No Flowers on the Moon
I sprawl on a steep moonscape. Below me
an asteroid-faced rock battles a whirlpool.
How many fathoms that fall would take,
I do not know—forty? The heart races.
Cold witness, tell me of them who stand
on this cratered cliff and unpocket their hearts,
like stones, to plan a simple skip and then to sink forever.
―Do they watch the sea’s frothing lash strike
your flayed bulk and call you brother?
I am brother to none.
―Do they quiver at the maelstrom,
dowse forgotten elements within,
and turn away resolved to destroy
the tyrants in their private corridors?
None return to explain their thoughts.
―Do some panic at their vertiginous thoughts
and thus recalled to themselves, recoil
from sliding like downcast earth?
Some. The Burren knows them who look and leave.
Vast, stony and desolate moonscape--
The Burren, under me, around me,
behind me. How could turbulent souls
face your stark compass of wind and earthsea shire
and ever return from their own dark side?
My crooked compass leads cliff-pilgrims
wandering with their burdens
through my jags and my rune-like grikes
to the dancing sea-pinks in their cheery wimples
bright like rag prayers on your rag-trees.
From my barren mantle they rekindle joyous thrift.
They are magic and faery.
They are the unexpected flowers on the Moon.
- Jennifer Phillips-
(Note: The Burren, meaning “Great Rock” is on the coast of Ireland, Co. Clare.)
an asteroid-faced rock battles a whirlpool.
How many fathoms that fall would take,
I do not know—forty? The heart races.
Cold witness, tell me of them who stand
on this cratered cliff and unpocket their hearts,
like stones, to plan a simple skip and then to sink forever.
―Do they watch the sea’s frothing lash strike
your flayed bulk and call you brother?
I am brother to none.
―Do they quiver at the maelstrom,
dowse forgotten elements within,
and turn away resolved to destroy
the tyrants in their private corridors?
None return to explain their thoughts.
―Do some panic at their vertiginous thoughts
and thus recalled to themselves, recoil
from sliding like downcast earth?
Some. The Burren knows them who look and leave.
Vast, stony and desolate moonscape--
The Burren, under me, around me,
behind me. How could turbulent souls
face your stark compass of wind and earthsea shire
and ever return from their own dark side?
My crooked compass leads cliff-pilgrims
wandering with their burdens
through my jags and my rune-like grikes
to the dancing sea-pinks in their cheery wimples
bright like rag prayers on your rag-trees.
From my barren mantle they rekindle joyous thrift.
They are magic and faery.
They are the unexpected flowers on the Moon.
- Jennifer Phillips-
(Note: The Burren, meaning “Great Rock” is on the coast of Ireland, Co. Clare.)