Of It I can Say Nothing

 

 

 

Be here, by me

I who have been in love alone

Yoking the voice of listening itself

Where to pray is a kind of cherishing

Be here by me

 

I can say nothing no more

Of what it means to live

Each has their own eternity

To grieve, and brief moments to rejoice

Where a delicate fire is translated

 

Of the human condition’s reach

Be here, by me

Where time hangs – and I write

Words more naked than the flesh

Than the vulnerability of hours

 

That smite the dreams of youth

Be here, by me

I cry out to you, again

You who cared not that I sought to hear

Your emotions incommunicable

 

Be here, by me,

From aching care, to invisible language

And for what it means to be a friend

To witness the stories of lost souls

What cannot be said, will be wept

 

Like the smothered dreams of

All that is forgotten, death

The last blanket on our eyes.

 

 

Ode to Epigrams

 

The Sun also rises

So says the Epigraphs

The fragments of Sappho

 

Lost to funny history

Pithy saying, clever last wishes

Give me liberty, dreams and poise

 

For wisdom in brevity

This world is blind to the

Causes of her true happiness

 

If life were fair, art would not rejoice

In the disbelief of suffering

The aphorisms of despair

 

Axioms, Hakiu, sermons of sentience

There are no couplet daffodils left

Only perhaps epitaph tweets

 

That go unread in the hoodwinked hours

Of our celestial clowning

And commonplace anonymity

 

Where to err is just, and to fail is to incite

Our soul to rest from brilliant heights

To put on the puns of last resorts

 

Insult the world before she revels her riddles

The night is young, the days are old

The Sun also rises and a quote feels divine

Here’s another epigram, here’s another universe.

The End of Music

 

Go my lost songs of failure

The stars are bitter with a billion lives

They experience the lights as I do

 

More free than water, more alive than

Summer, or the organics that celebrated there

Go, my songs, that were never mine

 

We briefly hold on to life

Though lonely or unsatisfied

It does not matter – we are just

 

Visitors filled with the contempt

Of an imperfect journey

Wedded to ignorance and desire

 

Though I bend with night and rise

With the dawn in my mind

My heart coloured thirst born of this

 

There’s gentle music here, and open speech

In the cadence of all I see

But inside of me there is oppressed counterpoint

 

Go my songs, lost as I would end my search

In the silence of the subtle chords

Which is the fading light, and the years spoiled

 

Hungry for the return of octaves lost

And for the sport of voice and omens and lyrics

In the timeless commerce of beauty’s quivering vein.

 

Letters from my German Soul

I should think I’m a better ghost of a poet
Than a human being, why?
We no longer share a language
I’ve become too abstract, like

How sometimes everything seems
So subjective, until I lose myself
In the dream of a body
In the hopes of a mortal life

That nonetheless anticipates ecstasy
Even when I have learned to fear pain
Trusting the moment, walking through fire

To get to some place that was
Inside myself all along
The most solid advice my soul ever gave
Was to burn my hand about the nature of fire

To live as a poet might live
But I’m, more heart than alchemy
More curiosity, than temptation

More innovator, than life-traveller
Poetry and astrology were my mother-tongues
Until I had to learn new languages
Software and smiling, to enter

The Sunday of my brief life
Dying to myself that I might
Feel the bliss of a frozen moment
That melts perfectly into the here and now.

Prep Dreams

When I awake to the pawnbroker that you are
I will not criticize you for being a scavenger
Cheapskate, penny pincher, for
I will remember poverty, like sleep

I’ve placed it against my lips and
Cried its tears against my stained pillow-cases
I know the feel of a bed that turns
From hard to soft, until it is no longer a bed

I know loneliness like the back of my hand
Through broken fingernails and chipped dreams
And the lucid reminder of how class is destiny
And birth-lottery is the current state of things

And the black-eyed bruise of opportunity
When I awake to the people climber that you are
I will not criticize you for being a shark

For people hurry in their sleep to dream faster
Lay me down then and I’ll close my eyes
And I’ll pretend too that capitalism is real

That consuming and owning is important
Even if I know you are a wanna-be, I’ll play along
For tomorrow’s promises might find you

Hoarding wisdom and bottling simplicity
For the revelation that even skittish dreamers
Make mistakes and even monkeys wake.

