A Favour to Ask: Attracting Poets & Writers to WordPress Campaign

1 – Sign in to your LinkedIn

2 – Go to the link below

3 – Share on social sharing icons, just under the title.

Hello everyone,

I hope you are having or had a good weekend. Could you please share this following post on social media, especially if you have a writer’s LinkedIn profile or reblog it here:

I’m trying to drum up support for the WordPress medium to attract more writers & poets to our community,

“Why I Recommend WordPress to other Writers”

The post can be found here:

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/why-i-recommend-wordpress-other-writers-wuji-shiu?trk=prof-pos

Poets and writers need a community that is friendly and easy to create beauty and art, and network,

WordPress is the best I have found of late, do you agree? What are some others you enjoy?

Thanks.

Poetry and you Leave the same Lasting Impression

Poetry and you Leave the same Lasting Impression

It’s not necessary to say that I loved you
Because the entire universe
Conspired to help me find you
And each day it conspires in us such a harmony
And if imagination is more

Important in our relationship, than knowledge
I shut my eyes and all the world
Drops away, and it’s just us
If I’m a victim of introspection
You bring me back again and again

To the real world your feminine pragmatism
Assures me is the important one
I know, my poetry is a tyrannical discipline
It’s not affording you a good lifestyle
However hypnotized I am by its workings

I often find myself watching you
As you eat a piece of fruit or share a conversation
So darling, if the moon smiled
She would no doubt resemble you
It’s not necessary to say that I love you each day

But I still do anyways, it makes my
Lungs dilate with the onrush of breath
That I’m a part of the scenery
Air, mountains, trees, people, thought
Life affords me just enough raw materials

To create the reality I want
To be acutely aware of for the rest of my life.

God employs several translators #poem #wordsmatter #blog

God employs several translators

More than kisses, letters
Alphabets of musings, mingled souls
I to writers, for writers, must watch
The scripts are for minds
Such as them, and verse

Like love built on beauty
Soon beauty dies, we have but
One small voice, one timid note of Spring
These poems be it said
Were as my own personal serenity of heaven
ii
That drip, drop, sunsets in my mind
To bathe in harmless greatness
With enlightenment, nature’s masterpieces
May your words, be thine own palace
Thy own lover’s make, repeat

These mantras that God employs
In us, we are but translators, preachers
Of the doctrine of the universe
But I do nothing upon myself
Yet I am my own celebrator
iii
Since you would read none of me
I will bury my freedom here
In symbols of pleasure derived
And delivered solely unto me
For myself as kisses, letters

Alphabets of song and ruin
Pleasure diversified, words not ignored
For God’s sake do not hold your tongue
But speak your part to the world’s
Brittle make, not often is a poet born

The days will break, but not thy heart
And a thousand poems be born form thy pen.

The Silent Revolution is Inevitable

– Pictured, Tina Chang (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tina_Chang)

Ascent of Asia

I am haunted by how little our children
Know, what we have done
To each other, to those we deemed
Beneath us, to the Earth…..

How a republic falls and how
Democracy can lie, how News can be distorted
How money hides its debt
By printing more, by pretending we are alright

Or worse, an old idea of Nationalism
Idols of a world out dated, euro-centric
I’m haunted by how little
Millennials realize Asia is the new Queen

Why do they not learn Mandarin, Korean?
We forever think we are the center
Of the globe, but I’m not a daughter
Or a son of East or West

I am haunted by how little writers
Write about revolution, about change
We cannot always repeat what others have said
We cannot always unravel in our

Personal voice, there’s a secret stairway
To broader concerns, more existential themes
There, the ultimate fiction is reality
There is a new world ready to be born
Will you join?

Your Poems became my Confessions

 

Your Poems became my Confessions

The poem began innocently
As lumps in your throat
You shave and trim them
Until they are perfect

But I don’t do that, I won’t
But when I read your work
Emotion finds its way
Into the architecture of psyche

Past the layers of skin
Into the bridge of passion
And as a symbol, I spontaneously
Burst with what makes you tick

As the same think that makes me whole
And that’s a powerful catalyst
For truth from grief and power
From sacrifice, and I’m an alchemist

When I read your work, and that’s
A crazy audience, uplifted from poverty
These poems begin innocently enough
So be careful what you do to me

Your words burn into me like erotic memories
And chatting about who to blame
For who we are, I fell for your ancestors
And by association, you, we both wanted

What we cannot pay enough to have
Pain became our meaning
And writing became our life
And if the present is indeed the

Revenge of the past, I have a feeling
My poems will reflect your silence.

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.

To be a poet is dangerous

Messages without Knowing

Poets acquire humanity
In their undoing, this
Dangerous self-destructive art
Who dares be ridiculed a poet these days?

This secret subversive pleasure
Isn’t it so, that we are the houses
Of art that try to be haunted
To feel what others dare not!?

Painting they say is silent poetry
Poetry is painting that speaks
But for whom does it speak?
These echoes asking shadows

To dance, that communicates
Without or before understanding
To sit in the dark and sing
To cheer its own solitude

With sweet sounds, where O where
Are the sweet sounds of old?
Poets die trying to be poets
I’ve seen it with my own eyes

Poetry is an escape from emotion
An instinct to tell stories
Like a seer or a prophet in hard times.

EJ’s Utopia

It’s an honour to be a poet

In my own utopia, I am
Living the dream, alright!
I would write to be free

Not as an escape but as a deeper
Layer to living, as a fuller
Realization to feeling
I felt love in words, considerate words

That would reply in
A dozen different ways a second
As a way of self-knowing

Because as a child, I couldn’t speak
I had a stutter and it created
A manuscript in my brain
To become a poet, to become

A frightfully unemployable thing
A poet must remain humble
I’m gifted in humility, simply

It’s an honour to be a poet
That’s an unpopular opinion
Being without a source of profit hurts
But it would hurt more not to write

The brunt of my little pleasure
In this untidy world comes from
Writing it, creating something

Out of nothing, that is more distinctly me
Than you or I could ever guess
In my own utopia, I am not a hero
For I disappear in what I do

That is the peak experience sincerely
When you are gone, no longer
The center of your life, but just

A backwards glance at everybody
In my own Utopia, I’m pretty certain
Every man and woman would
Write a poem…..

Poems to Utopia

Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.
~ Plutarch

I cannot mistake poems
For my children, they are
Applications for the ability
to feel completely alive!

And I know it, to compensate
for days when I can barely
be fully productive, why
I cannot often celebrate

Looking at alphabets in a new way
Wrinkled poems lost to notebooks
mandarin glyphs studied fullheartedly
i cannot marry art, though it’s not

for lack of trying, hoping after
orgasmic quotes, divine lullabies
whine in me, divine mouth
of foaming ink that devotes

so many of my hours, so much
of my time on this planet.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Sangklaburi-471314522

CLEARLY PRONOUNCING FAREWELLS

i

In the freezing nightgown of Meaning
Poetry is a torn Rapture
Chronicles of departing youth
Would it gladden you to think

ii

The dripping names to purify
With a few hundred goodbyes
Life after youth is Peace
On a fabric of loving repetition

iii

Writing is the changing of swans overheard
The voice in the silence that glows
The letter to another young Poet
The alphabets that want

iv

A vividness to distract
A laboratory of delicate Escape
Metaphors without movement
Inner time without false actors

v

Poetry is clearly pronouncing your
Spirit, for a moment with Everyone
As if I wanted to be a last star
There not so alone between the light.