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.

Souls Frozen like Software

Eun Ji, maybe our soul is lost in time?
Our mother will die one summer
And what will the rain collect of who we were
Empty desk chair, our manuscript and tombs

The scrolls that amounts to our life
In a garden of words dissolved
Our ancestry may never find
Its singularity, we may never have

Our own family, selfishly breeding
I heard once, that the body is
A sacred element of love pregnant in time
Though I suspect we’ll be cloning soon

My father would have been saved
His lungs 3D printed by some technology
Not yet invented, and so it is with words
They change with the reader, like an audience

Not yet born, like an AI that can read
All of our work in one sitting, what would they
Know of us then? Perhaps judgement day
Comes the moment machines can understand us

Totally, from the sum of all of our words
All of our online searches, all of our data
Maybe our soul is just our Big data
Inside my speech are virtual streams
Unreliable grief, vivid memory of dying.

Talking poems that speak of poetry

I Like Poems that are Little Games

I sometimes talk to you
About making a poem with a poem
Within language I end in pleasure
It’s not like pain filtered

It’s like bliss and peace
Usually a life turned
Into a poem can be misrepresented
Or divinized, you don’t make a

A poet with ideas, not with words
You make it with feeling
Poetry is not a memory
It’s an experience you write down

You don’t help people
In your poems, you just
Relate your view of beauty
And they can participate or not

A poem is born of revelation
It cools in the night air
It pops the end of tragedy
For poetry outlives us

And it can reveal everything mysterious
Because itself is intuitive
Dancing in the heart of
Sonnets and odes that became

Birds of musical merit
That’s something I’d like to talk
To you about, how a pencil
Can become a painting

How a piano sonata can
Become a young woman.

T a l k i n g P o e t r y

T a l k i n g P o e t r y

All poetry is an ordered voice
That we can summon forth from
Several stages of our lives
It’s a little voice with big heart

I don’t think poetry
Is something that can be taught
It lives in the brain of lovers

Who can only let it guide them
The very essence of poetry
Lives wild in experience
A first tribal mutation

Of the music of mutation
I like poetry even when I prefer
To write it than read it

It’s wide open and wanders
And wonders in a permanent state of grace
With a mutability of spirit
It’s a vision of what could be

And an ocean of our inner-being
Poetry is the secret in all nouns
And the transcendence of all verbs.

Tomorrow is Today’s Dream

Tomorrow is Today’s Dream

March on, do not tarry
Said the tip of the soul to the pen
The pen whose laughter
Could be heard
Across the centuries
Laterally from planet to planet

Star to star
To go forward is to
Be aware of your own perfection
If love is a real force
That surrounds every being
Internally and externally

ii

Would my letters slowly embrace it
Like a witness, of liquid gold
To print cherry fruit fragrances
On the lyrics of my days
March on, do not tarry

Said the tip of the sword to the pen
The pen whose muse was revolution
And could be read
On graffiti walls
In some war-torn future
As if the pain we were exposed to

iii

Broke the shell that enclosed our ignorance
Out of that suffering we stood
Stronger souls with massive
Characters and impressive scars
We wore them with pride.

Upon Writing an Epitaph for the Universe #NaPoWriMo

On Writing an Epitaph for the Universe

I was a man made out of words
With the whisp of whispers
Held like treasures, for tomorrow

It was for celebration, not for profit
How can you profit in eternity?
I am a man made out of soul

Of spirit-stuff and fundamental particle
Of joy, I lift the mood of
Alphabets and kiss the spring-odes
I am the early book of youth
On replay, I am the unpublished joy
Of how many writers on the way?

I am an artist who has no canvas
I am the voice that has no audience
I am vanilla love that aches to write

In a brain designed for poor speech
My ballads come as surprises to myself
I write the epitaph for the universe.

Title Embedded Below

We Worship perfect because we can’t have it

Language, it has allowed me to dream
I’ve never done anything but dream
All experience is a simulation
Of what our senses tell us

We perceive, all relationships
Are 80% make believe
And thus, I come to the point
Where my ultimate concern

Is naturally, for my inner life
Is the book of disquiet over?
Is the meaning found that escaped me?
Are the idols ready to be pushed aside?

