Ode to the ephemeral



Time moves in one direction, memory in another. —William Gibson

  1. Traversing the expanses that divide us
  2. I have waited long enough on the length
  3. Of what is to be seen across
  4. Like it was wrong to avoid, and
  5. Reason, and worry, grinned.
  6. What lingers on and winds away I don’t care again
  7. To bother with a knowing look:
  8. Things will never change, changed,
  9. Leaning into what’s keeping them
  10. Completely lost to time
  11. Forgetting what you can still remember
  12. And remembering what you deeply forgot.
  13. But rather than guessing, I’m begging you not to try
  14. And it has just began, you can always stay
  15. And wonder if you knew.

False alarm

Everyone at 360 degrees bent for reflex.
Diameter: 143.5 mm.
So this was why the rounder it gets, the more it
Morphed into a sleek of dark oceans
Like a perfect dose of buoyancy
Someone’s plotting circumference.

There we scout some vistas, clockwise
And in a graceful turn
Twice the stabilized
Virtually opposite
Of the same

Imagery of space and fluidity;
As long as it occupies
A horizon of focus
360 degrees
Point blank

Easing off to the boundaries
Of prying into–

The birth of a poem


The precise the absurd stripping itself anew
Has without a word to say yet explaining
Where the opened mouth is about to devour

For what one finds directions: if x is without a clue
And y is sartorial neurosis mixing up real life
With fiction you couldn’t even call it forest

But, perhaps, just another darkly secrets
Which are also emerging on the catch and crouched in wait
Walking up right to this, but what is it?

Exactly, the muttering at dusk with alternating turns
Became a hum on a gnarled globe like something
In the shock—

In shadows and crevices with no sense of dread,
Yet nothing took its place identical from the itch.
The birdsong now: utterly.

The cluttered neon


Dissecting a gaze
like something you found quite unexpectedly
in the puzzled
entrance towards
a heavy sky
of permanent orange
of spaces and time
the framed photograph
that hanged
in depth and dimension

The wall
that divides
unfathomable windows
the dim in the wake
of keen observing
released with false brightness.

I will come again
to keep an eye
the copy
of what
I’m gonna

In this gap
that connects.

Wandering through a light that burns

Wandering_through_a_lightEdna St. Vincent Millay once said, referring to the kind of life that she has led, about her candle that “burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends–it gives a lovely light.” That there is connection between passion and giving, even if the process costs the person everything, will create a beauty out of that person for all to see. So, to base with this concept, whatever it is we are so passionate about of doing is the one thing that will define us.

That is what it is, but not all form of passion would apply to this though. Some passions are potentially harmful to the moral landscape of human progress. Writing is what I am so passionate about and it has consumed me little by little because, little by little, it feeds me more of something.

It is to be exposed to such a field of energy by letting everything of you to be absorbed which you can as well take something and you will never be the same again. It’s kind of like an itch at first then into a habit, until you will come to so much fall in love with it.

There’s no way you can get better at writing than to just write, write, and write. Yet some writers, including myself, at some point of their lives, will generally do everything to avoid writing. But like a true lover, a writer who is so crazily in love with his craft, he will find it sweeter the second or many times around though.

Writing is too broad, so I’m going to narrow it down to this: poetry writing. Call it Destination: Poetry: a sphere of activity I have created to house and to hopefully give my readers the insights and ideas for whatever it is I can possibly give a voice and share. But then, my dear readers, for all of you to be able to understand it all, I want you to get lost with me, wandering through a light that burns:

Twenty years later, today,
is to know exactly what I’ve tried to show.
The point of

The suddenly crowding of—
Almost never came

With prospects and constitution,
exactly where it went.
How to end the sentence

Has become the minutes
of infinity
for what I’m looking at

For how long.
But now the whole thing
is why it disappeared.

I’m returning by
what will take me here.
But how did you get here?

As purple as poetry

As_purple_as_poetryPurple is, for me, the color of poetry. But, of course, any poet can choose whatever color he might like it to be. Each time, while writing the first few lines of a poem I’m going to compose, should be dealt with on keeping to create a beauty that I can put colors to written words and to assume what my readers can possibly absorb from out of such a vague twist of language. Yet, no matter how far I went, it does not always follow. I will end up writing instead for the sake of it. If x is the flow of thought that wanders away and y is what the mind could best capture with and at, then poetry depends as much on immediacy of the release of these thoughts as on the quality of words used. Poetry should be the marriage of the primitive with the sophisticated.

