Pray to the Moon when She is round,
Luck with you will then abound,
What you seek for shall be found
On the sea or solid ground.

Thursday, December 24, 2015

Poetry for the Esbat: This Cold December Moon, 2015

The Moon & other cards from The 78 Tarot.
The Moon
& other cards from The 78 Tarot, first edition.

A squirrely Summer segued into a lackluster Autumn,
a season which robbed me of my muses.
And I found myself strangely adrift
as though I just might need them.
And the Autumn dragged on with a tease, a joke, plus a few more.
Always promises, yet nothing to follow.
Traditions scattering about me and vague weather... 
I waited, but
I couldn't tell when Mother Hulda's night actually happened.
I went inside,
both literally and figuratively
where I found myself preoccupied with many artistic endeavors.
It is ok. It has been very human time.
Somewhere around Samhain, I found myself utterly blindsided,
by Things I thought I was not looking for --
but maybe I was.
Human things. Mostly.
The consequences of this have been mystifying. 
Or something.
And now it is cold. 
Cold in the North and cold here in the high desert.
Ah, how the world marches on, 
even when you are lost in your own.

Tethered to not-so-much right now, I sheepishly return to my anchor. The Lady. The Moon. I have been remiss. Or something.

The poetry for this Full Moon is indicative of the place I found myself -- after I stumbled onto it. A new view. Standing on the precipice of a vast canyon, so familiar, yet completely original. Its curves, swells & hollows beckon me to explore. Everything has taken on a raw, curious caste. Everything looks at the very least, slightly different. 

Before another step, I recheck my anchor & guide. 

This piece from the Poetry Foundation is not about the Moon per se, but perhaps reflective of Her talent for shape-shifting our picture of the world with that uncanny light. Is it there any doubt why we humans have ascribed to Her such an illusory temperament? Oh, how She changes what She touches! Cast in Her glow, the common becomes uncommon. The familiar becomes a stranger & vice versa. Other things -- discoveries, upsets, awakenings -- can invoke a similar effect. Yet there is no falsehood. One's truth is all in the light with which one views things.

Various Portents, by Alice Oswald

Various stars. Various kings.
Various sunsets, signs, cursory insights.
Many minute attentions, many knowledgeable watchers,
Much cold, much overbearing darkness.

Various long midwinter Glooms.
Various Solitary and Terrible Stars.
Many Frosty Nights, many previously Unseen Sky-flowers.
Many people setting out (some of them kings) all clutching at stars.

More than one North Star, more than one South Star.
Several billion elliptical galaxies, bubble nebulae, binary systems,
Various dust lanes, various routes through varying thicknesses of Dark,
Many tunnels into deep space, minds going back and forth.

Many visions, many digitally enhanced heavens,
All kinds of glistenings being gathered into telescopes:
Fireworks, gasworks, white-streaked works of Dusk,
Works of wonder and/or water, snowflakes, stars of frost . . .

Various dazed astronomers dilating their eyes,
Various astronauts setting out into laughterless earthlessness,
Various 5,000-year-old moon maps,
Various blindmen feeling across the heavens in braille.

Various gods making beautiful works in bronze,
Brooches, crowns, triangles, cups and chains,
And all sorts of drystone stars put together without mortar.
Many Wisemen remarking the irregular weather.

Many exile energies, many low-voiced followers,
Watches of wisp of various glowing spindles,
Soothsayers, hunters in the High Country of the Zodiac,
Seafarers tossing, tied to a star . . .

Various people coming home (some of them kings). Various headlights.
Two or three children standing or sitting on the low wall.
Various winds, the Sea Wind, the sound-laden Winds of Evening
Blowing the stars towards them, bringing snow.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends. 

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