Full Moon By Robert Hayden No longer throne of a goddess to whom we pray, no longer the bubble house of childhood's tumbling Mother Goose man, The emphatic moon ascends-- the brilliant challenger of rocket experts, the white hope of communications men. Some I love who are dead were watchers of the moon and knew its lore; planted seeds, trimmed their hair, Pierced their ears for gold hoop earrings as it waxed or waned. It shines tonight upon their graves. And burned in the garden of Gethsemane, its light made holy by the dazzling tears with which it mingled. And spread its radiance on the exile's path of Him who was The Glorious One, its light made holy by His holiness. Already a mooted goal and tomorrow perhaps an arms base, a livid sector, the full moon dominates the dark. The moon will be full, just a couple of hours from now (but we won’t be able to see it till moonrise this afternoon/evening – consider taking this poem outside with you when it does!). The angles this poem comes at the moon are likely ones that have not necessarily occurred to you. Hayden turns it this way and that, like a gemstone, to see the mid-century dreams of astronauts, the tears of Jesus, the fairy tales, the rhythms and cycles that men have used to govern aspects of life for millennia. What do you see, when you see the moon? Imagine turning it in your own hand, its pockmarked surface the facets of a jewel. What is in this poem, this (rather large) bit of creation for you, today? If you do go outside after moonrise, spend some time simply attending to the “lesser of the two lights” as Genesis has it. Contemplate. Look long (with love). See what you see.

Posted by Jamie Bonilla at 2022-02-16 15:00:29 UTC