Moth Song

Virgil Elliott



  

Moth Song

I tasted it, the gold

In the gold, I saw the sweetness

At the end of my uncoiling

Tongue, by the beautiful ends

Of what curved from my forehead,

And I swam, gliding, I dove

Through the air toward gold

And sweetness meant to be

Chosen, begging to hold me

And be drawn inside me.

But I stop now, I hang

Still, suddenly suspended

Without having chosen to be

Still in a breeze still full

Of calling and beckoning

Red and blue around gold,

And what comes to meet me

Holds me and turns

My body, spinning a lightness

Around me to fold my wings

Close into a darkness,

And it turns me slowly

Into a flower and drinks me,

And I open, I become

Completely known, I blossom.

David Wagoner

Smoke and moths - we're seeing a lot of both of those these days. Forests burning, moths swarming - it's as if a surfeit, a splurge, a super-abundance has, yes, "blossomed" around us, swirled us within its rhythms, moved us with its influence. Every 10 or so years, when the conditions are just right, the moths come out in great numbers, any window with a light behind it is covered with fluttery moth-bodies, any outside light obliterated with feathered furies. Add to that this misty-musty thickness of smoking forests - it's a strange atmosphere. 

But the poem intrigues me for other reasons as well. This bewildering lure of destruction - what is this? What draws us toward our demise? Why do we dance with death? What is the fascination of fire? I have no answers to this, only questions.

The Iris

Unknown

The iris standing in the marsh - so blue,

Its roots have drunk the sky's reflected hue.

HO-O

fr. A Net of Fireflies

translated by Harold Stewart

Pretty hard to add to that. And that's the thing about haiku - the distillation of so many thoughts. Packing the maximum punch into each word. Lovely, isn't it? The roots drinking up the reflected blue? . 
 
   

Luck Is a Star

Quang Ho

Luck is a star.

Money is a plaything.

Time is a storyteller.

And the sky goes blue with mornings.

And the sky goes bronze with sunsets.

And the fireborn - they go far -

Being at home in fire.

Carl Sandburg 

 Sandburg throws down this "something-is-something else" with such ease. "Luck is a star"? Okay, if he means something far away and beautiful that we dream of reaching, I can follow. "Money is a plaything", yes, money is like that, something we use and move around and pass and receive it very much as we would pieces in a game. And also, a plaything, not the deep-down stuff of life (in spite of all talk to the contrary). "Time is a storyteller", that's the best one. So full of thoughts and ideas - I could chew on it a good while. How Time spins stories, how it uses the sky as a backdrop for its drama. Sky goes blue, sky goes bronze; Sandburg makes such sweeping word/image gestures it knocks me back. And then the kicker - "the fireborn" - with just one word, how he changes us! We're not put-upon, victims of fate or chance, we're the Fireborn. We're characters in this story. Above us, the sky changes colour, the stars call us, the money moves from hand to hand, and we are tested by fire. What will it prove us to be? How far will we go? Only Time, the storyteller, knows.

 

Canal Bank Walk

Carl Larsson

Canal Bank Walk



Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal
Pouring redemption for me, that I do
The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal,
Grow with nature again as before I grew.
The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third
Party to the couple kissing on an old seat,
And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word
Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat.
O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web
Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech,
Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib
To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech
For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven
From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.



Patrick Kavanaugh
from The Penguin Book of the Sonnet, ed. Phillis Levin
 

“Grow with nature…” I like that. People as plants. I can’t say I comprehend this poem, but certain parts of it seem so true. (I’ve decided it’s good not to know everything, to be in the process of learning, and have a sense of my ignorance. We want answers, we think everything should be knowable, graspable, and as it were –masterable (not a word, I know). But what a miserable world that would be.)  The lines that really get to me are these – “O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web of fabulous grass and eternal voices…feed the gaping need of my senses…for this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven from green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.” I don’t know what Kavanaugh meant to say, but I do know that Eden-call, that longing for a world unworn, where I am new as well, clothed in field and sky, and growing with nature. Yes, I know that.