After a Thousand Poets


64

To dream myself, to be dreampt
By other eyes, on other worlds
That was the prophecy of
The written word, to be fluid

Like a medium, to pastel the words
Into new forms, to climb
The towers together of meaning
And visit the citadels of angels

To explore rooms, walk streets
Of singing combinations never
Before experienced, like surrealism
In a bright sunlit room, and art

With trends and sublime gulfs
Where only a few artists can reach
And cities of culture’s inheritance
Where philosophers must tread

To dream myself, being more
Than just idle dreams, to weave
Looking out into new enchanted sentences
That come alive in their own way

That can speak to sense and soul
Moulding kaleidoscopic clouds
As easy as the fountains of day
And water of enormous glimpses

Of prosperity, the light of the future
Golden mornings, youth transformed
Some transparent shimmer
Of alphabets that can suffice the
Difficult diamond thirst.

Cyberflowing


63

I am a translucent verb
In love with nouns
Escaping out of events

Frustrated by the mirth of time
I am not an object, only a person
By breeding and heritage
In ideas I am water
So my writing

Becomes a part of the Tao
Like ink in water
I write cursive and mandarin glyphs

Sailing into the eyes
Of rainbows and storms
I live in literature like
The secret power of a sage
Waiting to be reborn

My temptations are
Celebrating the end
The ends are always

Silent and unbending
As if the source of my strength
Is proliferation of invisible symbols

Guilty of being stuck in semantics
In love with nouns and suffixes
The vocabulary of my spirit
Is technocratic and simulative.

Mantra of the Nomad who died somewhere in Asia


53

Mantra of the Nomad who died somewhere in Asia

To a heart that is open
Everyone appears as a friend
To a mind that is still
The entire universe surrenders

It’s all in the way you smile
At the start of your day
And laugh at the end of the day
It’s all the peace one feels

When crossing the same river
Any river could have been home
I’ll keep butterflies as my companion
Not like I would want to

Trap any butterfly, they are much
More beautiful doing what they do
The same for flowers and
Forget the years, I’m going to

Leap duality on my way home
Home is where the heart is open
Home is where the mind is still
Home is the universe that waits for me
Home are the friends who live everywhere.

The moment scatters itself into a poem


43
The moment scatters itself into a poem

I am full, of unwritten poetry
My life is an experience
Of the lady of secrets
And the labor of art

I craft, I write, I want
To go to the beyond
Through the gift of the gateway

Of intuitive being
Until I become a poem
I am pregnant, with this
Reflection of resurrection
Words dance in my brain

In somersaults and fountains
Of the purest aroma
A vistas of the clearest day

My pen is not a pen, my page
Is not a page, I write for the future
To the future, arriving forever
Through the lens of beauty
I transcend and I perceive

Through until the lady of secrets
Down into the sea of mysteries.

THIS ALLEGED AND FORMAL VULNERABILITY


7474

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Alouette-Lake-472214396

What a little bruised fate
is our story, not so harsh
just loving out of necessity
in order to survive we choose to live
in a heart, with all its comfort

a little late divinity for
an uneventful youth, where
we were not lucky to find a big love
you see, we are more fragile
than we thought, and life is more

austere in the next decade
than we ever imagined possible
no wonder those folk are so stern
life has beaten them down
from the inside, and they are vulnerable

more vulnerable than they would
have imagined, at twenty, at thirty?
but you and I, we have learned
to deny the gloom, to shut the door
to sorrow, like children in a make-believe

we call our soul a shared marriage
it’s a kind of journey in gentleness
to despair together is no longer misery
it’s what we call a journey, every sweet
month, this lifetime of acceptance

forgiveness, and gratitude, it’s like family
they don’t always tell you what
they have lived, but somehow you know.

