Sound of the Future Poetry

  To the sound of words I pay homage They could be anybody’s I acknowledge language pierces through me A composite nature of neuron hungry For a world that is describable to sense Not native to noble origin, but Managing …

It is a terrible thing to be so open

I like people too much
But God, how lonely it is to do so
They fail you like how their goals
Supersede their interpersonal ethics

If I didn’t love others so much
I’d be much happier
And where I am now
The clouds are flowering

And I’m able to see the lifetime of
Each one of them, the face of their stars
And for me, poetry is not the evasion of life
But the processing of it, prose has such

Bad characters, they are flawed
But poetry speaks of the full subjective weight
Of ideas and emotions and people
Narrative and timeline is not something

I can afford, I’ve had enough of time and space
I’d much rather create in the ether
Where I can proudly create
Let me live, love and say it

Well in good sentences
That’s all I ask, is it too much?

Proud Artists Breed Poetry for Themselves

I will continue to work
In silence and obscurity
Loving what I do more than anyone
In this tiny world full of profiteers
I won’t profit from my art

It will rest like a blanket of
My most intimate identity
I have not a broken heart for myself
But a broken heart for this young world
That cannot seem to find its soul

Any relic of the dead is precious
And as such, the spirit of poetry
Lives on in me, like a light

That burns with the measures
Of all human words and love stories
For finally, it’s relationships
Which define and frame

Whatever uniqueness we most cherish
Comes from the dreams
I’ve had for my entire life
Though my ideas and the people
That surround me may have changed

Time and space conspire for my destiny
That my greatest love has always been
The quiet tranquility of sitting in a room
Bathed in the upstart unlimited imagination
Of the muse that can set you free.

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.

Alchemy of the Blessed

Alchemy of the Blessed

Eun Ji, sometimes in secret I think of you
And I bless you as the night is your abode
We writers must be part omniscience
Part prophet, for we imagine what

Is possible and must translate divinity
It’s our duty to take a piece of the universe
And place it as a hidden gift in the mind
We are alchemists then, with an eternal glow!

O God, how blest we are forever in this magic
That I could endure any external hardship
With a touch of the familiar weaving of poetry
In my psyche, I am the night, and judgement

Disappears and mercy is for every dawn
The dusty stuff of past years is no more
Only light settled in my brain when I am alone
And I write for the love of the dearest way

For we are all seekers somehow in our sport
And waiting to find the right vocabulary
That best expresses our original spirit’s incarnation.

Poetry is Like Wonder in Sunday Clothes #amwriting #poem #writer #literature

Poetry is Like Wonder in Sunday Clothes

I could never abandon Poetry
She was too generous a lover
An echo, asking a shadow to dance
She was never finished, only remixed
In my heart that is never finished

I am relived in other poets
The most misunderstood artist
Thoughts that breathe and words that burn

Time encapsulated in soul-lyrics
I could never put her down for long
I could never abandon Poetry on the street
Could you? She is part journey
Part of the suffering, the questions

That were once young, or always stay eternal
It’s impossible to extinguish her pleasure
She’s inadvisable to start, since you cannot leave

She’s the heroin of sound and measure
The suicide drug of the introverted
Poetry is more mysterious than finance
And to me, more necessary
I think Nature is the ultimate poet

The tunnel at the end of the light
A galactic center of beauty
At the source of all life

I could never abandon her myths
Her waves and the way she touches me
This genuine communication, this thrill
A simplicity of being, like the moon
She does not advertise anything

She has her moments, intervals of
Being misunderstood, truth in Sunday clothes for sure
The unedited escape of personality
Into the unknown, that’s poetry
The memory of enigma, the hour
Of when emotion transcended experience.

Though Lovers be Lost Love shall Not

Though Lovers be Lost Love shall Not

Whatever talents I possess
May suddenly diminish or disappear
In my education was beauty
I had to write indiscriminately
For with eyes such as mine
Time was the lovers lost
And a kind of rage against the dying light
Whatever poems I wrote
Were a kind of toast to the worlds
That if this star should go extinct
I might burn one last bridge with a song
And if posterity learn to look after itself
Never be lucid, never state
That you have found yourself
For poetry was the function of a journey
And it won’t end with you or I
It will go on as long as doubt, questions
And beauty and suffering exists.

