Thursday, October 30, 2008

Poem for the Moths.



You are fragile tracing paper thin.
Easily a berry between two long fingers.
You dart busying yourself searching
for bright heat or the light of purpose,
which only moths know and talk about
in moth think moth talk and moth love,
perhaps the pursuit of safety.

But why is the light so maddeningly important,
you hover there like late Buddhas,
in the air of time. Are you Trapped in
moth size, screaming toward the light?
'Clip my wings! Make me larger!
Don't want to be a moth anymore!'

What nonsense; mistaking lamp bulbs
for flower heads. You remind me
of a certain someone species, a certain civilised
manwomankind. They appear clumsy, fluttering
foolish but sincere in the heart of the matter
like you struggling into the small hours
but generally they turn the light off and go to Sleep.




*I realise the Moth muse is staid, over done, but I like the poem, its nonchalance; a lackadaisical muse upon a moths flicker, while smoking alone, one night, in the back garden of the close.

3 comments:

Jim Murdoch said...

Ditch the first stanza. It adds nothing to the piece. And, yes, moths have been done to death. I've even done one.

I'm curious why 'Trapped' and 'Sleep' have been capitalised.

Other than that it's actually an alright poem.

McGuire said...

The theme has been done to death but I still read my meandering muse as quite a refreshing take on it. I don't sit still in contemplation. I'm flaring away with the light of ideas.

I often capitalise words I feel I want to emphasise, often for no other reason than I simply want too. In this case, being trapped and sleep, are (at least implicitly, the central focus of this poeyum).

I'll go read your moth page.

As ever, appreciate your time and comment

Sorlil said...

I like your take on the moth! The first stanza certainly isn't as fluid as the second and third but I really like the first two lines and the repetition of moth think moth talk etc.