Hi Everyone,
Hope you are all warm and toasty!
I am not.
We are battling a sluggish furnace, so writing this post has given me a much-needed distraction from the frigid temps.
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One of the joys of having adult children is that, if you are lucky, they become friends who know and love you for the weirdo you are.
My son, Charlie, knows I am a geek, and recently gave me the Birdy Moon Phase Watch from Shinola, which lets me follow its path.
Now I only have to look down at my wrist to track when a new dispatch is coming from Will Dowd’s substack, The Lunar Dispatch, one of my all-time favorites. I recommend you subscribe even if you have not the slightest interest in the moon or astronomy in general, because the writing is exquisite. Writer friends, I promise, you will learn a lot about how to craft a lyrical essay from him. He is a master class.
And now, for some fun:
First, please take a look at the essay (see the link below) and the poems I’ve provided. Then scroll to the bottom for the prompt.
Enjoy!
Kelly
“Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.” — Buddha
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Read The Lunar Dispatch here.
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Moon Ghazal
I can’t remember the first time I saw it, seems it was
always there, even with me in the womb, the moon.
It must have been night, above the ocean, making a path
on the waves, gilded invitation, the parchment moon.
Or the day moon, see-through-y wafer over desert, caught
in the arms of saguaro, thin-skinned, heart-stuck moon.
Blue as new milk, aquarium water, Mexican tile, blue
as cold-bitten fingertips, nailbeds’ quick-blue arcs, half-moons.
How I felt when I saw my first grown boy, round-eyed,
all sinew and muscle, his calves, his biceps, plump as moons.
Buttons, doorknobs, volleyballs, clocks, egg yolk, orange
slice, violet iris, our planet a pupil, mote in the eye of the moon.
The cell inside me splitting and splitting, worm of the fetus,
tadpole, the glazed orb of the eye, my belly taut as the moon.
The blood-streaked moon of her head pushing through, moons
of the faces above me, urging me, pulling, promising the moon.
There are earthquakes on the moon, water, not geologically dead,
still acting like a planet: upheaval, turmoil, shaking her head, the moon.
When I see the earth of you I still feel moonquakes, even now, after
so many moons my round breasts swoon, your fingertips, small moons.
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Hunter’s Moon
By Molly Fisk
Early December, dusk, and the sky
slips down the rungs of its blue ladder
into indigo. A late-quarter moon hangs
in the air above the ridge like a broken plate
and shines on us all, on the new deputy
almost asleep in his four-by-four,
lulled by the crackling song of the dispatcher,
on the bartender, slowly wiping a glass
and racking it, one eye checking the game.
It shines down on the fox’s red and grey life,
as he stills, a shadow beside someone’s gate,
listening to winter. Its pale gaze caresses
the lovers, curled together under a quilt,
dreaming alone, and shines on the scattered
ashes of terrible fires, on the owl’s black flight,
on the whelks, on the murmuring kelp,
on the whale that washed up six weeks ago
at the base of the dunes, and it shines
on the backhoe that buried her.
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The Moon is distant from the Sea – (387)
The Moon is distant from the Sea –
And yet, with Amber Hands –
She leads Him – docile as a Boy –
Along appointed Sands –
He never misses a Degree –
Obedient to Her eye –
He comes just so far – toward the Town –
Just so far – goes away –
Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand –
And mine – the distant Sea –
Obedient to the least command
Thine eye impose on me –
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Writing Prompt:
1. Pick a Full Moon from this list to explore in your poem. Do some research on it. Include some personal context. Why do you relate to this particular moon phase? What does it bring to mind for you?
2. Pick one of the paintings in Will’s essay, and do a deep dive--perhaps a little research on the painter, in particular, or the time period or location.
After you’ve gathered some material about the painting, spend time thinking about why this particular painting appeals to you. Is there anything it brings to mind from your own life?
3. Write about the first time you noticed the moon, if you can remember that moment. If not, maybe that lack of recollection is something worth lamenting in a poem?
How many other things have you missed? If you’re like me, a lot. Most often the curb, when I’m looking down at my phone.
Best of luck! K
Beautiful! Thank you for the lovely poems. They read like a balm.