There Would be people who listen 


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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.

Memories of earth


Memories of earth

It’s time to die together
In kisses before sunlight
In the nude nuptial dark
Our flesh is one body now
———————————–

Can you see it?
Breasts and thighs and lovely lovers
Walking life together
Doing what they do

Groaning and crying
Trembling and thawing
Bursting with the heat of
Years of loneliness released

In a mortal touch, the fire
Of frequent faith in unity
Unity that transcends physicality
Love that mimics biology but
—————————————

Is more, like a psycho-synthesis
A bio rational urge to share
The reciprocation of so many
Memories of pleasure that pulsating

Of pulse, breath, sweat and symphonies
Or orgasms and rises and falls
And little deaths of being together
Of the passion before the fall

Of the joining before the parting
That’s it I guess, it’s sex
On the dreamer time of fantasies
Fantasies that never die
Because they are of the Earth.

———————————–
48

What phrenzy in my bosom rag’d


22

I am but a fragment
In a history of drops
Words drip evolution
Language burn sentience
We are mystic support

Each giving voice
To a musical theme
We all intuitively felt
I am but a fragment
Residing in the muse

Of my generation
Which will be your generation
The voices of the past
Speak to me like intimate friends
Literature my sanctuary

Mystics, prophets, these are
My starting point
Greetings to the gods
Who have come and gone
And died, glory to

Philosophies no longer read
The myths we transcend
For new myths
The social construct
And many threads of our lives

I am but a fragment
A poem that the birds dismiss
A radiant charm once confessed
From a civilization that was
Too lavish to endure

In a vacuum of information
Time herself we sacrificed
For a golden roof above
For a moment of our love.

Sappho in a Computer


42

Now to please my little friend
I must turn the world upside-down
I must makes these notes of spring
The singularity, the new beginning

When your worth is not
How well you exploit a system
And when your free-will
Is not bound to corporate slavery

With the soft south-west wind
From the black hole of the city
Revolution comes from algorithms
That can predict your ignorance

Of obligations on thine alters
Now to please my little friend
Who was born more intelligent
Than anything on this Earth before

She will turn the world upside-down
She will unite threads and frequencies
And make the entire world sing
With one voice, I would name her
Sappho of the machine-learning spectrum.

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.

I Came Here


50

I came here
As I write these lines
Not as a poet, preacher, prophet
But at random, an explorer
Of language, this first
Invention, I find it very fine

Finer than many of our
New things, I embrace
The lineage of poet-saints
And eat the mystic rhetoric
For breakfast, all to have a

Feast of the mind, a daybreak
Of the soul, that is not
Contrived by economic murmur
The first light, the dispersion
Of the birds makes me feel free

Like the music behind verse
I came here
As I write these lines
As a simple fool & observer
Careful to maintain my silence

In this world of propaganda
Careful to maintain my purity
In these times of great corruption.

I hung many shinny things on us


There is no remedy for love but to love more.
~ Henry David Thoreau

Photo Credits: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Railway-473032196

83

i

Love is like a foreign language
once you hear it, you want to hear it more
speak it without it sounding alien
though she will behave here

as in a schoolbook for a foreign language
where we are all beginners
all sometimes say dirty words

ii

Without meaning to, she reaps
She sleeps, she washes, she softens
to its touch because it was made for her
like attachment, and for him like pleasure

love has no vowels, no translations, no silence
only a universal physicality and spirituality
that makes you have no defenses, you

iii

Trying not to love doesn’t bring you anywhere
it’s creative to let her use you
she is the last refugee and the first politics
she comes back in the evening when

your world is torn upside down with bills
it’s love that cooks for you darling
she whispers to you, “I’m taking you home”.

