Poetic Prose

Your Poem, Your Blade. Soft-Sharp Verses Beneath My Skin.

To Obinna, With Reflections.

Sweet Wounds

In a secluded grove, where spring unfurled its verdant fingers, I stood — a solitary tree, roots delving deep into memories of soil and sky.

In the tender blush of first light, you found me, poet, with nothing but the softest blade — a pen poised to wound and to wonder.

Your verse slices through me, razor-sharp, silent, and precise.

Your poem, a blade unsheathed, glides across my form, tracing vulnerability along my skin, weaving pain with beauty in a spellbinding ritual too profound for words.

And your words — deep incisions of sweetness and sorrow — leave me shivering, resin tears, a blend of the bitter and the sweet, akin to your prose.

These marks, once raw, now stand as intimate scars — sensual maps of our entwining.

You’ve inscribed yourself within me, an indelible touch, beneath my skin where souls bind in a lightning flash.

Have you ever wept at beauty so piercing, it can only be cradled in tears?

Did you ever kneel for the sheer splendor of a moment?

Its a divine ache, like a love forged by your verses, — a torment sweetened by enchantment, lifting me, fulfilling me, imbuing my being with blissful agony.

Intense Bloom

In this moment, tears are not of sorrow but of ecstasy, unleashing a torrent of sweet vitality, a celebration of the depth to which your words touch me.

This outpouring is my spirit’s lifeblood, alight with joy and laughter, mingled with the thrill of your poetic voice.

It’s a sacred blend of joyfulness and desire, a sensuous surrender to the mystique of your influence.

Rain washed over me, winds howled, and the sun bathed me in its golden warmth, yet the poem remained, ingrained, everlasting.

And as I trace the contours of your presence, I found myself bound to you, etched beneath my skin.

Under the caress of your words, I sense fragile buds sprouting within, poised to unfurl.

Unable to contain the burgeoning beauty, I bloom in a spectacle of pink blossoms.

And like in a trance, the wind sweeps my floral snow from me, scattering poems into the ether.

Each petal, imbued with your lyric’s warmth, awakens fully, eager to embrace the world.

In this moment of blooming, my essence is liberated, dancing with the wind in a delirious release of beauty.

Tender Scars

Yet, as petals descend like soft sighs upon the forest floor, a yearning awakens within my heartwood.

I crave the tender agony of your pen, the inspiration with whom you graced my form.

This desire is soft-sharp, a silent plea cast into the void for your return, for the brush of your presence against my skin once more.

Now, with the scars of your prose, every spring for a thousand years demands I flower, casting me into an eternal cycle of awakening.

Your words — now a part of me.

Reflecting on ‘Notes to Betty on Womanhood’ by Obinna Uruakpa (link below):

Dear Obinna,

It took me a moment (or a few weeks, who’s counting?) to gather your pages, to smooth them out and find where my story could intertwine with the thoughts you shared. I promised a response, yet cautioned it would be in a language not of words, but of souls — a dialogue not bound by expectations. In response, I let go of thought and embraced a realm where feeling reigns supreme, allowing poetry to flow from the wellspring of my feminine intuition.

Reflecting on our spirited exchange, Obinna, it's clear: your notes channel the masculine essence of logos, while my poetic reply dances in the feminine light of eros, together a harmonious blend of opposites.

So here I am, and there you are, or more accurately, here we stand together, at the threshold of understanding. Accept this offering of petals from pen to soul. Betty

© Written by Dr. Bettina Sieber 2024

Obinna Uruakpa, Notes to Betty on Womanhood: https://readmedium.com/do-you-know-a-man-cannot-do-what-a-woman-can-do-46092a31f4b1

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