After Taking with Miss Sun

 

 

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.

 

Like Golden Things

Eun Ji, will love truly heal
What language fails to know
I’ve been searching my love of words

For what seems all eternity
But if I defer the grief, will I then
Diminish the gift

All this sacrifice, all this emotion
We sift our old anomalies looking
For something new, but I think divinity

Comes less from effort, more from surrender
I want to burn in gratitude
Until my very idea of self is annihilated
Because for me, that’s the only way
To truly be, Eun Ji, can we be then

More than simply a child of time?
That our fluid love might be
More than a lost sonnet, more than

A speck of the human spirit
I miss our old city, where we spoke
Intimately in the great assembly of youth

We had golden things to convey then
And a more immediate sense
Of what love is in the first place.

On How to do Intrinsic Literature

Eun Ji, one day do you suppose

We will stand outside of history?

We felt like outsiders, aliens, imposters

Our dreams were for centuries, not decades

Thousands of years from now

What will attention and consciousness feel like?

Under the remains of what was once

Art, literature, writing, poetry

We made myths in history and found

More meaning in it than in what

The world could offer us, wasn’t that

The ultimate choice, the biggest abandonment

We divorced reality on our own terms

Becoming recluses, we set the world on fire

In our minds, with paper hearts we

Broke our heart on men, on trivial women

On people that didn’t know

The kind of sacrifices it takes to be an artist

They were normal, living landscapes

Of cost and benefit analysis,

Like how to acquire more financial resources

Or which significant other to mate with

For successful children and for some

Mistaken sense of what descendents and legacy mean.

Black like the Canvas of Night poems

Eun Ji, my somber heart seeks an always
That’s what literature is to us isn’t it?
A lifelong friend that never leaves us
So long as we don’t stop writing

There are many drugs and games in this world
I learned about life from life herself
She was dressed in black like a love
That is a clash of lightenings

But art is a feat of pain
And I’ve loved the world without knowing why
And maybe loved the words
Only as a poor substitution for experience

A kind of poverty, that became my only wealth
While lovers left me and my parents died
I remained the friend to literature
And poetry well, it stuck in my mouth

Like the taste of our most familiar beloved food
The cherries of summer, and blueberries of autumn
And my love, it feeds on what you love
The writing in us is a secret between
The shadows and the soul of distant suns.

Seattle Diaries

Eun Ji, I fear the richness of the mouth
That I love too many things
To kiss any one of them properly
The snare of my love for literature

Is then songs in me that prove relentless
O, I have forgotten all praise
But as a betrothed prayer
I melt as the seat of all goodness in me

Eun Ji, how I wish to read your autobiographies
Every inch of your memories
That our ancestry shapes us so intimately
The words that come from hearts and countries

Cleansed from regret will we wash
Our wounds in the ocean of all of us?
The deep seated womb of time will
Bury on, in blood and sunburnt grasses

The fear of change in us will too be overcome
By life’s ministry of new moons and traversing birds
We’ll go on thinking of love, beauty, sorrow
And in the lost delight and unwon splendour

Of the stories we create, we’ll be
The departure of words into experience
Where nothing is forgotten and remembering means
Creating new layers of memories

Memories as awkward as the flesh
Experience that burns waiting for music.

The Crown of Literature is Poetry

It’s the end, and we’re all set
To become stories, information
Some live the poetry they cannot write
While I write the poetry I cannot live
As a slave to the poverty
And the empathy that comes from

Knowing the downtrodden
Poetry is a fire that lives inside of you
Like an artistic expression of faith
Beginning in delight and ending in wisdom
Pleasure never has so much truth as this

I’ll open all the doors, I’ll review
All the possibilities, and there will still
Be more to write, that’s the universe
Swimming in our minds, that’s a jewel
Of the cosmos, stationed in our hearts

And you won’t find poetry anywhere
Outside yourself, unless you
Bring a bit of your soul
The secret inspiration of the stars.