And the myths, are they ready
To succumb to new myths, new standards?
To make way for the new
Language, it has allowed me to feel

I’ve never done anything but feel
All thoughts have a quality of feeling
Objectivity is the greatest lie
But subjectivity is an ironic dreamer

Full of queer promises and casual observations
That do not register fully until years later
That I take a certain pleasure in the fact
Of watching daydreams go down in defeat

Words like any truth, are part duality
And what once seemed like a clever remark
Can later feel like the ghost of an imaginary friend.

Silence is Nature’s beat tapping all hearts

Silence is Nature’s beat tapping all hearts

Silence is the sound of thought
For quantum silence would
Mean to not exist, and that is

Impossible for perception
Silence is not a lack of anything
Devoid of words, music, anxiety

It’s the great equalizer
The period in-between incarnations
The condition in-between encounters

And the sacred space that
Separates people, brains, chatter
The voices in our minds still
Sprout flowers faithful to the intent
That created them, the karmic non-hush

I’ve studied silence a lifetime
And still know nothing about her
For she is like the Tao, resting in action
Nestling in every leaf of every tree
Silence in the sun singing

Out loud but not for us to hear
Because we do not hear in light frequency
I can be content however
With silence as a blade of grass
Silence as utopia, purity, simplicity

The bareness of necessity
That transcends desires, wants, needs
A dream healer and healing dream
A drum sleeper and a sleepy drum
A cosmic background mother crying

Upon branches, beaches, even in
Crowded streets, I can feel it
Exhausted and spiralling
The presence unto nothing.

The seeds of poetry

The seeds of poetry

I write with the lips
of eternity, the passage
of naked centuries move in me
history’s whole body
expresses itself in my writing
the incandescent center
Of soul in language
Of literature on the brink

Hungering for incarnations
I wait for the arrival of
Transcendence in metaphor
The sublime traction of syntax
Paragraphs heavy as trees
With golden birds, cursive
Mischief, glyphs of mandarin and Korean

The fragile bride of words
Is in my hands, I’m a beggar
Of flowers and pauses
And green humming vitality
In verse, I am the wandering roots
Of linguistic music hoping
For the stars, petrified of the silence

I hold so dear and sacred
In-between poems, the excavated
Galleries of legends and symbols
The myths I live in fill me
But they do not fulfill me
Not like the carbonized drift of
Free-verse, not like the vagabond
Architectures of poem-magic.

The Pleasure of Poetry II

What is poetry?
Poetry is a painting
That requires not logic
Or sequence, it is
A painting heard but not seen

It is the vowels that are
Fully oval, that heave learned
To find inspiration
In tragedy, poetry
Is a reset button in the brain

It is magic and dreaming
Half-awake, in the author’s
Trance, it is the fragrance
Of verse, brightly lit
On a surface of pain

It is the white page
Begging for a lesson from faith
It is not rap, it is not spoken-word
It is not clever lyrics
Poetry is aesthetic, intelligent

Intellectual, asking us to
Redefine who we are
At every breath, it does not
Simply mimic, or repeat
Poetry is that life

That we could not live
That we did not dare to realize
In everyday course of events
Poetry is the mirror
To the inner life, and door

To the very psyche of the author
It does not require audiences
Fans, likes, or even acknowledgement
It’s the journals of the Earth
The earth that is never dead

But will keep writing
As long as the human heart beats.

Bouquet on an old wave of silence

I sang into an invisible Country
I called it Home, breathless
For the future and poetry
I sang a canto in stuttered
Hope, that filters through
Years full of sunshine
Pillars of sacrifice and people
People who unknowingly
All contributed to the same aim
In a harmony of music and energy
I sang into a moment, that kept
On being timeless, a transcendent breach
Into the clean air of worlds
I stood and sang with the voice
Of Silence, I wanted the diamond
Pivot bright to bathe me in
Transparency and wonder
So that the luminous pages
And on my knees, I might
Whisper something of a lost divinity
I sang for all the creatures who had died
For principles, ideals, survival.

