#unclaimed - Hello Poetry

Upon appearance of an untitled poem with no body in my Drafts <> never have I ever written an untitled poem, nor painted a human sans a head; arms, legs, o.k., but, but when the purging urging enwraps me at 12:22 in the AM, i cannot birth my babies stillborn, unnamed, forlorn, it’s every breath would be an accusation, of breach, malfeasance, a child nameless, is the worst of all orphans, the poem’s title is its inner essence, a preface, a forward, and epilogue, just as your names is both begin and end, a hint of who you are and from whence you came, and where you are bound to be bound, it is your birth name, and final resting place, a hint of who you we’re, ared destined to become, to be, and to come, an entitlement! ah you curse or bless, thy given name, no longer do you examine it, write it repeatedly, to despise or admire the sounds of it exiting thy mouth, a roomful of teeth and tongue in concert cooperating and conniving, silky hissing your who-you-are-ness, you, who are poem, exist not, cannot be, without your entitlement; ah you pause and say to the sleeping woman who neither hears nor cares, who am I, who I am, and the differences entre deux that are my character yes, a untitled poem is forever unwished, unfinished unwashed? and to eternity, forever lost, unsigned, unconsigned, unfortunate unconsummated

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Feb 6, 2024

Feb 6, 2024 at 7:36 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Untitled becomes an entitlement

Upon appearance of an untitled poem with no body in my Drafts <> never have I ever written an untitled poem, nor painted a human sans a head; arms, legs, o.k., but, but when the purging urging enwraps me at 12:22 in the AM, i cannot birth my babies stillborn, unnamed, forlorn, it’s every breath would be an accusation, of breach, malfeasance, a child nameless, is the worst of all orphans, the poem’s title is its inner essence, a preface, a forward, and epilogue, just as your names is both begin and end, a hint of who you are and from whence you came, and where you are bound to be bound, it is your birth name, and final resting place, a hint of who you we’re, ared destined to become, to be, and to come, an entitlement! ah you curse or bless, thy given name, no longer do you examine it, write it repeatedly, to despise or admire the sounds of it exiting thy mouth, a roomful of teeth and tongue in concert cooperating and conniving, silky hissing your who-you-are-ness, you, who are poem, exist not, cannot be, without your entitlement; ah you pause and say to the sleeping woman who neither hears nor cares, who am I, who I am, and the differences entre deux that are my character yes, a untitled poem is forever unwished, unfinished unwashed? and to eternity, forever lost, unsigned, unconsigned, unfortunate unconsummated

39

Off the coast of the Bronx at the western end of Long Island before ships landed: the home of the Siwanoy tribe once the training ground of the 31st U.S Colored Infantry Regiment according to records, a prisoner of war camp in 1864 later referred to as "Potter's Field" or "City Cemetery" then a quarantine station for yellow fever patients as well as a women's psychiatric hospital & a tubercularium on the west side of the islands between an empty 4-acre space lived Solomon Riley's vision of black coney island during Jim Crow after the stay and departure of Pheonix house Hart Island now is the final resting ground for New York City's covid-19 victims whose family could not or did not hire a private funeral director and so they were labeled "unclaimed"

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Jul 28, 2020

Jul 28, 2020 at 10:52 PM UTC

GSP

Unclaimed (Hart Island)

Off the coast of the Bronx at the western end of Long Island before ships landed: the home of the Siwanoy tribe once the training ground of the 31st U.S Colored Infantry Regiment according to records, a prisoner of war camp in 1864 later referred to as "Potter's Field" or "City Cemetery" then a quarantine station for yellow fever patients as well as a women's psychiatric hospital & a tubercularium on the west side of the islands between an empty 4-acre space lived Solomon Riley's vision of black coney island during Jim Crow after the stay and departure of Pheonix house Hart Island now is the final resting ground for New York City's covid-19 victims whose family could not or did not hire a private funeral director and so they were labeled "unclaimed"

14

There are more poems inside me, but I intuit it is longer fair to impose on you by sharing more. The deep seeded infection of my spirit waxes and wanes, and there is no antidote, and unlike the virus itself, there never will be, a future cure, an inexpensive replacement cost for the spirit spent, the time and futures spirited away. Perhaps you recall I was one mile away from Ground Zero on September 11th. Rarely do I walk there. The coronavirus poetry inserts itself unaided, never asking permission, a like minded, but a contra-cousin to the coronavirus. I live in New York City, the epicenter where now, close to 800 die daily. Normally, about 25 bodies a week are interred on Hart island, mostly for people whose families can't afford a funeral, or who go unclaimed by relatives. In recent days, though, burial operations have increased from one day a week to five days a week, with around 24 burials each day.^^ Each dies with no last words, no Kaddish recited, Last Rites, too late, no Ṣalāt al-Janāzah or Om Namo Narayanaya. Each one, a numbered pine coffin, and each one will have at the very least, a poem of their own, so help me god. Buried side by side in large trench, room plenty for new arrivals, I hear the banging, protesting, resisting, this is not the way, I was promised, my ears left pounding! Hillel, the great scholar in this dream, reminds that “the time is short, and the work is great.” He paraphrases, though, “the bodies many, the poems too few.” There ain’t no anonymity in heaven, but I’ll reconfirm that with you later.

0

Apr 12, 2020

Apr 12, 2020 at 10:48 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Pandemic Poems: Unclaimed bodies, There’s ain’t no anonymity in heaven.

There are more poems inside me, but I intuit it is longer fair to impose on you by sharing more. The deep seeded infection of my spirit waxes and wanes, and there is no antidote, and unlike the virus itself, there never will be, a future cure, an inexpensive replacement cost for the spirit spent, the time and futures spirited away. Perhaps you recall I was one mile away from Ground Zero on September 11th. Rarely do I walk there. The coronavirus poetry inserts itself unaided, never asking permission, a like minded, but a contra-cousin to the coronavirus. I live in New York City, the epicenter where now, close to 800 die daily. Normally, about 25 bodies a week are interred on Hart island, mostly for people whose families can't afford a funeral, or who go unclaimed by relatives. In recent days, though, burial operations have increased from one day a week to five days a week, with around 24 burials each day.^^ Each dies with no last words, no Kaddish recited, Last Rites, too late, no Ṣalāt al-Janāzah or Om Namo Narayanaya. Each one, a numbered pine coffin, and each one will have at the very least, a poem of their own, so help me god. Buried side by side in large trench, room plenty for new arrivals, I hear the banging, protesting, resisting, this is not the way, I was promised, my ears left pounding! Hillel, the great scholar in this dream, reminds that “the time is short, and the work is great.” He paraphrases, though, “the bodies many, the poems too few.” There ain’t no anonymity in heaven, but I’ll reconfirm that with you later.

10