Language lost into your tongue

I’ve lost language in my
Humanity, for what’s more important
Than connecting with people?
I communicate myself into newness
But it’s an “other” that enables
The alchemy of reperceiving myself

And of perception on the brink
Of experience, the lost art of mutability
I’ve adapted myself to your language
There is solid light in the way you speak
I hear undertones of mandarin
In your English, a second skin of voice

And I know I have been touched by it
Like a caress of another beautiful mind
We twist to flowers and fists
In language, debating and gossiping
The seasons away until there
Are no more bare words left
Only the nude memories and symbols
What is life without language?

The Unnameable Fiction

The Unnameable Fiction

Eun Ji, on days when I know
The top of my head will be taken off
I know that I have reached the immensity
That is the poetic-state of illuminated evidence
I’ll wear those Sunday clothes for sure

With a dangerous beautiful illusion
That the words that grace my presence
Are secrets that are essential
To a spiritual state of well-being
Poetry ennobles the feeling journey

Of our souls, which is why our
Machine-learning descendents will know
Humanity, through a poem, the algorithms
Will unlock the psyche of the brain there
Here, in the burning life of poetry

That can resurrect a life from disability
And take a lonely introvert into surrealism
So deep into the mysticism of life
That heartstring are no longer in the heart
But by the majesty of the universe all around

Nature’s delicate web is an essential graffiti
That poetry which is an eternal scripture
In the heart of everyone, like a Ferlingghetti whisper
Or a Hart Crane ode, until we become priests
Of the invisible, and stumble into Paz-like palaces

Legislators of dream and queens of our own amazement
The poet listens for the cosmos to act
In a melting symphony inside of them
That frosted fire that is an alchemy of the genuine
Finally, to be a poet may be a condition, rather than a hobby

More vital and representative of the human spirit
A bird of the flight of language that ignores all frontiers.

The Taoist poets

The Taoist poets

There is some hour, where our minds meet
Like boats floating in the same sea
We see the foam and sky
The learning hour, our heart of poetry
We were not predestined to be saved

By literature, the low-bending weight
Like water, the fruit, the crowds in our womb
Our brain was another light, a bright sunrise

And it would not last, the high-time
That was the hour, when we left
Our writing in the sands
The law of our blessed ways
To follow it like a river

Up to the fields of green
The author’s paradise, is when
Kindred writers meet and talk a little

Our ears are more thirsty than our hearts
For new words, vocabularies, expressions
The seashore was something we invented
To become a journey to the future poetry.

Who Came Sure from a Sea of Light

Who Came Sure from a Sea of Light

O’ the silent stealth of wind
And the transparent cool glance of green
The chide and call of open sky
The pass of years in the bright and brave
The natural, and useful elements
And water and where all doubt recedes
In time’s incessant lack of memory
Where subject disappears in objects
Recurring objects of glorious liberty
And channel of the soul
That washes the body and a life
To streaming rings of sun
And cells of gold for the immortal estate
And the spirit hiding behind the veil
Of a lifetime of walking the path.

For Poetry’s Sake

For Poetry’s Sake

The urge to write poetry
Is inborn, like prophecy
Not all poetry wants to
Be storytelling, or rhyme

Or sound like other poets
We might have heard or ignored
Neither does poetry require a topic
Or a message, it can be

Just a matter of lovely language
Just beauty on the stray and loose
It doesn’t need to suffer
For the page or owe the pen anything

Poetry is of so subtle a spirit
We might as well discuss with our soul
What to write next, it’s learned
Through decades of loving

Words and having an itch
To write when nothing else is going on
Speculative metaphysics and art?
Try poetry, and unremember your life

Create layers on top of memory
Write poems, create destiny
Out of the fictions of your mind
It’s like a spell and a sacred hearing

Learning poetry by heart is then
Learning yourself by heart
And there is nothing like
Loving yourself in a poem.

Talking poems that speak of poetry

I Like Poems that are Little Games

I sometimes talk to you
About making a poem with a poem
Within language I end in pleasure
It’s not like pain filtered

It’s like bliss and peace
Usually a life turned
Into a poem can be misrepresented
Or divinized, you don’t make a

A poet with ideas, not with words
You make it with feeling
Poetry is not a memory
It’s an experience you write down

You don’t help people
In your poems, you just
Relate your view of beauty
And they can participate or not

A poem is born of revelation
It cools in the night air
It pops the end of tragedy
For poetry outlives us

And it can reveal everything mysterious
Because itself is intuitive
Dancing in the heart of
Sonnets and odes that became

Birds of musical merit
That’s something I’d like to talk
To you about, how a pencil
Can become a painting

How a piano sonata can
Become a young woman.