Hearing voices like a Poem

Why Read Poetry

I have translated voices
To the ends of beauty
I have known intimately
Such wild abandon of soul

I cannot translate that
Spirituality transcends poetry
That I have experienced
I read poetry to get glimmers
ii
Because at times I have stopped
To look through the rain
For the wished for words
The wished for loves

The intimacy we are nomads for
I read poetry because the lady
Next to me on the bus
Is reading a book of poetry

And I wanted to know her
It all starts innocently enough
I read poetry because I know
That in the space between poems
iii
I will be looking in life for
The symbolism of her pages
A manticore muse I never find
The imagination of faery and ocean

And an intuition of whim
That undresses all other pleasures
By comparison of how superficial they are
The enjoyment of the spirit

I cannot translate that
But I can pretend.

Repetition of Art

Plunder the Influence

We aren’t finishing lines here
We are writing about love
Whatever we write
It’s there like alchemy
Writing the history of art
Over again with each poem

There is no grasping for wisdom
It’s summarized by the synthesis
Of what came before
Like culture evolving
Like a more refined perception of beauty
To sit in the chair called “witness”

ii

Where wonder is endlessness
Born, again and again
We are writing about love
Because it’s what is in the oven
Our womb breathes it
We aren’t finishing lines here

We are just living, doing what we love
Mourning the loss not knowing sooner
It’s a state of wonder
Overtaken by light
Black windows facing the future
With drift, descent, speed

And the mutual influence
Of reciprocal silence
Communicating in subtle gesture
The incommunicable.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Traveler-525752443

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.

In the Haiku between you and I

In the Haiku between you and I

In the Haiku between you and I
You and me, there is only silence
For I followed you blindly
Without words, like a fool’s errand

And our experiences were finite
But as poets we were prophets
Taking the ordinary
To make it all-beautiful

Immersed in the variables
Of relationships, I became
My own kind of poetic analytics
Poetry defined as immediate
Identification, and you were there

A myth in my eyes of incarnations
A lost journey of mine without a home
I followed you through time like a nomad
Of a poem our lives once wrote together

So pure and profound a calling
A writer-seer’s blind spot of pleasure
Ethereal, unattainable, self-sacrificial
That’s how the poetry between us sounded

Transparent, with a red dress of infatuation
Still warm, the muse of powerful
Barefoot cravings and blue-stretched out
Mythical bed of alphabetical nipple-tested
Vowel-slurring sweet anarchy.

To Black Swan Job Applicants IV

To Black Swan Job Applicants IV

Without writing, life would be a mistake
So here’s to crazy ones
Misfits, rebels, troublemakers, anarchists
Who invariable make the best poets

And sometimes turn into novelists
If they put the time in
Because the people who are crazy
Enough to think they can change

The world are the ones that do
Coding, writing, copyrighting
Everybody is a genius
But an innovator is someone

Able to sacrifice ordinary things
To dedicate themselves to a cause
A craft, a subject, to be a specialist
Writers are specialized dreamers

Easier to tire of reality than books
So many worlds, strangely we become
What we pretend to be, so try
To be a writer for a year, you might

Surprise yourself with dark things
Certain dark things are to be loved
In secret, in the shadows of your soul
Write from that place, and have experiences

That exhaust the travels of several lives
Everyone takes around their portable magic
Might as well put it down into a book
For if we are to become insane, may as
Well write first between intervals of sanity
It’s a clerical alchemy that was my favourite
Time of my life, writing alone was like
Visiting a wild place where I was the first visitor.

After the Kundiman Award

http://kundiman.org/

– featured on, this poet’s neck

After the Kundiman Award

If I could sing a Kundiman to you
Would you know the tenderness of it?
You who plots maps and word graphs
Of how many words you have written this month

In the autobiographical sketch
Of literature, we project where we roam
The way deadlines make you
Stay by yourself and sing with your pen

You burn with untold stories
For all those books you’ve always
Wanted to get your hands on, but they don’t exist
I recognize you have no choice

But to write them, like the inner freedom
Of the pen that is its own bliss
The sachitananda of all substitutes
For living, the editor, ecstasy and poetics

Of writing, you lift yourself from
Midnight dreams to improvise
With an altogether Asian version of doubt
They say Koreans work hard, but

In retrospect we write to taste life twice
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader
No surprise, that beautiful things
Invented by a woman are more charming