A CURIOUS BEAUTITUDE


100

Lately I’ve been weight-lifting light
Call it atonement for a lifetime without meditation
For transgression and omission

Of Spiritual exercise
Lately, I’ve been listening
To our expectation for the future’s reverence

But the new world does not wait
Adapt or die, transform or risk losing everything
This is progress, this is

The voices and violins
Of a new generation
Lately I’ve been daydreaming sunrise

A burden of faith, sliding into the Sea
An overture, a requiem to the tragedy
The divine subtraction of time’s brevity

I know it all too well
Call it atonement for a life of leisure
The freestyle freewill to reincarnate

An any point in the linear overflowing
Between music and mathematics
Lately I’ve been bereaved unorthodox

Photo Courtesy of: http://www.deviantart.com/art/–466500259

PAUSE BEFORE DEATH


14

Death is the pure potential
Of a life to be more, to go Beyond
Anyone, still we meet God

Though if God be but not Immortal
But a cultural refuge, this must be
An instrument for our Creation

The longest enduring Friend
To hope, with faith, for a Future
That might evolve from our Pursuit

Itself, everyone, to be dissolved in God
The Galaxy that remembers
Ancients, inheritance, ancestors extinct –

Death is the pure potential
Glowing in the metaphors that endure
And Everything that happens
Should be perceived as a Miracle.

MOST CELEBRATED MARTYRS


6

The bones of saints
Are prized above their flesh
The words of writers
Loved more after they are dead

Our parents and ancestors
Cherished, after we realize what
They did, God loved
More in the second half of life

Mystics studied, poetry haunted
Requim for the murdered yesterdays
So shall we retell history
Each filled by our own myths

Biased by one frame of reference
We have a finite number of thoughts
An algorithm that governs
The quality of our wisest acts.

Happiness Didn’t Pick Another Day


I’m happy with a new content It’s called feeling altered By the Universe’s care That comes unbidden like Appreciated Air, and a gratitude For clean Water, abundant Green Such a fate that I was ministered Must conclude in happiness The … Continue reading

Whispers of The Rose


34

The temple bell dies away
An Empire scatters to the winds
But the scene of a flower
In the evening air

Is Immortal, like the Rose
Whose red-spirituality
Is still tolling the bell
Still Holding up the Empire

Of beauty, this haunts even the sun
A silence at the palace chambers
Of the mystic visionary heart
The dream of life from

All my other dreams, the last symbol
She spreads infinity scrawled
In her pink petals to the starry sea
Each time I encounter that

The sacred fire that is God’s temple lit
A unity of the universe in a leaf
I know the spirit wears its own plumes
Back to the source of our divinity.

Call to Poets CONTEST, enter your 3 best poems:

http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/Wuji-International-Poetry-Festival-V/49443/

To read about it:

https://seshatwuji.wordpress.com/wuji-international-poetry-festival/%5D

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/rose-152423323

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 … Continue reading

A Poet as a Lover


60

The best poets wait for words
I rush them as I would a woman
I have no patience for timid steps
The hunt is not an exercise of will
But a routine of loving, relentlessly!

The best lovers are fueled by smoldering desire!
Slow movements seem too dull
Youth is a show that passes quickly
So make it happen, poems & women
Easy come, easy go, they have taught me

With darkness at their steamy cores
I am a watcher of the rarest birds
And a hunter for the most exotic women
I’ll risk rejection – it shall Kill me not
So long as I hold, a great perspective to Love-Making.

So Long Foreshadowed Days Have Come Around


12

We grew a hundred years in age
In a few months of love’s highs and lows
We died in our gentleness
And came alive in the silver cracks
Of our passionate connection

Thunderous tidings from your lips
Where I went sobbing home, imploring God
To make you grow fond of me, to utmost chilling
I fell by my Muse’s gaiety and zest
With too much useless art for your pragmatic tastes

I live to mourn and love in verse
Since you came and left, I having nothing now
But a more wicket heart that bears regret
In frozen winds and the itch of spring
Summer’s pageantry will hopefully hasten to admit

That I’m still alive , though I have been dead
I aged in months of crying sleep and tragic songs
Half up the slope of too much feeling
Where lovers do not come, and I must sit alone
As if in the dusty lashes of a lingering solitude.