Come back to me, Goddess of words
Musical voice inside my mind
That’s the only beauty I care for
Special guest of my writing soul
That hovers forever in me with delight
A beauty desired, never wholly tasted
Never to let me lose this grace
I most wish to see your translation
Of life to voice, experience to fiction
For we are all nothing but fictions in the end
Temporary fantasies at best
Subjective values subdued by whim
And made a golden home by circumstance
Blessed One, be free, but know that
I am here listening to your rants, reading
Your books, as light from a star arriving late
Asking again what I have to suffer
To hear your voice again, sweet child
Of literature, thick-feathered summer birds
Who bring eternity in for a while
From the wild, alive inside of me.
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.
I tweet my own quotations
Exposed in lyrical Haikus blended together
I’ve hashtags for my own symphonies
Little themes I rehash with ginger-lemon tea
After midnight, with a glass of red wine
I yearn to be defeated by greater
Things than I by myself could access
That’s the synergy of souls
We’re walking catalysts, you and I
Out in the crazy dark, we’re vulnerable
It’s a tremendous act of violence
To endure solitude, we’re not bred for it
I don’t condone you for being platonic with it
But I worry about you, I tweet
My worries about how strong you have grown
And I tried to reproduce myself
Objectively, and failed, and left
Unquestioning of my own subjectivity
Distorted, human, insufferable to myself
I left you there, truly about to sing
You wanted different breaths and
Required an excessive amount
Of space to find it, I learned finally
To let you be.
There is a secret Haiku between you and I
Though I suspect only I can hear it
The words are dim and bright
You who colonized the American dream
For East-Asian writers forever
It wasn’t a banner you took on lightly
And I admired you for it:
In part because I myself
Fantasized about being Asian
Had strange anti-white guilt
Embarrassed by my British Descent
They say white people only came
Into existence eight thousand years ago
With a healthly dose of Neanderthal genes
And if, as artists we ever felt like outcasts
These invisible connections were cathartic
Lonely and abandoned, I relished
The purity of self-sacrifice
As if the poverty helped me focus
On what I wanted to do
On what the divine universe asked of me
I complied, was obedient, took it to heart
There is a haiku between you and I
It’s a wet barren emblem
Of creative arousal, like
Bards of magical realism
I endured in poems only to reach you
I became both testimonial and deviation
The inner critic in me was silent
When you were in my inner room
I never knew how to communicate
My voices was uncategorized in
The anthologies and manuscripts
I was the sun on a blanket of a lost poem
With no fine description or synopsis
Though my narrative was a dream to you
A longer poem crafted for short movements
Of the soul, like a shared hologram
That replaced skype, was more intimate
Than periscope, more alive than self-publishing
On that wick I lit the flame of your split shadows
Black honey, black light, anti-matter gravity
The eminent imminent intuition of
Of sacred intent to another person’s journey
My eyes discovered your language
A cage of sounds, an open morning
Your foliage like the blouse of the moon
Your hips shuddering in your privacy
The sifted light of your ferocious attack on art
Your daring red, your what-if-mother approach
Your shriek in the lips of Virgo
I was a scavenger of the heroes you created
And I swam in your gardens careless
Of the wholly immaterial nature of the encounter.
You are so beautiful, like karmic prophecies
I hold you for the first and last time
With the remembrance of white loneliness
The eternity of jasmine of waiting
I waited for you my laughing Mandarin Queen
I lathed your body with soap
Out of the earth the sweet roughness
Of womb and smile and mother-qualities
The sacred touch of the helping hand
You are so beautiful, like I wish to always see again
To stir the night with our golden sceptre
Out of the love of hope, the weight of kingdom and tiredness
The last relief of a life well done
Where we can continue walking
After the bonfire of burned letters, misguided spouses
Who never experienced what we did so easily –
You are so beautiful, like honeyed-butter skin
Like a Taiwanese fruit so rare, you give rest to my eyes
And nobility to my “face level” heart.
The blog is dedicated to the people which care about their goals, dreams , actions including the ones that have paused , slow down or even stopped moving forward.
Wuji Seshat 