One Book of Poems is like a Novel

m

One Book of Poems is like a Novel

You do not seem to have
The heart of poetry
You do not suffer tragedy
Like a liar who always speaks the truth

A poet looks at the world
The way a man looks at a beautiful woman
As if he will be haunted by her
All day long, the poet doesn’t

Have to invent, she listens
She listens all day
Like a solider ready to liberate words
From their steadfast possession

Of definition, form, ignorance
A poet must be a psychologist
She must find secrets
And tell them in some grasping narrative

For too much feeling unearthed
Like the soul lost, a mother-tongue
There is poetry as soon as
We realize we possess nothing

Then all the world comes alive
Sometimes poetry is inspired
By the conversations of life
Other times by the readings of other poems

There you go again, plucking
My heartstrings and making
Music with them, each word
Bears the weight of your loneliness
I’ve read my own quite slowly too.

Poets that Blew Time full of Sand

Poets that Blew Time full of Sand

You and I had too much love
To fill things our voices spoke of early
Sayings: with lovely voice
In such a hard world
You and I suffered too much

Too proud to be wise
Of what we had overcome
We may not speak of it

Unable to reconcile reality with what we lived
Ask us no further word
We may not speak of them
They touched us too early and nearly
The strange myths our souls took on

To survive or to embellish that survival
These talks of old disguises we tell ourselves
The masks and narratives our souls built

To endure the star-span of our smile
And be a ballad-maker in hard times
Old singers we become half-forgotten
Half-forgetful we had no melody
Only the pang of the wind-rune at our heart

Our heart that old poets painted color-blind
The wizardry of strange sadness undiagnosed
We who ponder silence

In extinguished verse
Laments lonely from the beginning
Hope spent pioneered on the frontier guard
These gracious spirits on desolate fields
You and I had too much love

Sorrow like rain that is never spent
Feeling as white as bones and a thousand frosts
No longer men that take offense or have defense.

Some things poets seem to have forgotten

Some things poets seem to have forgotten

My Grandmother turned me on
Poetry and philosophy
She used to collect clippings
Of poems from the local newspaper

I read Tennyson, Yeats, Blake
In her book collection
She read those poems often
The pages were old and bent

Years later, I would write
My philosophy in poems
With my own clippings
Of Taoism, Buddhism, Sufism

And transhumanism, but I knew
By the time the singularity reached us
Poetry might have gone extinct
The poetry of the high-bow

Is now so inaccessible, without
Seemingly, any deeper meaning
The trend to write dead things
That passes as coldly as a poor display

Perhaps the future of poetry
Lies in the fringe verse
Of the downtrodden and in the
Privileged academic babble

Of poets who make art without
A true connection to the zeitgeist
I don’t need a Masters in Fine Arts
In poetry or creative writing

To feel entitled, but women like my grandmother
Will die out, millennials are making
Other choices, they don’t need to
Be starving artists to get that poetry is dead

And even the idea of becoming a writer
I once had a roommate who became
A famous journalist, maybe he
Knew something then that I only realize now.

It Fled from A l l M y E c s t a s y

It Fled from A l l M y E c s t a s y

Whoever has found himself, his soul
Must only seek obedience of divinity
What is divinity but the most natural
A longevity of following inner-beauty

Fading morning star to light of dawn
He who praises must become
Cup of gratitude, and luck of empathy
Found on the journey is the

Secret of compassion
Until we stop being so religious
And stop being so materialistic
Only then can we find the thread

The river of divine happiness
And peace like silence that hums
Tender offing of the soul’s common speech
In prayer, meditation, poetry, art

The ecstasy that the white birds bring
The heart behind the veil
This is what the angels weep
To unfurl its thousand saying voices
The arms of divine beauty are supremely glad.

The Poetry we Brought With Us #amwriting #AppreciateAnAuthor #wordsmatter #blog

The Poetry we Brought With Us

I’ve found evidence of life
In poems, the dash of dictionary
Spirit’s metamorphosis
Ink stains on my smile
What gets lost in translation

Is a lot, the silence and the person
The Imaginary gardens
The collected experiences of the individual
We were poets even in prose
Even on our break, in steadfast definition

Of being possessed by beauty
Of being distorted by gratitude
Our identities were vital truths
To history, that’s how intimately
We related to words, we made rhetoric

Out of the quarrel with ourselves
We founded our own kind of poetry
It was, the liberation of the senses
Divinity’s distinction of image and soul
It was a Plato tattoo on the back of our hand

Always ready, immediately syllabled
We kept invisible keepsakes of our tribe
Like misprint of reincarnations forgotten
We felt the summer skies in books
And heaven’s lies in paragraphs

We became prophets of philosophy kidnapped
And activists against ugliness
The secret suffering was ours
We found beautiful music even in
The most tormented of societies

And we envisioned the future
Wed to the joys of the past
I’ve found evidence of life in nature
And an unknown author
With appropriate ghosts

Exploring my own amazement
I felt the symmetry of poetry
As precise as astronomy
Portraits of revelation lost
In Haikus to the infinite

Maybe we all carry the soul
Of a poet who died young inside of us.

