The Nexus of Autumn
Recently my wife showed me a Facebook post about the moon being bigger, clearer and closer to Earth than ever before. Another Mason friend sent me a post about the “Beaver Moon” of which I had no knowledge but these set me off on a quest of inquiry. I am always interested in anything astronomical or extra-terrestrial.
I did a little preliminary research and found these items of interest, at least to me.
(1)The Harvest moon is the full moon closest to the Autumnal Equinox.
(2) The Hunter’s Moon is the first full moon following the Harvest Moon.
(3) Months that have two full moons, the second is called a Blue Moon.
(4) A Blood Moon is when the moon is tinted red by the reflection of the earth’s reflected light and it happens during an eclipse or during a tetrad which occurs rarely, the last was in 2015. Tetrads are presumed to be omens or portents of prophetic predictions.
(5) There is also a Frosty Moon and a Beaver Moon which occurs in November and is synonymous with the Hunter’s Moon.There are other names for other full moons during the year but I will only address these.
I had written a poem about moonlight years back and I am in the process of writing another being I am presently inspired to do so.
“Our dreams are but an ode to the moonlight when in slumber we transcend ourselves to walk pathways that are fantasized, to escape the reality of this world”. By Thomas Gregory Moore
“The moon, that pale orb that traverses the night sky, unperceptive in its observance of the earth below, bombarded by the pin pricks of a million stars, passive, pale, luminous and unconcerned”. By Thomas Gregory Moore
I don’t often re-read my work but it seems I might have some wee tad of talent. The above prose was an impetus for what is written below. A point for you to ponder: Poetry is possibly an art form to express not what we see but that which we perceive. Perhaps the only purpose of poetry’s art form is to preserve the self?
An Ode to the Inexplicable Moon
By Thomas Gregory Moore
Thou who wears the shawl of Mother’s Milk,
Thou who looks down upon Earth palely,
Seemingly unconcerned with its constancy.
When thy pale face transcends the night
And the witches in moonlight conjure,
As the wolf howls in lonesome echoes
Or the mythic lycanes metamorphe.
It is in this arcane ritual we partake,
In moonlight our souls awake.
Bombarded by the pin pricks of a million stars,
The heaven’s twinkling host are akin to thee.
Needled softly so the muses might pour
Sweet dew upon our tongues
And reveal that second sight which
Is shrouded in an arcane veil,
Obscured by the brightness of day.
The moon that pulls the waves back to the sea,
That moonlight that glitters like tinseled seafoam,
Bathing the muses in hazy radiance,
As they walk and sing in sorrowful pining.
We have but to call their names, come Erato,
Come Calliope, Aurania and Cleo, imbue me
With a divine voice that I may delve the future
To voice in prophetic prose: A foretelling! By Thomas Gregory Moore
All this seasonal moon mystery has sent me off on another journey of creation, a poem or some prose to compose. A secret to this endeavor is to write continually from three to ten minutes, the thoughts that randomly come from your intellect, your thoughts and your inspiration, tapping into the Akashic Network or into the universal or collective mind. Please look it up because it’s a fascinating topic. To read Shakespeare is to know genius. Think about all the other geniuses like Beethoven, Da Vinci, Newton, Bell, Tesla and so many more men and women born out of their time. I am not saying I am so blessed but I do make the effort to create something that was me! My ten minutes of scribbling:
What is the moon that beams this night, casting down its shadow upon earth from meridian height? Perchance a Harvest Moon, a cornucopian horn spilling forth its quotidian pleasure. Perhaps a Hunter’s Moon with its bloody basin full, but rusty red, the color of terrain ocher. Alas methinks a Beaver Moon, cloistered beneath thin ice with its hoary frost denoting the harbinger of a Frosty Moon and winter’s blight.
What matters its name, this luminous orb that stares down upon earth unconcerned. This midnight portent signifying summer’s waning pale issuing forth the blaze of autumn, hues such as maple reds, golden elms and aspen yellows, a profuse display of nature’ grandeur.
I see tendrils of smoke from warm hearths pressed down by the crispness of an azure blue sky to lay just above stubbled fields where stalks of corn huddle amongst furrowed rows as if cloistered in communion, together in hushed prayer, veiled in humble/ modest propriety.
I long to feel that freshness upon my face as I step out to embrace the morning, that first hint of a north wind that the winter rides upon, a freshness that precedes autumn’s embrace. To walk thru still woods treading softly upon freshly fallen leaves that caress your feet and disguise your step. To sense the whitetail that nuzzles acorns beneath leafy beds laid down in a fluttering of pirouetting dances that bedazzle the eyes. To breathe in nature in all her majesty in a cacophony of shear exuberance and delight that rivals a symphony. Acorns dropped from on high by colossal oaks to lie next to hickory nuts gnawed by squirrels. The trebling honks of geese and the clattering squawks of wood ducks startled into flight. These are the nexuses of autumn.
From the above will come a poem or some prose? It takes a lot of editing, rewriting, changing words, plus determining the rhyme and meter or just make a contemporary poem that doesn’t rhyme which is popular today. Poetry is a medium to express yourself, to relate yourself to others even if you are awkward in conversation. Give it a try. I will end this with a simple poem that I received the other day which I have read and reread in an attempt to digest it. I took it to be about two people worrying about who would die first and who would be left to manage their sorrow. It may mean something entirely different to you, read it, and let it soak in. Enjoy!
At The Last By Willa Bynner
There is no denying
That it matters little
When through a narrow door
We enter a room together,
Which goes after, which before.
Perhaps you are not dying:
Perhaps-there is no knowing-
I shall slip by and turn and laugh with you
Because it mattered so little,
The order of our going.