Poetry Deserves to be your Dream


6

Somewhere a solitary prisoner, like me
Begins to create the words of new dialogue
To appease some slice of soul
And if I no longer exist, you do

By doing what you love, writing
These citizens in private flight
A ritual of fire, guitar, tablecloth
Poetry is the easiest thing

It writes itself, like mouthfuls of sunlight
The poem creates a loving order
Executing words for fields of poetic justice
There is no room for nostalgia

Creation is a slave to change
Everything must yield to new worlds
And you know it as well as I do:
Every poem is fulfilled at the poet’s expense

Fountains of transparency, nothing like music
Will speak through my mouth, only
A sensitive center of a counter-point of blood
Where history woke to move, poetry came into being.

Art courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Aqualegia-468477784

抒情詩 (lyrical poem)


41

i

We are asking for books which
Legends are made of, poems that are
Flowers at the bottom blue of lyricism
We felt the need for ritual acts
That respected the Volumes of the Earth
My time is precious, so is yours:

ii

Our nods of recognition were
The last living parts of poetry between
Our souls which would vanish
To other Planets, when we died
We are asking for books which
Dreams can dive into, poems that are

iii

After all, objects that have been loved
And lived fully, maybe the object of many loves
To have greatly admired stains of
Where words once lay, the honors
Of so much feeling like fragrance

iv

You will hold the stem, I will
Know the rose passing between humans
And the child that squeezes the fence
At the end of the story, that was enough
To make romantic poetry Immortal.

31

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

MELODIC DEBTS


53

‘Tis not to regret our idle hours
Those busy days passed without event
The holy verse trampled sense

Until the beginning of poetry
When all wit came alive and went
To muses that confessed
To reach the nobler side of men
And search for purity of the heart
And praise the World’s secrets

Not for happy free-will but
To share Nature’s love a while yet
‘Tis not to indulge in the evasive Soul

But to drape the unknown with quiet looks
And words that may have preferred silence
I like too much to sing, without notes
Of how the music sounds in melodies
Of poetry’s sweetest epiphanies!

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-earth-pushed-back-452635123

MEETING AT THE UNMARKED STRIP OF AUTHORED LIGHT


28

We nudged literature until she
Fell like a picked mushroom from her spot
We sought an old revolution that needed

To feel reborn for us to write our greatest work!
This wasn’t a Sanskrit hymn
Or a Russian poem or a Mandarin glyph

This was our life unmarked in neon, black and white
And I won’t tell you where it is
In the pocket of necessary madness

We talked about trees and the sense
That we were meeting in an abandoned
And persecuted tea-house, that existed

Across centuries, the place where
Hieroglyphics and calligraphy reappeared
In a cross-cultural hodge-podge of our form.

Treatise on Emily Dickinson


89

From us, she has wandered one and a half centuries
Her tarrying, for unusual lyrical speech
Unknown in wilderness, preserving open-poems

To walk with words as Ethereal feet
No eye remembers her white-dressed
Wit, we only know our time of the present –

We took the mystery, of her rhymes that
Turned themselves inside-out
From us, she put away her ghosts

Her frantic stanzas, sunsets sworn
In short muse that hath too long a date
To talk with the Sun and Springtime’s bees

Poet of poets, woman of Massachusetts!
How many times can I read thy brief Divinity?
Alphabets of sublime artistry,
Heart as much a pen, as any page’s soul.

They Built the Poet His Table Downtown


36

I search the ruins of my
Subjective mementos
Hoping to find why the poet
in me has been exiled

the rapid stream of life events
has finally caught up
with my prayers that were
names of the dead, history

will not repeat herself in my eyes
poetry is the sister of my memory
body guards of the wilderness
that I endured as a lost youth

and my writing is getting worse
in the greedy arms of living
I have lost lyricism, my address
of universal ideals that once

felt so bright, now I only carry
the breath of others a bit further
in imitation of what is gone
I cannot try anymore to

outyell time, she works no more
addressing the unborn, it is time to live
the future has her own fate
at night I as a poet read

how every author betrays themselves
paradise will be finished
not by words, but by loving deeds
can a word on page be loving?

oily in quiet warmth for family
that is how a poet died
light-hearted as hope to another generation
summoning still the unborn, the born.
Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Waiting-to-Fall-413179324

