Poetry makes nothing happen

"For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives

In the valley of its making where executives

Would never want to tamper, flows on south

From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,

Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,

A way of happening, a mouth."

~ WH Auden

My mouth, my mouth!

my subtle chirping,

my squawks and my slurping,

my lisp mutterer,

my gluton-er and my stu-stu-stutter-er.

My mouth, my megaphone,

shared by my single-minded mind

and a sentient soul.

Mind you, my sole

goal is to be and feel alive,

 and so my poetry, (if you stretch to call it that),

my poetry, my way of happening, my mouth,

it
will
survive.