I Started a Manuscript as a way of living


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I Started a Manuscript as a way of living

It’s arrogant I know, but it’s as if
I wanted language to end with me
I’ve decided to let poetry
Into the center of my life

I’m dating myself as a writer
I turn the craft of the poem
Over on my lips and
The pages don’t cancel each other

I’m not like others, editors, marketers
I’m sick of hearing myself
But no one is as sick of me as me
And that’s okay, I can stand rejection

Joblessness, not like I haven’t done it before
Twenty, thirty, forty years old
Without a bank account, a wife, a hot meal
It’s arrogant I know, but

I always wanted to write in Mandarin
Better than Du Fu, that’s the dream, right
To turn into a Dragon and fly
Through a waterfall, that’s poetry to me

Swimming upwards and reaching for wisdom
That is not intrinsic to my usual self
Going up rivers, coming down as rain
Symbols sleep in me and I carry them

I don’t require national poetry month
To write a poem a day, heck
I’d confess that poetry is like
My breath of exercise, when all other

Systems have shut down, the light
At the effervescent end of the tunnel
I’m dating myself as a writer
And that’s okay, it doesn’t require

The approval of parents
Or the idea that it has to be profitable
Because as an altruist, I’m just a vessel
The Great Love of a Poet

Reincarnates in me, each
And every day, I don’t know the word
Failure, it doesn’t quantify,
That’s the only reason I’m not Asian.

Poetry is the First Pleasure


5

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.