Finally They the Authors of Canvases Let Loose


33

That’s a poet
not an angel
So few are the stars
Chosen ones, destined
for a life of novelty
I strike at winter’s transparency
Immediately schooled with images
the blue bell of winter
flaming in my heart
the blue flower of perennial gardens
growing back through my mind
I have no wings, just plumes
I write with the left hand
of my soul, that’s a poet’s business
the very thought of falling
back to Earth, harsh reality
So few are the dreams that
evade the glowing necessities
Here I love the words which
Silhouette infinity, are they really bright
or only the destined literature
of universals, like a timeless philosophy
that ages well, floating up for air
The light of the clay’s subtle attraction
to always be reborn
until we fall again to the blue stars
That’s a poet
not an angel
those who paint mirrors of lakes
inside their pretty neurons
who live for beauty
as if a flower plucked at sunset
frozen forever in latitudes of sweetness
with the bliss to convey eternity
cloud and swan scenes by a stream
of ancient Earth, before touched by users.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/A-Swan-318265936

The Separate Notebooks


18

The moment, an eternal figment
Abides in writing, somewhere
In the script that set our mind apart
Forgotten, were conventions of literature

All was like an embassy of poetry
Where the full moon rolls out and
Like the ritual of kissing, we salute
The huge reflected umbrella of the stars

Down into the river banks
Of a midsummer night, the Earth
A blanket of supernatural powers
While your endless flowing of words

Carries on for however many years
You are given, the moment endures:
The moment only, an eternal fragment
That you shared with all that shares

As speakers of the living, as the bells
In sunken cities of ancient lands
The future comes sooner than expected
To the Separate Notebooks of
The imagination without bounds.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Calm-411050240

Poem on Beauty


69

My Art is no art
I seek to submit to nature within
That the heart’s streaming tears
Might praise that which is holy
Abiding by a sacred partner

A fullness of life, my companion
The heart of my Art
Has bangles of poetry
Necklaces of pure music
Whose verses & notes are extremely
fond of each other

They love each other deeply
They have no self to interfere
Sleepless and wondrous & pondering
They climb divinity and need
Each other so constantly

As I need to paint, write, rejoice
Even if my technique be wanting
In qualification, education, specification
My Art is no art
Needless to say, my love includes

All manners of healing insignificance:
The moment I stop writing
I face earth’s beauty, and
She tells me to write some more!

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Elation-V-408683972

Fugitive from Utopia


6

The hand beats the air
It’s a poet who floats up for a moment
she could take up residence
in a nest of stars, or gallop from light rays

With words longer than dreams of flight
Her hour is the silhouette of infinity
With visions that last a lifetime
Wild in her brain, needing to be written

That’s a poet, not an angel
Pale and fiery, passing by a rose
Saints wept in her handkerchief
She seeks happiness in little words

Making no promises, but rapture
And authority of visionary commentary
mystic union, she could take up residence
In the folk wedding, of spirit and mind –

The hand beats the air
She was born to be a poet you see
Dead Nefertiti’s voice flown from her mouth
which lifts you, wing-beats of days and nights

She is a fugitive from Utopia
She walks from the unforgettable sea-shores
To catch her muse, that voice
That breaks between one wave and the next

Sifting through the costume of silence
Behind the veils of time
For the pause of moments
And the whisper of the monologues of the earth.

She is blurred with loquacious tongue
Of the eulogies of countless white-haired men
Ancients that spoke with the tenderness
Of a handful of birds who visit the bird-bath of song.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/El-colibri-406816561

In the regime of hunger


63

No more of this poetry.
Bring on the hard, harsh real life instead;
Let the jingle of verse disappear
Bury the lyrics of my youth

Like precious Ivory of another time
When the creatures of the Earth were free
No more of this poetry.
No more need for the serenity of a poem

For the empty invisible sense of victory
Poetry, I give you a break today
In the regime of hunger, the Earth
Found more useful things, like family;

The full moon burns like a loaf of
Bread in my mouth, my wife
Waiting for me to overcome idleness.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Sophia-and-the-Pilgrim-406349902