Because in Times Like These

What kind of times are these I’d say
Who disappeared in shadows clear
Persecuted for the diversity we celebrate
This multi-ethnic urban reality
Where robots walk in our midst
Our behavior analyzed by analytics algorithms
I won’t tell you where the place exists
Time and space are a leafmold paradise
Where we can no longer hide
Convergence requires people everywhere
What kind of times are these I’d ask?
Where billions cannot feed themselves
Jobs disappear faster than they can be created
And the price of being educated is lifelong debt
What kind of times are these I’d know
Where if you listen, all you hear is noise
And if you surf the net, all you see is distraction.

America the Illiterate

I want to go on beyond words
But language stumbles in me and I am
A prisoner to her gateway of being
I open it to arrive at duality

Without Oneness, where can I pass?
Into machine worlds of simulation
Into holographic organic imagination
Into symbolic abstractions that are

Fountains of light in the dark of matter
Words go roundabout and arrive forever
In a kind of disassociate state of
Of object and subject, doing and scene

That separation doesn’t really exist
It’s part of the linear illusion of the brain’s
Incapacity to understand the cosmos
From multiple frames of reference

In senses which we do not possess
To see dimensions, possibilities, variables
So I am trapped in a kingdom of micro pronouns
A pigeon-eye view of the same layers

A public square of the corruption of men
In a futile marketplace of bartering
Where people profit over others
And art in literature has long since

Become unfashionable for being less glamorous
People stopped truly communicating
Rather they are watchers of videos, images, screens
There’s too few Socratic questions and

And discourses of platos’ and emersons’
There’s no Nietzsche in the youth of today
Only the boring pragmatism of American determinism
A language of impoverished politics and

A caricature of news, of an enormous campaign
To make the masses dumb, and it’s worked.

Twisterella

A conversation with silence slips
And begins with lightness
The speaker has only a language
And words to drift apart on

A poem can be a force of nature
Inferior to the condition of the experience
But as a subjective replacement for it
Or a stylized augmentation of it

Like a drug, creation neurotransmitters
Like a music station
In the hour of uttering syllables
That have a personal meaning

Like unsaid thoughts that twist
A twisterella of the technology of silence
A ritual to self, an etiquette of art
Blurring terms of white or black

Inoffensive, tremendous, revelatory
Like the quote that felt the cosmos
William Blake and Osho on steroids
Making all other illegitimate voices

Seem like poor echoes of how to exist
And how to drink silence in solitude.

As a Poet Burning Oneself Out

My swirling wants no longer want
The grammar of my soul has turned alchemic
Themes written under duress have come and gone

Passed, like the emptiness of notation
Like art, after the generation of my audience
Have died, the failure of criticism
To detract from the journey
I am a writing automation or

An experience of repetition in a simulation
On how to become a writer and bleed
Ten thousand hours into my craft

The thing most I love, the trip until forever
That’s literature to me, a dying art
Now I know what it feels like to be
A minority, like Native Americans
To have become nearly obsolete

Time takes hold of us like a draft
And the sun produces powerful dreams
That never feel completed, crimson-fingered

We draw in the earth, in the ash
But our designs are never done
There isn’t enough time and fire
To create what we had hoped to make.

On Being Conducted

In the sympathy of the Absolute
Mozart or Shakespeare didn’t know
How beautiful the categories
That makes a heart full with her genius
Or how a person can fly inside
In free-associating with our highest destiny

Sometimes we just follow whispers
And hit notes of mysterious Poetry
Or find a beautiful day to make music
And in the solitude of an ending meditate
I remember the feeling of internal seekers
That always wanted me to push on

And the petitions for more revelations
From the internal holy ghosts
I remember how certain emotions
Evoke a sense of wonder and how
The miracles drove me to visit the spot
Where God stood on his heels for me

And I felt the full gravity of time
And philosophy insisted to meet me as my guest
In the simplicity of what I believed was destiny.

Author As the Bridge

Author As the Bridge

Dear writer, are you soaked in words?
Like a sea ready for the sun?
Completely transubstantiated with its inner nature
Ready to be a reflecting bridge to light?