Magic of Poetry #amwriting #wordsmatter #AppreciateAnAuthor

Magic of Poetry

My love haven’t you heard?
A poem helps change the shape of the universe
That is why we write, to rearrange
Our spirit so death shall have no dominion

Over our fragile psyches, so then
The purity of our love might be translated
From the language of one heart
To the soulful listening of the many

So next time you ask yourself
What is the point? Remember dear
Our frail deeds danced in a green bay
And it was laughter and celebration

Because their words had heard of lightning
And the beauty of the storm, and every
Obstacle seemed clearer in that music
Wild men caught hint of the prophecies

And began to sing and make art
To learn to grieve with dignity
My love haven’t you been listening?
A poem casts the net of silence all around

Making fate seem like a good night’s pardon
Poetry is the whisper of each generation
Which says: I love you so much
I’ll never be able to tell you

And if, with my soul I could touch the earth
I would tremble like a dream, sad and beautiful
To hear all the poems you have read
Until time herself holds me green and dying

And behind the secret eyes of dreamers
All is washed away and understood.

Featured Artist: http://agnes-cecile.deviantart.com/

Eulogy to Poetry

Eulogy to Poetry

Think in the morning
And poetry has died
What would you say to her?
First language and eldest daughter
I saw you in grains of sand

Your love trapped in wild flowers
I set the seas to your lips
And burned a thousand dreams
In your skies of velvet pink
I knew you as infinity of evolution

Guiding me to future hours
The trees cried flowers because of you
And the sun made songs of her Spring
You never know love of language
Until language is gone, like Sanskrit

An exuberance of many ways
To the say the same dear familiar things
Which to another generation, might be unknown
That’s poetry, a rare bird going extinct
That’s poetry, a strange magic being replaced

That’s poetry, the kind of book not published
That’s poetry, the kind of soul that can’t be bought.

Aphorisms to the Anonymous #PoetryMonth #proverb #aphorism

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.

The Problem of Extinction #Poetry #Environment #Transhumanism #Amwriting

Atlantis Returned

In the algebra of burning suns
I witnessed days
Like a blaze

From language, technology, culture
Species upon species going extinct
I was alive when this happened
And I felt the mourning

Of evolution, the transgression
Against God, unity in diversity

Extinction is sometimes
The only punishment nature
Has left, after the singularity

Some might flee into augmented reality
Decide not to travel
To other planets, busy in their

Immaterial gamification of reality
With their smart watches
Immersive glasses, fake telepathy
Levels of community

You told me of the setting hand
Of life and the hour when
Humanity would be judged

In the soul of Dead Mayans
I knew even global civilizations
Could destroy themselves
It wouldn’t be the first time.

A Pilot from Uncommon Language

Freedom in Obscurity

I never imagined I’d experience
The repetition of experience
As pure freedom
The inner grammar

Is the failure to criticize
I am walking rapidly
In the slow-motion

From death to dream
To birth again, to be a poet
Is to obey letters of water
Powers of lucidity

Discovered in surrender
I never imagined I’d experience
Freedom in self-limitation

In the simple twilight of
The same landscape
I found the underbelly of genius
Where I reached the lines

I was supposed to (have)
The drowsy nerve of soul
Where all pleading stops.

When My Name Was

Changing Destiny

In the epilogue of final exists
At the wild invention of stories
In the emergency of all narrative
Who will you decide to be?

In the immediacy of dreaming
Where only a few years count
How will you stalk destiny?
Dripping with the temporary

Appetites of mortality
What will you give your soul to?
The journey that is
Beneath velvet stars, points

ii

As tiny as infinity
Blindly feeling even thoughts
Your body pulling you
In mundane directions

The moon never did any good
Breeding, profit, mating, belonging
But is that all you were created for?
In half-lit houses we ache

iii

But do not know why
A quicksilver fluidity of the future
And the grave realities that contains
All of us in holographic form

Forever retrievable, forever
Exportable to baby-earths
An algorithm of small theatres
Beautiful framed by the prospect of free-will.