To Name is to Create

I draw these letters
Alphabets I was taught
The day draws its images
The night will blow them over
Forever, they are mere words

Writing in the sand
Symbols do not return
They are invisible
For the rest of years
No one will read

Poems left unpublished
No one will read
Novels burnt before
Marketing, but writing
Is my way out, my music

And my bread, the milk
And wine of my loneliness
So what am I to do?
These poems sharpen
My emotions, they love me

Across the night
Where I am but a ghost
In the conjunction of stars
I drew these letters on
A white canvas, they are

More me than anything
Else I have or will own
They know me better
Than the women who come
And go in my life

I will tell them my secrets
Poetry has set fire
To all poems, but I am that
Living fire, I am that warmth
Of a thousand glorious sunsets.

Between Silence and Music

I will defy the movement of language
With syllables soft before the snow
For Autumn in the fewest chosen words
Along lines of simple alphabets

In the palm of my listening
I will observe you walk as a poem
Skips across ethereally this earth
With colors and bodies of Christmas

An instantaneous impression of beauty
I will sing a lullaby to the irreproachable sky
And kiss the poem-greeting letters
That dissolve as a soul among the trees

And the centre of music
That is a living expression of the times
Today the sun comes out in your poem
And I listen for the poem I will write in reply

I will be a hero of a recluse today, again
With an inner smile of jewel-pointed clarity
That the imagination is a universal thing
The night’s sheerness of black gardens

A voice from which religions spring
Spiritual movement completes itself
In an intuitive release of meaning
A letting go of the sadness of having come

And gone, like death, poetry takes me there
As a river of music, entering my blood
Chilling me with a serotonin symphony
The joy of being here, the glances and reflections

Of existence, mirroring poetry
Between silence and music
The snow and sun, men and women
The rain and drums stalk my fantasies.

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AGNES CECILE
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I too, am a pause

Hanging over pauses
I left language silent
Vanishing like stardust\

A brief vertigo of between
Thought and feeling
A little will of innocence
Running wild like insubstantial
Aesthetics of apparitions neither\

Truly named or published, simply
Verse, left to grow by itself
Secret gardens of untouched clarity\

Forever still in the words between
Messages, in the stanzas
Left clear of actual substance
A voice of alphabets forever drawing
Near, yet ringing from some far off
Distant place, a word-salad\

Of weightless hours of lyrical birth
Transparent for the silence
Of moments empty and sweet\

That could have been filled with anything
Remote and near, poetry dug
Like channels of the fountain of youth
Where circular afternoons prey
In the pretty tributes of eternal mind

The spiritual leftovers of past lives
Spilling over in elusive stars that write
About the light of enormous night
And how theatre became destiny.

字

The power to hurl words is a weapon
Language, invented so long ago
Tortured out of the season to be Silent
We witnessed destruction in this
That the body can speak with a Smile
We knew, how to evolve vocabulary
For the profit of any circumstance

But literature and poetry live on
Like music, affluent to the trends
The word the body couldn’t say
Brought us to a science of uniformity
Laws that all the Species knew
Some kind of order in the mathematics of space

Language evolved in sentient words
Likewise the empathy of our saving lives
Enlightenment, meant to heal with the
Power of words, the music of vibrations
The last energy to wield a shared reality
So next time you speak, think of this:
Everyone is equally innocent and guilty
In the metrics of language, the interview of sound.