You must stay drunk on writing
So reality cannot destroy you
I felt I was dreaming with you in red
Then I realized that I truly just wanted to be you

Fiction is the truth inside of sacred lies
And we must learn from religion how
Words shriek without any seeming limit
To burn the heart and cry important things

The secrets of the socially acceptable
Forms of schizophrenia, alternate-realities
Bringing nourishment to bed and waking up
To new characters, that can change our lives
For after all, stories are the things we need
Most in an unfair world, we need a refuge
And people we can identify with
These are not of course, always real people
The scariest moment is when your writing

Can only be a reflection of yourself
For everyone else is already taken
You can’t imitate yourself, you can only be you
And sing like there’s nobody listening

Because in the end, there’s so many books
So little time, the soul of fiction is a willing guest
If you are willing to kill the cat
Get divorced and move away from your home town.

When Machines Learn to Write Poems

When Machines Learn to Write Poems

Words unspoken spill
On to virtual pages
Dreams encapsulate poems

Poems selling dreams of paradise
Speculations of the infinite
Heroes of art telling commentary

Reviving in waters
Inscribed in the cuneiform
Of writing on tablets of steel

Capsules of poetic chronicles
Burning the trials of lost tribes
Into the future where language

Will travel at speeds between stars/
Trying to break surfaces
Of quantum beliefs in illusion

Engaged in poetics we’ll spill
The puzzles of machine-learners
Instead of primitive opinions

Poetry will be their thirsty key
To understanding humanity.

Inspired by: Mark Olynyk, contemporary Canadian poet.

Introduction to burning manuscripts

Introduction to burning manuscripts

The new poem will contradict
The old poems
And that’s the way it ought to be
Language needs a Spring
————————————–

For words have a barren
Way with winter anyhow
As a poet unfond
Of their own speaking voice
Forced to talk to themselves

By virtue of necessity
I to the past poets must cry
The tears of other words
For I no longer have the breath
To erase the margins
To edit the voice
————————————–

Whose possible meanings
Are so many
There’s always doubt

On the tip of the tongue
Maybe everything stated
Is completed erased in our subjectivity
In the time it takes

To be expressed and
The time it takes to be read aloud
When it no longer rings true
The new poem, let it hang there
A ghost, an extract, a fragment

For forever, I don’t read
Old poems, I only live to write.

Specimens of another kind of art

Dear self, do not fail (to write poems)
For this was your unity
Between both worlds

Work and the business of living
And the sudden onslaught of the beyond
You had a taste for
Something transcendent

In the brief symbols you uttered
In fact they reflected off of you
Dear self, if you are able to do so

Love that lingering in other worlds
For this world has its futile narratives
It’s not enough to sustain you
For sustenance is finally spiritual

Moral, ethical and fundamentally
A question of relating to the future
And to not believe in the future

Would be a kind of nilhism not conducive
To peace, freedom or creativity.

The moment scatters itself into a poem

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.

The Spiritual Body of a Poem

To write poetry is
To create philosophical memory
To adjust the commentaries

Of all souls, to just one voice
To strip the inequalities
Of existence, of their mass
To write poetry is
To erase the written

Transforming what we have read
Making alphabets contemporary
Fluid, mystical

To write poetry is not just art
It’s neurological reprogramming
A quantum gesture to
The nature of beauty
And Meaning itself

To write poetry is
To return to an absence of meaning
The meddlesome mind forgets

The natural order of nature
To reduce layers of narrative
And return to a total peace
And a grand vision of the universe
As a talking thing, exchanging energy

In a physics of existence
To write poetry is to love the unwritten
Endings that all concur

To identify with the sudden
Rupture of beginnings
From which all thought originates
To write poetry is thus
The silence in between the words

And a solace beyond thought
To free oneself form the memory
That is an impression or a scar

On the mind, blankness is an ideal state
To observe time and space without attachment
To love existence independently
Of the personal conditions of one’s life
On the letters of your poems

I observe a black walking cat
A woman that must question her heart
To find the answers, without
Speaking we are a language
All we feel and do is a kind of vocabulary.

AGNES CECILE
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Sad Eyed Lyricist

I’ve spotted it with tears (I pronounced to all my living verse) Your infant faces are proof of it ! The crumbled years, the kissed cheeks White as snow, red as apples The harmonics of a life enriched By syllables …