Some things exist in the poet’s mind alone; poetry bridges that gap—something that connects the imaginary from real. It comes with investigating what you can present about, which is to limit the “searching” at some point, only to be lost to wherever the thoughts may take you. The beauty, as if the vanishing point of perspective in painting, radiates the same coherence from what it can distort more or the less of it, and as purple as poetry itself:

in a range of understood pages the words strung together.
the text: an outlining feature of the so-called die has been cast
in a word. words as symbols but also to understand

the function of such symbols.
or maybe the state of the mind—what one
can practice or imagine.

stalky print of something in this obscure the picture stretched between
yet licking a finger to turn a page.
not far away from it,

there’s this knitting together
to introduce, poet,
and strong.

spell out the nameless bloom of a flower but, i’m sorry, this kind
of like overflow
violates (violet).

Still life with a flower vase

Still_with_a_flower_vaseThe rule is: to not be confused between seeing a particular thing from a particular point of time and finding something from what you saw out of that particular thing. Behind the lids, is a visual flow for you to make discovery with. Yet, if you’re looking from the same direction and cannot find what you would like to be seeing, the point is, nothing is violated. It’s about time most of the time to fit your eyeglasses back into their case and feel the comfort of anticipating the improbable. You may decide whether it’s going to be poetry or not. It grows and spread out quickly though. It helps to read its physical description: “the colors may drift when no one is looking.” If you cannot find what you’re looking for in a picture, then, invent it. Adorn it with whatever your mind is capable of creating.

This new found sensibility is nothing new for anyone who seeks. And anyone who seeks shall find. It will add substance to the already full-blown idea. To get lost for the sake of finding is to grow for what it is that captivates, pulling you into something to explore more. So what’s with the flower vase? Observe, observe, observe. There’s more to it than meets the eye, and where’s the flower? You’re going to see it from an angle you could only imagine and make sure to distinguish it from the original.

The flower, in such a case as this one, is what will flash past and quickly disappear by which you have to document your source by indicating what you would rather see from what you would rather not. In real life, it’s all about striving for accuracy.  But here, in this internal tension of keen observing, it’s about peering at the diagram and to confuse it as close as possible to the abstract of the illustration to which it relates. The flower is the beauty you would like to create. And what begins in beauty, from you own point of view, ends with the same.

Bridging the beyond: An introduction to an introduction


I’m sure many of you will find reading a difficult-to-understand poetry hard to understand. That is what it is, perhaps because most of us are accustomed to deal with what is only pleasing or easily absorbed by the senses we took no time to waste on such things that require a lot of thinking to be able to decipher the code of our subjects. Why waste a time, as some of you will most probably be asking, to read something you would only have hard time knowing about in the first place? In other words, why bother?

But then, if you’re going to ask a poet like myself the same question, I’m going to equally ask you the same question as my answer, why bother bothering to read a work you don’t quite understand in the first place by the way? Yet, once you’re browsing through my works and be puzzled, that is where understanding begins. You have to give the puzzle a chance to soak in or at least a try to confuse you to make such a room for you to understand what it is all about. You need to find ways to understand it yourself, or you will not understand at all.

There’s no such thing, at least if you’re going to ask my opinion about it, as a hard-to-understand poetry. Only dull or what was left of our diverted senses were. Poetry has been around long before human beings learned to know it is there.

It is everywhere for the poets to find, absorb, and interpret.  It is to connect to the absurd, to try going the direction of the beyond by bridging the beyond.In the end of it all, it is what you have become, as a poet, of what you have discovered, that matters. This is to introduce you to the poetry of a poet I have become and discovered, in my attempt to Bridge the Beyond:

I was supposed to come up with changing much of the same still point for this morning’s emotional context. Yet, in the process, it lives to caress in my keeping up a steady stream of thought trying to puzzle out some expressions, which didn’t take quite long. It picks me up through space by itself instead just when I didn’t see it coming. The impossible demand somebody was able to capture, in wandering away, has been absorbed. I sat here waiting for it to pass hoping to change the subject. It seemed to please itself by itself. It seemed, to me, a new reason for excitement. Because from nothing I read it was what this diary entry describes, the melding together of all the pieces, by the time I closed it. But now it meant something more than just that: above and beyond.

The weaving together of a poetic narrative is like a lover’s kiss on the lips by which to try to bring everything to occur in the present, as if time stops, is to connect with what separates the boundaries of sharing. It is at this moment that I allowed myself to be completely absorbed with what I have to look forward to: which now belongs to me. A narrative is where words connect with things; the poet interprets as if it was a kiss.

Already I was looking forward to with what I’d come too far although for a long time I just sat here, waiting. Pretend you’re not looking. Because from nothing I read it was what this diary entry describes, the melding together of all the pieces, by the time I closed it. But now it meant something more than just that: above and beyond. The lights and the shadows go by—how natural of their escape.