The Moon Is A Repository Of Unwritten Poems

By MJ. Dally

Some poems are better not written;

language could fail them miserably,

their pain and meaning

diminished by the words

we speak or people hear

as they bubble trying to exist;

They may roam around sadly

in the universe like frightened little

orphans, hurt right at birth

and disowned soon after.

Maybe the right thing to do

is catch the poem from the

night inside us, fresh and beating,

a butterfly of fire,

dull it’s pain pushing through our flesh

and let it float into the night outside

changed into songs of silence

or feathers of nothing

or a whisper under the breath

to an all knowing moon,

who is perhaps the sole reader

of the greatest of such poems.

The moon is also a speaker

if we listen across the blue space

between our famished ears and her place

in the cosmos; proud and reserved.

She hums like a whale

of her love with the sea,

and her wish to plunge into him;

and end there like a sad lover

would into a well;

she is patient, her poem

too is unwritten, she says.

She offers to be an orphanage

for our silent poems,

that escape our bodies and homes

into her lair, carried by

urgent winds moving

between sleeping people

like frenzied midwives.

Once they reach the moon,

they shall first be suckled like little mice

and raised into something part thought,

part flesh, part words

and part moonstone,

and they turn into happy big boulders

in the barren heaven of the moon’s skin,

our unwritten poems,

till they blend into the grey roughness

of a million bygone years.

By MJ. Dally