Of Neanderthals and bred a future humanity
I’ve met aliens and learned astrology

From Mayan priests and held
Sanskrit texts that no longer exist
I’ve seen my descendants colonize Mars
Let my country awaken, I said to

China, India, Brazil, South Africa
For the newborn hope for a new humanity
Not one solely based on profit and consumerism
But soul and the propriety of the people

I’ve felt the deliverance of machine-learning
And seen what predictive analytics can do
I’ve washed my hands in the singularity
And tasted the hidden honey of the future’s dream

Utopia was a conjuration of a thousand lines
Of progress holding civilization captive
In its fugitive autonomy of descendent divinity
And I was either extinct or home
When I heard the future music

Exile to Bhakti


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Exile to Bhakti

I am mad with love
And the ages will not understand
Why I forsake a normal life
For God, for art, for devotion

And no one will understand
My plight, but maybe Sufis
Those that listen for the Tao
Only the wounded

Can understand the agonies of the wounded
Only the downtrodden
Can feel the fire of the rage
Of the impoverished

The Angels knew this
And that is why I am ever
I am made with love
Not for a person, but people

Not for one people, for all life
Not for a God, a symbol or a saint
But for in the possession
Of love that is a lack

But in the recognition of it
I found love habituated
Every part of the world
All the known planets

And found everything beautiful
And somehow nothing worthy of
Divine love, that is why
People know so little about the universe.

Too poor for activism


46

Too poor for activism

Pretty words are not enough
They were never enough
Sometimes, they were just
All we had, without actions
————————————

Like cowards, we wrote
We tripped on beauty
Lyrical, sweet, like pretty
Necklaces of lace lit

By the lanterns of our moons
We cherished our pretty nothings
Calling them precious, we
Stood in our own myths

Self-aware of ourselves only
As the center in our own game
We crafted what we could
On Earth, like a soul on a mission

Pretty words are never enough
Revolutions are rare and bloody
For the majority of people
Have no courage, no true inspiration

To fight or stand up
For what they believe in
We are all watered down
Moderates, shy to go against the norms

Where women are raped in India
Where women are hit in Mexico
And women are killed for family honour
In many places where marriages are arranged

And here, where the internet
Is being monitored and our privacy
Is evaporating in regulations
Of the firm resolve of a police-state
That likes to call itself a democracy.

Auroville before Judgement Day


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for that wherein he faulted
he shall make amends
for that in which they erred

they will repent
grant him a boon
to find a careless joy

after nearly having gone extinct
for those that were

once helpless slaves

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will revolt, and those
who led the worlds astray
will vanish from the cycles of time

so be it, for foes to blame
have died out before their time
and may he listen to his sister gladly

and carry his brother on his back
for one more golden day
in these ghettos and ruins

and grant them a hero’s welcome here
in the city that gave birth
is giving hope to a new world

he soon shall come
for utopia was a dream
that they all had before it was too late

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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)

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.

The Bamboo Gathering Sutra


35

I just close my eyes –
And I can see souls
That dwell above white stone

Waiting, with far-off voices
Calling the future
While candle wax burns

Off of my ignorance
A shower of white snow
That powdery wonder

Like sand-grain of infinity
I bathe in its glow
On a balcony looking out

Into nowhere, I feel the deep peace
Of years clocked only on a journey
Between star and star

I just close my eyes –
And I can remember lifetimes
The senile elements of realities

So brief, I watch them as the pretty
Wail of mandolins, the months
When we were young felt longer

I wait for the jasmine-gardened night
For the fragrance of tomorrow
The dawn where voices join

Like mouths that tremble under waterfalls
And dreams that float like Indian perfume.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Bamboo-Forest-Kyoto-170876421

Orphans of Asia


May 22, 2013

The orphan of Asia is crying in the wind
She is this young, not old any more
Lost with the new age at her heels
Nobody cares to play fair with her
She must find her own literacy
In games of power and pitfalls of fortune
Create her own ideology of feminism
Dreaming of bananas, pineapples and freedom
Dancing in the street, a new order of consciousness
She is a kingdom of honey-sweet sugar
A pragmatism of following ancient ingenuity
The orphan of Asia is a sleek mistress of the west
Parody of the Earth, song-mother of empires
Out of Africa, home of the first-settlers
How large is your opportunity
Why else would you be smiling? India? China?
The orphan of Asia has Japanese wings
Singaporean inclinations, Taiwanese wise-sayings
The orphan of Asia practices many religions, and none
She does not sleep in her mother’s arms
Everybody tries to take her favorite toys
Lips of forgotten genius, voice of new originality
Pakistan, Malaysian, Indonesia
The orphan of Asia is crying in the wind
Still remaining muddled, trapped, a lost kitten
Under the weight of a terrifying World Government
In place before the outer signs are seen
Your air still sneezes intellectual adolescence
Your spirituality has been banished by your politicians
Your soil still stinks of colonial dictators
Your education still forces you to betray yourselves
What nationalistic statements can save you from yourself?