O'Hara's Moon

The Moon is not as gentle as the Sun,
sometimes it is too demanding, too bold
it rapped on my window with its
big blue hand telling me it was time
to go to sleep. “Your friend the Sun
told me about you. You like to work
when the Sun goes down. You don’t sleep enough.

Why do you scribble at that desk
with such a thin pencil
into the long hours of night? Don’t you know
that I come for you?
For all of you?"

I did not hear the Moon’s last words,
my eyes were not accustomed to
such a brilliant diamond shine.
It affected me,

“I am sorry,” I said, “but I am a poet
and I work at night. I mean not to
interfere with your duties.”

I noticed the Moon’s pocked silver face
was more smooth on the right side
as it tilted its round head downward.
The Moon’s lips were but streaks,
golden ethereal dust marks

on an old highway of a face.
I wanted them to blow away as it spoke,

“Most people wait for my arrival. Most people
sit on the edge of their small beds and
tap their small feet together and
count the minutes before
I come” he said.

“You should hang up the clothes of day,
wash off the face you wear to work,
clean the hands that catch the Sun,
and open the closet for your night”.

“Yes?” I asked. My eyes has adjusted
to the Moon’s reticent glare.

“Your closet will be filled with
the things of dreams...
tangerines and paintings,
and the music of Ella Fitzgerald.”

“Then I will come to keep the night
just lucid enough for you to feel
the thoughts float to the tips of your fingers
and slide into that thin pencil of yours.”

I watched as the Moon turned its back
and noticed how round and hunched its shoulders
were. As it slunk down the path to the next house
I began to get very tired. Pretty soon I was asleep.

Whitman was never my thing.

In fields of grassy splendor,
An army of thin blades swipes at my shins,
It is here that I heed the gentle wisps
Of who I am.

Have you heard the whispering of the acres?
Have you felt your own breath slip in through the pine, vine,
Earthy meadows, purpled shadows, whiskers and into open spaces
To disintegrate into dust?

Have you seen the notes of your song
Dancing along the chords of a tree branch?

I have possessed nothing,
Only this and from this day forward I shall possess
Nothing but this.

And now, it seems the widening rays of the sun
Capture me like bars of a prison.

And I feel that I am at home on this earth.
And I feel not at all like a prisoner.

I lay and because I understand the lyrics,
You understand them.

They linger and sidle dirty skyscrapers,
Riding on top, mastering and taming them
Until they are polished and beautiful and the architecture
Of their faces shows lips pursed in the singing of a note.

And the city too, knows its song.

The lyrics bounce around with the desert sand
Careening and tumbling over and above the dunes
A quiet and explosive sound.
And an ocean of brown and gold and white spreads its body vast.

The waves roll and its song is played.

And the language of the lyrics I understand
Because I have always understood.

Rejoice and celebrate for your song is that of my own,
And of the city and of the desert.
But it is yours.

Like this one.
Like that one.
Like this one.

What will your verse be?

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?