Just look in and get a punch on the nose?

.
.
Not literally, or this time.  Not sure that ever happened literally, but I lost years of memory, and even the majority good years, I can't remember every bad thing that happened.  No, this is poetry.  I ended up, rather inexpensively, with W. Witman's, Emily Dickinson's, and Poe's complete poetry, plus a collection (of unknown completeness) by T. Roethke.  I know some bits of all the others, aside from the latter.  So... even if I am not going to dig, I thought I'd look at a few of his.  I am stuck, so far, on the first one.  A punch to the chops, if more from back when, while I was still underwater trying to tread without His graces.

A punch on the nose, the title might as well read, by Theodore Roethke.  Anyway, I thought I'd recount it here.  Giving credit where it is due.

Open House

My secrets cry aloud.

I have no need for tongue.

My heart keeps open house,

My doors are widely swung.

An epic of the eyes

My love, with no disguise.

My truths are all foreknown,

This anguish self-revealed.

I'm naked to the bone,

With nakedness my shield.

Myself is what I wear,

I keep the spirit spare.

The anger will endure,

The deed will speak the truth

In language strict and pure.

I stop the lying mouth:

Rage warps my clearest cry

To witless agony.

Just of the past?  It covers a lot of the here and now.  There is a mix and match that just unnerved.  I don't, honestly, care for the poem, artistically.  But, then, I don't like poetry.  *grins*  However...
Well, good night.

Bastards and the sisterhood are sneaking up on me.