Dear writer, have you acknowledge
The ecstasy that makes your life whole,
Walking hand in hand with honest years
With the cosmos in language

Your language, the one that stirs you
When your primary presumption
Is not simply sight, but vision
You know it quite well, the organic manifestation

Of soulful narrative, the core of
The voice of the characters you speak for
Dear writer, we are all bridges to something
Symbols of some poetic fancy

That reaches across years, pages, distances
To be directed to the storytelling
That is innate with history and identity
That we are not one person, but one people

And our experience is not simply our own
But the experience of all imagined things
All light-years of culture, species, planets.

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To The place-names of the Future

To The place-names of the Future

You soul, are terrifying and strange
And beautiful with the spirit of poetry
When you weep, everyone knows
How to love and regret and want
Leaning on the balcony railing
Of literature, is enough to be read

If you know how the universe holds
Itself together, with the hands of
The downtrodden sharing, and the
Masters hoarding and profiting
There is no revolution that lasts

Corporations become the new feudal kingdoms
Holding monopolies like Google or Apple
Mere footnotes in the future I am sure
You soul, make up your own destiny
And that’s what I am here to witness

How patient is language, waiting
To be reborn in ovals open all day
To live behind sunblinds and countrysides
And to be spoken on new planets
Where restless silence no longer

Must hug the barren innocence
Of uninhabited landscapes
You soul, are wild and terrifying
And in your sovereign intensity
I think I’ve been changed by your advertisements
The archaic bleached faces of who we were.

Gospel of What we Have Writ

Gospel of What we Have Writ

Eun Ji, I found that perfect love casts out all fear
That I could love one another as
Nature hath loved us, or ancestors, or descendents
If our refuge can be found here

Let its strength be a very present solace
In the sorrow, trouble, obstacles
If love be the way, then we must
Work together for some greater good

That salvation might not be personal at all
But something shared, given, freely?
Is this not then the altruism of art
That it gives freely like the Saint

And loves the sinner as much as anyone
For how different are we truly in our weakness?
That strength is just life and youth
I can do all through meaning that strengths me

Finding meaning in this or that, does it matter?
For psalms, poetry and the sweetness of labor
That only gives in the doing and revitalizes all experience
That the inner flame in me can only be sufficient

And such is the inner-life that buds and bleeds and jewels
A stronghold of beauty, a tender gratitude which ascends.

A home in the dark

A home in the dark

Eun Ji, how did I get wrapped up in this?
In the essence of what you write
I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in that
I am a dream, within a dream, isn’t it?

Like a shadow afraid of the dark
I seek out your words as is for sustenance
That I’d prefer a subjective reason for being
Than a thousand material affirmations

To win and hold a heart in the purity
Of doing what you love, it’s that I most admire
To live our lives so well that death
Will tremble to take us, who knew

That when my time was up, I’d think of you
Eun Ji, it’s far-fetched, isn’t it lonely one?
We are the scientists trying to make sense
Of why we are made to love the stars

But the stars inside of us glow sometimes
Brighter and fainter for different people
When you transform into a butterfly
May I read the poems of when you
Were a caterpillar, and weep?

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.

The Best way to predict the future is to create it

The Best way to predict the future is to create it

Death does not concern us
For we knew we were mortal all along
Because so long as we exist
Death is not here, or there
And when she comes

We no longer exist
Until then I may at times
Distract myself with pleasure
Not because I don’t seek
A profound sense of meaning

But because, we built this world on pleasure
And by tasking it I am made human
Made to know why people labour
Though I know there is nothing
Outside myself that can ever enable

Me to get better, stronger, richer, quicker, smarter
Everything is within
Everything exists and will continue
Without me, so if I seek anything
Outside myself, it’s only me dallying

With the inevitable reality
Of a wonderfully inner cosmos.

Who is your Favorite poet of all-time? Try the Survey!

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Here is your chance to celebrate your all-time favorite poets, you will be able to choose a few of the ones in this list who have moved you the most. Tick the boxes next to the poets you treasure the most. These poets were shortlisted from an exhaustive and subjective review of the literature.

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Choose the poets who most impacted your own writing, those rare poets who truly you feel are the most influential poets in your life.

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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.