Requiem for Everyone


50

Everything has its own hour
Where loved, treasured, not sold –

becomes our everything for a time
Until ‘nothing can last forever’ becomes
the day, the month, the mysterious year
where fate can unravel in a turn

So be it, looted, betrayed, traded, doomed
Our life is a mystery of cherry perfume

of laughter and fountains, transparent
as the constellations which depict
the cosmic story of individuality
miraculous, dark and the stories

We have always known until they
Happen to us, we encompass everything
Eaten by time’s hunger, under the wing of stars.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/colours-of-nature-404205374

With Specimens of Song


– Where Hart Crane once jumped

43

You love the invisible
You write IT everyday
You claim your little notes
Further the language of the Day

With ample letters, of your love
To witness the light which delights
The air is clear and transparent
Where your voice speaks like a melody

Your love is for the invisible
With incorporeal pillows vain
Your sunrise is a spiritual event
Somewhere inside your little brain

Your love, it is for the invisible
A dreamer interrupting his own ground
You write journals for eternity
God bless your suddeness
that which you call dear poetry.

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Bridge-at-night-II-403312876

Thou Hast Made Me


32

Thou hast made me, a holy poet
What is this work, to observe and not despair?
And all these pleasures are mere words
Of yesterday, dim eyes any way
Of visions that run to death, from self to self –

But I rise again, in new forms
With poems that can myself sustain
Like breath and proven art
Thou has made me, a grand imitator
Of names in history, of verse

That contributes repair, spiritual repair
Repair me then, my little words, until
My end doth haste and in terror of feeble flesh
I must part, saying goodbye to all I was –
What is this work, to entertain and listen

Listing all that is below, without knowing
What is above, or how adamant drew my own heart
These are not holy sonnets, but all titles I must resign
Even being published, only a loose
Temple of my spirit divine, ravished in thy sight

For all paths that do converge I have found
Are found in uniting words, language pure
That I might in holy discontent simplify
For all coming ills have been pre-ordained
Though hast me thus, a poet at last
Alive at least in my own idol-making sympathy.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Peace-402773282

Sleeping on the wings of poetry


15

I’ve satisfied the poetry in me
by mastering luminous humility
I can chew personal poems in
the meditation against coercion

it’s a lifelong habit to read & write
though I’d prefer a mandarin certificate
than another restoration of crisis
through and by writing, soaring there –

I’ve satisfied the poetry in me
or so I always think, before and after
I wrote the last, till the penning of the next
veering upward like a pigeon with

an unworldly frown, I laugh to think
at how the car honks, door slams, angels cry
of a trillion worlds, while I can simply write
poetry is the last beautiful language
difficult though it has always been to me.

poetry courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Scintillate-402634741

To have lavender lips under the leaves of the world


11

In poems anything can be said
eyelids don’t obey the night
hearts might float as silver flying machines

throats might have a spiritual flicker
in poems anything might fly
slow heart breaths to music’s touch

lavender creeps in through the bedroom window
and fragrance tell us a bed-time story
In poems dreams collide, with the ocean’s floor

with stars that spring loud as the streaming sun
treasures could last for centuries
on eager notes of autumn amusement

In poems anything can zealously work
for the beacon of the times had a candle
that said to each morning how much I loved you

with a mouth for cranberry tea and the bluest glow
In poems I miss you always
for even careful words are too numerous
To be taken seriously.

Of Post Modern Poetry


13

The poem of the mind begins
from imitation, the sufficient finding
of ourselves in others, of language in mind

the poetry of the heart begins
from adoration, the theater of possession
when all the scripts repeat

the scenes shift with insatiable actors
I slowly construct my new stage
the poem begins with delicate listening

a repetition of silence between each vowel
with an invisible audience that cares
the poem of the mind beings after modern poetry

ended with a souvenir of free-verse
when everyone became a sufficient poet
confessing to learn the speech of themselves

now I will never know exactly how to write myself
though it is fun to make metaphysics my business
and in sudden righteousness, pretend I’m more than a spark.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Untitled-402575231

This is the poetry


14

This is the poetry of all my years
with the rhythm that drops like water molecules
and the tongue of holy fires
that shoots with the breath that never-stops