SONG OF POETRY

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

Debt to Language

Words are a blameless hum
Language is insufficient ultimately
Flowers of through that float
With petals of fluff and wings of air

The thread, that has no needle
Laughter, that has no conclusion
Words are the mischief of myth
A whistle that imitates a bird

Knots of identity that do not fit quite right
Words zigzag and often hurt
And dream of something perhaps unreal
An expedition with no end

Only stories to relate us to the wild
Words defy topography, mask intent
There are no end-time mnemonics for alphabets
They cling to our duality and separate

You from me, us from the universe –
I pity the poets who can only taste
Their own subtle liquor in one language
I for one, am a poor translator of the human soul.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Unikorn-412093929

Love is Never Few Words Enough

It is not a word spoken
Love is never few words enough
It is an action from the heart
Without averted eyes
Nor a bend of the heart
But only a hush where
All is left, all sacrifice
All joy, too much to keep
That has memory for its gaze
And treasures unity in its sleep.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Kingdom-Hearts-Time-Rift-Keyblade-377339650

Words of Friendship

Only they are only breath
These words come from my source
My brief light of granted heart

The spoken commands of my immortality
With wings and feet that move
Rhythmically, and tenderly

I dance for a crushing altar of love
A circle of soft understanding
A smooth flowering grass

Of the best little breaths I ever had
These words come from the universe
Before they were mothers without children

Devoted to friends, these words sing on
After we are all gone, so be it
It’s not of use to fret of acts that were never had

I nearly died for imaginary things before
Only they are only breath
These words that dangle carelessly

Across the shooting distance of quick years
My dreams they fold at least in purple
A handkerchief around your timid gifts
I was sent to you to give you companionship.

Photography Credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Burn-it-Down-II-375988008

Mapping That Which Brought Forth Honey

It’s breathwork to play with syntax
Like underwater synastry of phrasing
The cadence is a cukoo of metre

I refuse consensus of syllable-count
I’m articulate without parameters
A free-verse bird’s call, a terrible fret

Of the higher forms of expression
A particular stanza, the way the wind blows
Agreeable in a certain slant of light

It’s breathtaking to shape music
And juggle fiction like ethereal plot
The trees, they have a last-chance

Threshold of dispossessing the wind
The poet, purifies language
In ceremony that ponders our hulking innocence

Those parts in us which are still raw
To the core of world-class lyrical topography.

The Hollows Made By Lovers in us through Harsh Words

Once you have learned these words
You will forget silence
Like learning heartbreak
You will renounce love

These are true stories of living
The word hangs like an anchor
It is used against us like a weapon
The very same voice you once served

Once you have learned these words
You will know the language of humanity
They will shape you to be insensitive
And burn a smudge of orange across your face

Every time you forget the rift of inner beauty
You will die a little more to the child you once were
Before language, before symbols corrupted you
You hold yourself between these two words

One silent, and the other an action
So be careful what you say, knowing
How words once damaged you, be gentle
To those closer to the silence
To those more fresh from the source.

Not With Your Foreign Wings to Shelter Me

Beneath sentiments better left, unsaid
Untouched like some dead weight
Beneath the rubble-fields of battered words
That amount to little more, mere memories

They are not tangible, precious, or alive
But constrict me from the inside
Let them try to pronounce a winter of hurt
For a floundering of spring, yet to be

With fevered heart, let them melt away in summer
Clang shut eternal gates of love, forever?
Yet, for all that, trust shall come again, as ever?
With nostrils of bleeding gold, for rich rewards?

You will not appear again, with that dusty mantle
Of golden olive skin and pouty eyes
I am sick of dissipating you in mere fantasy
As blind as I ever am, a prelude and a requiem, or a preface
Where my luckless touches, touched a foreign woman’s shore.

Uninterrupted Poetry

These poems are lost to me
Like the dead, there is no returning again
To what was, old loves

My mind feels them shouting there
Those who have died to us
Once here, now gone

It is the same with the music of the night
Grief dies to my renewal
I regenerate my lips, my ears, my thirst

Like a mausoleum of longing
I am, without ever being satisfied
I wake up to radiant mornings

Each and every day, jasmine at my feet
And I write poems, like lost waterfalls
Missed sunrises, broken comets

Stars on the tips of forgotten inheritance
These poems are lost to me
Like the emptying fulfillment of breath

Like a kind of solution to what I am
I create a rhetoric of distinguished ambiguity
Legislating my soul to be free

An embroidery without worldly cares
These poems are lost to me
I am not a thief of possession

But rather, a common beggar
With the guarantee of unearthly words.