I wandered over the The Miss Rumphius Effect this week to check out the poetry stretch and… well, I was already stretching. I’d been thinking about the moon, and how romanticized the moon ends up in poetry and literature… and I wondered what a more honest, unchecked response to the moon might be. So I wrote the following. It’s a bit rude.
There are those (Poets, mostly, all practicing monks
of auto-erotica) who would have us believe
In a gentle muse holding court in the night sky
They say she is soft, still, fair, a chin of gold
Or that she hangs heavy and pregnant
Waiting to birth filigree notions and tidal foxtrots
A balloon, a strawberry, a harvest, luminous paper
whole dictionaries full of symbols and similes dedicated
to her Mona Lisa mystery, her Sphinxtery madness
Moon is an indecent mistress parading her backside
rolling methodically from cheek to cheek, and laughing
while we gaze up from the darkness of the septic pit
Those poets, with their fancies and frillies and froufrou
Wax and wane in their candied affections
Yet it is the unpoet who truly sees Luna’s inner soul
Crossing the desert at night, her rounded rump
a rising loaf of silvery dough on the horizon
The weary traveler, enamored, off-guard exclaims:
“Look at that Big-Ass Moon!”
It is the compliment of a connoisseur.
Yeah. I almost titled it “Moon Shot.” As an unpoet I can be unsubtle.
It’s Poetry Friday, this week the round-up can be found at a wrung sponge. Anyway, get while the gettin’ is.