Strange, that there are words for this wordlessness you allude to - even though the words are, of course, fingers pointing to the Moon.
I think I know a thing or two about this 'lush emptiness' Daniel -and agree with you that paradox is at the heart of all art and existence. By association, these words, I (re)turn to, again and again:
"An ordinary truth is a statement whose opposite is a falsehood. A profound truth is a statement whose opposite is also a profound truth."
--Niels Bohr
But, back to your full emptiness, I am reminded of the riches of Tao te Ching, a book of bottomless, fruitful paradoxes, if there ever was one. How if we wish to be given everything, we must give everything up; if we wish to be full, we must empty ourselves...
Interesting for me how very different both parts of your poem feel to me, in style and tone, like they belong to different people or, at least, different moods.
I'm especially susceptible to the passionate, intimate tone of Part I - a kind of love letter to existence - which to my ears, sounds quite mystical (like Rumi's beloved poetry).
Here is an echo from a poem of mine where, I think, I attempt something similar:
Perhaps, we are negotiating
not just with one, but always two
(who share the same soil, it is true)
one who lives, another who expires
A shift in balance begins to take place
once a love of silence is confessed
its roots run deep, its shade a world
and her fruits impossible to forget
From the first, we surrender something
and, gradually, consent to be emptied
transfixed by so much soundless music
drunk and sated through lipless mouths
What use to name this silent master
preparing us for dying or the Divine
—I’m not sure there is a difference—
but know, in embracing, we let go.
This is inspiring for me too write poety every day!!!
Yes, it certainly is inspiring, @braindead.
I envy @d-pend his prolific flow—in the 30 years I’ve been writing poetry, I’ve never managed to write a poem a day, myself.
But, I think it is more than a merely literary matter and has more to do with what Leonard Cohen refers to, here:
“Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.”