Tears Of The Moon

 

 

 

Tears Of The Moon

"La mar no tiene naranjas, ni Sevilla tiene amor..."

(The sea has no oranges, nor Seville any love...)

from Adelina de Paseo, by Federico Garcia Lorca

I.

The sea is made

from the tears of the moon.

They fall like meteorites

to build the splash of azure rivers.

They fall like rocks

the air has set on fire in

a coliseum of dust, an iron mist

burning with the blue taste of salt.

The sea is cold, incalculable

as the heart of my beloved,

changeful, infinite, self-satisfied

and blind. This is why

the moon cries. She knows she lays

her silver face for nothing

across the drenched toss of the

erasing waves. The sea

is too busy,

tonight, and every night.

II.

The sea has far to travel

to kiss the dun lips of Spain, to fondle 

Gibraltar like a primitive doll,

to curl the sand under

on the Costa del Sol,

guitaring sweet lovesongs

to women with eyes like summer figs

who walk with the chiming of rice in the wind

whose hips round as oranges

call night after night

for the men who don't come; nuns

of blue rivers, learning to understand

the tears of the moon

that drip from the lids of

an extinguished rock, while on the

ruined plains of a waterless country

an old woman reads Lorca at midnight,

with the tears of the moon on her cheeks.

~January 2020

originally posted for earthweal

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reposted for Desperate Crossings at

desperate poets

Images: Orange Trees on the Road to Seville, 1903 © Joaquin Sorolla Public Domain

The Font, 1930 © Salvador Dali Public Domain

Tears Of The Moon

Tears Of The Moon

"La mar no tiene naranjas, ni Sevilla tiene amor..."

(The sea has no oranges, nor Seville any love...)

from Adelina de Paseo, by Federico Garcia Lorca

I.

The sea is made

from the tears of the moon.

They fall like meteorites

to build the splash of azure rivers.

They fall like rocks

the air has set on fire in

a coliseum of dust, an iron mist

burning with the blue taste of salt.

The sea is cold, incalculable

as the heart of my beloved,

changeful, infinite, self-satisfied

and blind. This is why

the moon cries. She knows she lays

her silver face for nothing

across the drenched toss of the

erasing waves. The sea

is too busy,

tonight, and every night.

II.

The sea has far to travel

to kiss the dun lips of Spain, to fondle 

Gibraltar like a primitive doll,

to curl the sand under

on the Costa del Sol,

guitaring sweet lovesongs

to women with eyes like summer figs

who walk with the chiming of rice in the wind

whose hips round as oranges

call night after night

for the men who don't come; nuns

of blue rivers, learning to understand

the tears of the moon

that drip from the lids of

an extinguished rock, while on the

ruined plains of a waterless country

an old woman reads Lorca at midnight,

with the tears of the moon on her cheeks.

~January 2020

posted for earthweal

Open Link

Images: Orange Trees on the Road to Seville, 1903 © Joaquin Sorolla Public Domain

The Font, 1930 © Salvador Dali Public Domain

 

Sacrifice

Sacrifice

Chaos is too strong

and takes up too much space

so to sweeten it away, 

we say

we must make sacrifice.

Never ourselves, no,

but something we pretend

is quite important, beautiful,

or dear, yet when the blade is done

will not be missed.

Chaos is too quick

on its feet. We thieves

swindle out no bright salvation here

shifting barefoot in the ash

the lying Order of our tears

dried by the furnace breath

of Chaos laughing.

~July 2016

.

 posted for   real toads

Weekend Challenge

Image: A Sacrifice, Govanni Battista Piranesi
public domain via wikiart.org

Blue Ice

Blue Ice

"They tell me of a home far beyond the skies. They tell me of a home far away.

They tell me of a home where no storm clouds ride.

O they tell me of an uncloudy day."

~traditonal Southern spiritual

Each year you've been gone

in the last warmth of ten crawling Novembers,

I wrap the roof in blue lights.

Their infant's eyes in the night

open wide over me.

I don't pull the plug

when the slow seep of the sun

lanterns the cloud-muted sky;

they are the ward

the spell that says

as I speak so shall it be:

blue eye meets blue eye

to spark the white moon,

forgiveness will make

uncloudy day,

love given will tune

out the tolling mistakes.

Home is not

it is not far away.

Each year in the dead cold

of eleven Januarys

I take the blue lights down.

They tangle in my hands like

skeins of  blue ice. There's no

feeling in my fingers when

at last they're packed in the attic,

where their blindness shows clear

 Home is not here.

~December 2013

If you'd like to hear a very rough recording of the author reading an unrevised version of  this poem, click below:

Optional Musical Accompaniment

Photos © joyannjones, 2013