There Would be people who listen

There Would be people who listen

Poetry being internal rambling
Is a lousy form of activism
It doesn’t really change much
In a world where poetry
Doesn’t get read, actions are not words

Though words may be a kind of
Act, a poem doesn’t start
A revolution, isn’t a political

Act of martyrdom
Though a poet is the best imitator
This art being the easiest to dabble in
The hardest to truly reach excellence
And the most lovely to quote

What’s a good quote without
The sense of magic
That concentration and economy

Unique to good verse
Like a short story compacted
Into a few brilliant lines
It’s contemplation of years soaked
In the seconds of our precision

If a spirit would ever want to be precise
I do not know, though the soul
Might want to love intent

Because you’ve got to find the truth
Within you, and penetrate it
Like having a very intuitive pen pal
Very far away, you have to
Summon her, exchange lives with her.

On Saying what you feel freely

Let’s not try to define ‘Poetry’

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.

We A r e What we R e a d

We A r e What we R e a d

To some of us, failed writers
Poetry is the human heart beat of language
Something that vaguely “saved us”
At some point in our destiny

When we maybe had nowhere to turn
No one to see us through our ordeals
Poetry began the telling of all tales
It lived and breathed our history

It immortalized our most grandiose love-affairs
And insulated us from our tragedy
To some of us, word lovers
Poetry is the human heart

On a tree of life where each voice
Is a sacred leaf, each a note
In the immortal prayer of poetry
Back to the nature of language

Odes to evolution, mirrors of our neural states
There is a discourse in the wane of beauty
And when art dies, we lose a bit of our human spirit
And the memory of renaissance

And the reincarnation of golden ages
It’s a failure of society of literacy
That goes from books to computers to cell phones
Not really a cultural apocalypse

But a monopolization of the channels of content
The incorporation & assimilation of our attention
But who I am to say if we are literate
I don’t have time to read seriously
Only enough time to write moderately.

That it is Enough

That it is Enough

I have learned
That to be with those I like is enough
To be loved as little or as much

Simplicity is the glory of enough
I do not seek more, or I would falter
My soul stands cool and pure
Composed as if for thousands
Of reincarnations

And to believe that
A leaf of grass is no less
Than the journey of stars

That the glow of oceans
Is no less than a miracle of
Being at the right distance
From a sun, that is the right magnitude
I have learned to view freely

To watch the years slowly
Not as myself, but as all life
Do I contradict myself

I am large, I contain multitudes
I am not one self but
A collection of neurons
My brain is a hologram
Of all of humanity

If I exist this way, that is enough
Stranger, if you pass me
Give me a look with the

Fragrance of sunrise and I Will know
That we walk undisturbed
With lessons of beauty at every turn
That is enough, so here I shall
Dismiss all that has offended my soul
And empty myself at the end of each new day.

Decline of American Poetry #Wordsmatter #NationalPoetryMonth

Decline of American Poetry

There is a great decline in American verse
I call it suicide by vandalism
Of modern poets, poets who
Upon obtaining MFAs, talk to each other

In poetry without a soul
Now I’m not one to flag ambition
But I can spot a poser easily enough
They believe for one, that

There verse is special, beyond criticism
They write without evidence
Of the comprehension of an audience
Their writing has no currency

When read even four years later
I would not call it increased professionalism
More like, uneventful snobbery
Modern poetry has no following

Sceptical and overwrought I turn the page
There is no lyricism left
So yes, I am somewhat dismissive
Of second rate American poets

I prefer to look elsewhere
Poets are injured, buried beneath grievance
In a history that they do not even understand
It’s not to say that I don’t respect them

But the movement lacks leadership, inspiration
Poetry yes nourishes and enlivens
But not in the current form, does it
Share a narrative with a congregation of the brightest

It has no willingness to create beauty anymore
It just cannot stop speaking
Divorced from reality, activism, revolution
I don’t read poetry, to listen to

Second-rate spoken word
I’m not sure about you, or by whose authority
I’ve read exactly enough proof of decaying form
To recognize imposters nine times out of ten

Our system that awards fame is corrupt
Our best poets are not names I’m interested in
They aren’t authentic voices I’d cherish
Maybe the editors and critics are to blame?

