‘Th’unwearied Sun from day to day/ Does his Creator’s pow’r display;/ And publishes, to every land,/ The work of an almighty hand.// Soon as the evening shades prevail,/ The Moon takes up the wond’rous tale;/ And nightly to the listening Earth,/ Repeats the story of her birth…’ Joseph Addison, 1672-1719, An Ode
The Moon’s Word
It is the Moon’s word - hung
silver among whispering stars.
Shining white root,
before dust, stone -
the chattering letters of life -
organic noise of water, blood,
flesh and green;
elegies of death.
Wearing her soul -
which is cold light,
as insect and ice
wear exoskeleton;
her own lonely species
of light - honed so cool,
austerely holy, pure; turned
madly bright with loneliness.
A ragged rock bowl
of numb winter sea
hears her silver word,
even in sleeping skin,
mirror ear-sheen;
real as a dream -
twitches, remembering
vibrant sun languages;
the dazzling blindness,
shattering into wet fire -
poaching corpulent autumn suns,
sinking under, orange, overripe -
gutted gold light punctured
slowly over syrupy waves,
turning warm red
as animal blood.
In Nights’s black printing ink,
Moon’s white word is written;
voicing her negative, faux light,
until even a high, queenly tree -
wearing her jewel in keener’s hair -
her sparkling winter starnet tangles,
kneels to her waist in black soil;
and blue Earth holds her breath -
listening, all suspended, resting,
to the fledgling night-angel cry,
born apprentice in Nature’s pantheon;
a startling white owl, silver-dipped -
winged ornament, perfect accessory
in dark schemes of decorating night;
hearing the murdered animal spirits
crawling among moss, fallen leaves;
brittle consonants of glinting black flints -
river’s mercurial skin, her travelling heart
of music; long humming conundrums
of identity - signature impermanence -
smudging milk-blue air with luminosity;
sickly ghosts of her closed honeysuckle –
white brides who have failed with bees;
nunly they hang, offering up sacrifice -
perfume as the last prayer of the flower,
mimicking a signature smell of Heaven.
Her cold white sound,
bloodless command,
has won the season’s night -
overcome both Sun and Earth,
which no longer breathe;
leaving only monuments.
Moon, always the last white light
left on in the sky for child Earth -
last word on Night’s black page;
printing Sun’s lifeless blueprint,
her heartless pressed flower,
as our body makes bearable
God’s light - so transfigured,
we can look upon ourselves.
It is the Moon’s word
hung in black silence.
Friday, 27 June 2008
The Moon’s Word
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