What Would The Ancients Say

Of Gods and Strangers

I dreamt of lost vocabularies
Lines of poet-monks
Dialects of the Tao
Encoded in obscure Buddhist texts
Mantras of the Rishis
Wisdom of the ancients

Sanskrit whispers of sages
I have heard them all in my imagination
Or, the forgotten dialect of heart
In modern man, whose hunger
For profit is a world-destroying greed
A few generations, so much lost!

I dreamt of slow locomotives of
Quantum physics, artificial-intelligence
A million times more intelligent
Than the collective intelligence of all humans
And all this comes to pass
Progress, industry, prosperity, technology

I saw them all, existing in a relative permanence
That was as fragile as an empire
In ancient times, each one thinking itself immortal
I dreamt of the prophecies of Mayan priests
On the scorched Earth where our descendants
Mourned, for their inheritance

Our legacy and our people, were yours
I dreamt the past and the future as one moment.

(When hope has no face)

It Asked a Crumb of Me

Hope is the thing that catches you
When you have children
It perches in your soul like

A quiet song, you cannot explain it
Faith has feathers without words
It’s simple, profound

And has a quality that never stops
Its flight traverses dawns
Hope is a quality of purpose

To have a future is enough
Little birds must content with
All the dangers, just like you

Hope is not found in all
The parts of this world, some resent it
Others have reset it, it lingers

In the back of our minds
Even when storms have come
Hope inches you forward
Sore from tragedies, it brings you
Your people, and sometimes

That is enough to get through another day
Sometimes nobody comes
And you must go inside
To find the peace of the strangest sea
To find crumbs of divinity.

Title Embedded Below

We Worship perfect because we can’t have it

Language, it has allowed me to dream
I’ve never done anything but dream
All experience is a simulation
Of what our senses tell us

We perceive, all relationships
Are 80% make believe
And thus, I come to the point
Where my ultimate concern

Is naturally, for my inner life
Is the book of disquiet over?
Is the meaning found that escaped me?
Are the idols ready to be pushed aside?

And the myths, are they ready
To succumb to new myths, new standards?
To make way for the new
Language, it has allowed me to feel

I’ve never done anything but feel
All thoughts have a quality of feeling
Objectivity is the greatest lie
But subjectivity is an ironic dreamer

Full of queer promises and casual observations
That do not register fully until years later
That I take a certain pleasure in the fact
Of watching daydreams go down in defeat

Words like any truth, are part duality
And what once seemed like a clever remark
Can later feel like the ghost of an imaginary friend.

Great poems to not memorize

Great poems to not memorize

I’ve never memorized poems
I’ve only attempted to look
At the world with poetry

For beauty is everywhere
We just have to notice
And truth is everywhere
We only have to recognize her
I’ve never tried to be a poet

Poetry has worked
Through me like music
Like a brain on music

And a symphony on pause
A hush, a glow, maybe a tap
I look up to the light
At that moment, I’m a living
Prayer of poetry, sincerely

Surreal and in awe of how
Beautiful life can be
The inner journey that is ours.

Whatever author doth yield to divine love

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.

Incarnation wisp of foam taming the bark

the silence is great around our bed
especially whispering

hanging like a girlhood of dreams
our hearts still beat
attitude is destiny

even if we are sleeping!
just as gravity murmurs
of how we wear the years!

there is no cosmic reply
to the questions we were asking
twenty years ago!

time sits like an enchanted
mystery, ready to fly away!
we are still virgins to experience

we just refuse to see it in new ways!
we gather a little experience
And then we prepare to die

And then it finally happens!
since you cannot hear me
now that I have passed the boundaries

I will not say trivial goodbyes or helloes
My most beautiful ones
Live your lives.

New Words Advent

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

 

 

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.

Messiah Complex

 

 

The world doesn’t need another martyr

Jesus, warm blood on my arm

Warm as a golden bird trapped

In a cage, does it feel like a dove or a hummingbird?

 

This life we sweat and work for

This chaos born of human ignorance

What is the price to bring

A brighter shine of love into this world?

 

Tell me, I’m growing old alone

This world doesn’t need

Another poet, Jesus, tell me

Sweet voice in my mind

 

O send a raven ahead of the dove

The ballads no longer sound

I’ve been chained in a cave

Let’s call it the marketplace

 

Where I barter my soul every hour

For a bit of peace and waiting for

The green branch of love

For a spring that never arrives.