I’d seriously challenge the categories of art
Modern poetry killed the genre
And I don’t pretend not to see the signs
The quality of poetry reflects a problem of literacy

A declining soul and strength of spirit
In the American psyche, that has been
A long time coming, fame is being distorted
With a lot of bad verse, it’s nonsense if you ask me.

Auto-poetry

the poet is a faker
to be a voice among the crowd
the poet must approach magic
To say what the crowd would imagine

without used words
the poet is a faker
who’s so good at his act

he even fakes the pain
or becomes the pain
of the fact of creation

an introduction to the human condition
the poet is a faker
and those who read his words
participate in the autopsychotherapy

they will feel in what he wrote
the substance of pain healed

and that is the beauty of
performance, and that is the
final confession of all art.

Legacy of dead poets

if I die young
it will not be
because I hated life
on the contrary I

love life too much and therefore
feel unworthy of her
if I die young
without having been able

to publish a book
even if my verses are never published
I live the same as I would anyhow
writing for pockets of joy

reading for eternal pleasure
exploring my soul
in the unpolished mirror of literature
if I die young, take note:

the spring will return
a thousand poets will take my place
today I wish I could think of Spring
as a person, she would remain

beautiful even if not watched
that’s how poems should leave us
we are all nothing more than children
playing in simulations

everyone is a dreamer
and if I wasn’t loved or die
young, I can say it wasn’t meant to be
because roots are hidden

in the ground, and I’m happy
because I don’t ask for anything.

Solution to a Mystical Book of Epigrams

The circle of our coming and our going
Melts here in infinite knowing
Such that has no beginning
Or shall maybe ever have an end

For no one can ever in this world explain
The love that bears the pain
Through centuries of the Keeper
Who arranges the body of this universe

That nothing is truly good or evil
It just is what it is and evolves
Finally to decay and start again
I leave a drunkard of time and place

And holy tears stream my eyes
Not for my little portion of profit or children
Not for experience or her legacy of trials
But because I know everyone stands

In a limited place, without freedom
Only occasional moments of outbreaks
That might last but a few seconds
Of eternity, and so my days are spent

Circling and tracing the way back
To the source, as if in rehab from unity
I must accept this divided world
As a lonely place or as a solitude yearning

For another kind of bliss, I am friendless
Among so many people, so many routines
That barley have time to say or thought at all
If the one I love is God, do I need any friend?

Poetry is the First Pleasure

What is poetry?
Poetry is a whisper
The quiet voice of dreaming
That can never die

So long as civilization
Makes art, poetry spreads
Poetry is the eyes of things
In the soul of words

She is the ancients
Transcending time itself
Poetry is beauty
Unchanging unlike truth

A rhythm of sentience
On the face of rhyme
She is the admired song
Of the sweetest voice

She is the heaven-rapture
Dancing on the tip of bliss
What is poetry?
Poetry is of the wood

Poetry is the making
Of water and stone
She is the building of
Literacy in a world

Of discrete poems, where
We originate, create, evocatively
The poisis, the first-awakened
A realized feeling expressed

For all our eternities
So imagery, form, rhythm and sound
Might trumpet, flute and come
Alive in the music of our
Deepest lack of inhibitions.

Invitation to Experience

To posterity I give prosperity
Unread verses, anonymous scripts
Of the law of love encoded
Hardwired and entranced

Who will be born tomorrow?
I would write for them
Tell them of their hearts
And the dancing histories of humanity

Time is long and the worlds are wide
The path of the ancients
Runs in our acts, everyone’s path
Fate is not a solitary act

Beauty is not a generational event
Truth is not owned, liberty is not bought
I have never won, by sword or pen
My freedom, only in the future

Can you be free, not today
I wasted my life in insolent loneliness
Only to discover pure experience
Requires greater risks, greater acts

Of self-determination
Than I was ever capable
Traveler, hurry your steps
Be on your way, for you may

Not have the time later
To do truly what you want
To posterity I give prosperity
Lyrics unchained of two gardens.