Today I remembered a poem (if you can call it that) that I wrote about 40 years ago. This is nearly verbatim; perhaps only the final line is truncated as I have forgotten a couple of syllables. It is faintly autobiographical but also I suppose a bit tinged by the fairy tales of George Macdonald, of whom I was enamored in a big way back in 1974. It sounds as if it should have a hidden meaning, but I dont think it does. I like it best now for the way some words repeat words in each stanza. The Daughter of the Moon The daughter of the moon sits in her chamber Wrapped in a crimson robe and a silent air And no one who has ever tried to name her Ever could be certain she was ever really there. Once in a while she will write a letter-- Luminous words on luminous pages flow. If thats all thats left, well, it is better Than being left with nothing left to show. Oh, she disappears as I am turning Up the stairs that lead up to her room. She laughs without a tear, somehow discerning As I my silly games resume.
Posted on: Tue, 27 May 2014 16:31:27 +0000
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