Many Tried and Try Poetry Without Any Soul

 

L’Imperatrice is the soul trice-bounded,

and trice-fledged—in her phonic concord,

synchronicity with the Greek péras, limit,

end, but also perfection and final sentence

of the judge, plus pteron, feather or wing,

or ptilon, soft down, plume, and the Latin

penna, feather, plume, in plural a wing,

and pen as is the Slavic pero, both feather

and pen for writing—from pet-, to rush,

to fly—hence to reach what’s otherwise

out-of-the-way, out-of-bounds, barred,

and the Greek pérā, pérān, means across,

the other (opposite) side, beyond, through,

but per- is also what is first—and a pen

is then what ought to help our hearts

and minds grow—growing feathers, wings,

and writing would be then spreading them

afar—even where one could not once go,

even crossing an otherwise forbidden bring

and then even coming back like the Morning

Star when no longer occulted near by the Sun.

And words too and then verses all the more

are or may be such upward budding barbs,

feathers, wings, and plumes, and ordering

and ‘putting them down’ would, if done well,

be far from disowning or losing one’s soul’s gift

but having her invited and coming forth alive

with the rustle of those wings on a poem’s spur,

forth and first, before us, out of sound and breath.