"providential" poems - Hello Poetry

(and I cannot live from with-out) <> a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo <> I, too: - am an embryonic work in progress, well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight I too, live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs, but suspect the innards of the houses differs little, the decor, quite similar - my house shrewdly requests a rethinking, noting, it lives my artifice, with in & with out Then, we are a We: - my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born, - Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go” This duality: - where the haunting of words providential, emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something, for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung from with in to with out She, Poetry: - leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out, for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which when Poetry’s birthing: - chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal, abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language, no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling, product of the screams of pushing, squeezing it forth* *you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations, for if you fail, a poem noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks, where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes maliciously glimmer~winks at me with a sarcastic thank you* *“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn, gone to rest, biting the nether dust, without hope of resuscitation…”* just another unfinished work in progress periodically a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished, amniotic fluids cleared, poem resurrected blessed with eternal life, readied to be shared and delivered, affirmed and you say to no one and to everyone: this poem will be our poem, wither it goes, ascending, descending, all live in the house of poets, one house, many apartments, each poem a god, and my God will be our God, your God, my God, in the House of Poetry

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Jun 21, 2023

Jun 21, 2023 at 5:55 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

I, too: Live with-in the House of Poetry

(and I cannot live from with-out) <> a poem in appreciation to Rossella Di Paolo <> I, too: - am an embryonic work in progress, well into my seventh decade, with no ending in sight I too, live in the house of poetry, the address likely differs, but suspect the innards of the houses differs little, the decor, quite similar - my house shrewdly requests a rethinking, noting, it lives my artifice, with in & with out Then, we are a We: - my cavities house her, She, Poetry is of Ruth (1) born, - Poetry, She, reminds me, ”whither thou goest, I will go” This duality: - where the haunting of words providential, emanate, both inhabiting & inhibits my breathing She, a fearsome creature, a fearful-something, for it tears me and shreds tears its demands be wrung from with in to with out She, Poetry: - leaves me gaping, hollow, fills me with depressurizing boreholes exposed to the elements of externalities of an admixed atmospheres, that nature demands be refilled, fresh in, stale out, for which the artifice trick is knowing which is which when Poetry’s birthing: - chest pounds, heart-rate beats heavy metal, abdomen contracts, there then, no languid in my language, no help untangling the alpha-bet jumbling, product of the screams of pushing, squeezing it forth* *you’re hoping to quick-catch newly formed combinations, for if you fail, a poem noisily crashes to and through the floorboard cracks, where poetry’s chaotic glinting etes maliciously glimmer~winks at me with a sarcastic thank you* *“ah, too bad, another creation stillborn, gone to rest, biting the nether dust, without hope of resuscitation…”* just another unfinished work in progress periodically a survivor clean caught, transcribed, edited to be finished, amniotic fluids cleared, poem resurrected blessed with eternal life, readied to be shared and delivered, affirmed and you say to no one and to everyone: this poem will be our poem, wither it goes, ascending, descending, all live in the house of poets, one house, many apartments, each poem a god, and my God will be our God, your God, my God, in the House of Poetry