Compared to me and my imagination,
You can't imagine at all.
If our imaginations were a height competition,
Yours would be short and mine would be tall.
You could never imagine the crazy things that I think all day,
Your imagination is a parasite that mine would sweep away.
If I tried to explain to you my imagination and all it's complex bends,
Your tiny imagination couldn't even begin to comprehend.
My imagination is a twisting turning maze within my mind.
I have found the navigation within it,
......
Every time
A sigh transforms
A lamentation changes
To a flower
And fills the white paper
The vacuum
No more remains a vacuum
The beautiful angel surrounds a soul
The fragrance escapes to cosmos
The pulse and beats
......
A poem is a lover's call
Across the timeless river of death separating
the beats of life from the loving hearts.
My Drawing 1 professor introduced me to the 99 Dada Manifestos of Tristan Tzara. I believe that most of what stuck with me from my art education was my inner desire to rebel.
And what I write today are the continuation of Dada Manifestos started in the 1910's. Dada Manifestos that lay bare the lack of creativity in today's culture and what is needed to change that.
I call him a poet
He
Who beautifies his loneliness
Sitting all alone
In the dark.
Someone
Who has stopped
To compare with
The hills of status,
......
The topic that chose me today was African Elephants.
Unbidden,
they came
from depths unknown —
I did not plan to ponder Elephants,
and I certainly didn’t intend to write about them.
Yet here they are,
grand, gray, glorious,
trumpeting
......
A poem is a lover's call
Across the timeless river of death separating
the beats of life from the loving hearts.
I call him a poet
He
Who beautifies his loneliness
Sitting all alone
In the dark.
Someone
Who has stopped
To compare with
The hills of status,
......
To write a poem
Is a task-
Not so easy as making a cup of tea
Nor so difficult as breaking a fence
To set a prisoner free.
But it is as good as breaking a way
Into the most mysterious cave
......
The civilization of
poets has thinned out.
There's a drought of
metaphors and symbolism.
We are all prisoners in
a musty attic.
Where is Emily when
you need her?
I'm afraid they've gone
the way of the graveyard.
......