This is the poetry designed for rants
that elegantly convey the big-mouth chanting
of an oppression and growth
of a thousand preaching words of subjectivity

This is the poetry of freedom
it gets enchained in singularities
and skips over synchronicity for thrills
of divine flavors past Shakespeare

This is the poetry that dares to search
for new manners of the riddle of words
into the silence of the great canvas
of art always becoming more personal

This is the poetry of body shaking pride
the quick and childishly glib facade
of the imagination stretched as far as a new nation
that connects all philosophers and poets in time

chanting a single written phrase
This is the poetry from the universe of life
the experience that no sociology can comprehend
the dreaded degree of loving necessity

when I talk to myself in poetry I talk
through all the wild poetry of your eyes.

Poetry Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-zoo-397858926

your name is already on the passenger lists


148

Like our bodies imprint
not a sign will remain
that we were in this place
so live like this, let sand

straighten itself, let nature
smooth the fabric of destiny
Like words that float
dates are already in view

in which you no longer exist
and what was your place in
the names alone that deaden no hearts
the languages that i know

can only briefly convey
we borrow meaning for a season
and treasure love as a tool
like our bodies imprint

our truths will have died with us
and many a person will
have similar fates, or so
we can imagine easily

who will help me? none will come
to the beck and call of desires
that were so brief as to be shadows.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Singapore-394870973

Voice


105

Now I feel the leaf of voices
Nothing mightier than the Trees
The sky where no word is spoken
But the speaking of life; sun & earth

O what is it in me that lusts for voice?
Language, the hoping neurons in me –
Now I wish the water of voices
That traces the blood of perfect organs

The soul of ancestry that brought me here
Now I feel the crypt of voices
My temples struck by the depths
All wait for the right voices, for whose melody?

The water follows the moon in my
Ancient feeling, with fluid steps
Forever ready, as if to sing –
The ignorance of words is so so clear

The non-duality from which every utterance follows
Trapped in time, but it is still beautiful
To feel poetry in nature, mysticism in the wind.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/resize-me-392917067

Who never lost, cannot win


103

Who never lost, do not know –
The thirst that will never be quenched
Plato’s fires in the weary league of Shakespeare
The Greatness that stretches

To the Revolutionary Day?
Who never lost, are unprepared
For the tragedy of a dull life
The cooling tamarind, the gazing tumeric

A legion of spices sought, in vain?
Who never knew, the Royal scars –
The lovers who left, loved in vain!
We are all soldiers in our hearts

With love on our brow, and not always
The Will to overcome, common ruins;
Who never lost, do not fathom more.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/sleeping-on-the-cold-dirt-392663547

My Soul is Flooded in Moonlit Night


At the end of the sky I am not alone
What thoughts occupy the highest mind
What time will the wild goose revelation come
Nearer and nearer to the final bliss

The rivers and lakes are full with Autumn’s currents
Literature and worldly success are opposed
The Tao does not listen to the lies of men
Women seek more children, while demons

Exult in human failure, minor poets trip
Throwing their best poems into the river
At the end of the sky I am not alone
The sunsets do not swallow me so easily

An army of drums meets me at the last
Stop of human travels, I have felt the white dew of love
Trap me in its sweet embrace, like a homeland
The letters I will send will go astray
Who will read the magic moon of my tongue?

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.

Gateway of an Author


OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

In the kingdom of poets, you are my
Pronoun intertwined, my lover of words
I read you like a lover touches you
.
.
I learn to be in your suppositions
Striving to yield in your lyricism
And break free in your hypothesis
In the realm of expression, you are my
Premonition of the dream of years
.
.
Arriving forever at distant wonder
Alphabets of yearning, unmistakable fountains
I attempt to enter your gateway of being
With the optimism of your humanitarianism
I read you like a lover touches you
First tenderly and then fiercely, over and over
Again, you are the singing in my brain
The lavish ceremony of my soul’s literature
.
.
I grasp at meanings in-between your sentences
And analyze you because you told me
That I could know you through your poems.