(Belated) Poetry for the Esbat: Decay Moon or My-Heart-Hurts Moon, 2014

The decaying one-half of One.
A sympathetic wanderer on the same trail who also lamented the loss
of these familiar denizens indicated that they are Gyrfalcons (Falco rusticolus).

"I know that all beneath the Moon decays..."

A belated "Poetry for the Esbat," because we were busy constructing Mushroom Shrines & preparing for the arrival of a special guest & of course, we were foraging...

If you step into the forest now, you can smell the highbush cranberries (Viburnum edule). They are rotting. 

This is a sure sign that the foraging season is screeching to a close & yet I love that familiar, dank, heady odour. 

I had chosen the poem below for that reason -- the decay, the inevitability of endings, the reliability of impermanence.

What I did not anticipate was that this poem, chosen for the Esbat, when the Moon is at Her fullest, was that it would take on an even more poignant & relevant meaning to us.

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We began our Mushroom Moon Shrine assemblage as usual, by collecting a wide variety of beautiful fungi from the trees & forest floor. Cheerful & diminutive seemed to be the theme of the day.

But as we passed thru the territory of the mating pair of raptors, (ironically?) discussed in the previous post's comments, I noted that they were peculiarly quiet, or absent...

And my husband, my mate, was suddenly drawn to a Devil's Club (Oplopanax horridus) leaf he mistook for a mushroom. I cannot recall what he said, or if he gasped, or groaned, but there, beneath the leaves of the Devil's Clubs & ferns was the decaying body of one of our beautiful, avian forest neighbors.

The bird appears to have been shot for sport & left to rot under the still, watchful gaze of our Moon. 

Of it's mate, there was no sign. 

But how can you blame the creature? If I witnessed the loud & violent death of my beloved, I would never return to that haunted place either.

And so, this is the way of things. There is no real sense to it. However, there is an Order.

But my heart still hurts.

And I am reminded & know that all beneath the Moon decays...



"I know that all beneath the moon decays"
by William Drummond of Hawthornden


I know that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In Time’s great periods shall return to nought;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days;
I know how all the Muse’s heavenly lays,
With toil of spright which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds of few or none are sought,
And that nought lighter is than airy praise.
I know frail beauty like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords;
That love a jarring is of minds’ accords,
Where sense and will invassal reason’s power:
Know what I list, this all can not me move,
But that, O me! I both must write and love.

I hope your Esbat was indeed blessed, my friends.

Poetry for the Esbat: Cold, Snow, Chaste, Hunger Moon... When is the Quickening? (2013)

Tarot Priestess, by Jane Adams 2003.
Image from her website janeadamsart, where she shares her varied artistic
& esoteric explorations -- a magnificent collection of imagery, a wealth of information.
Also, the only website I have found where both animism & Ida Craddock are discussed (!).

Ah, this February Moon. So many names that imply a state of waiting...

Last year, I wrote: 

"February's Full Moon, is called the Snow Moon, Hunger Moon or Quickening Moon. According to the Farmer's Almanac, it was often called the Snow Moon because February is generally the month with the greatest amount of said precipitation. Also weather related is the name Hunger Moon, pointing to the difficulty of the harsh seasonal conditions during this time. The name Quickening Moon, I believe (& feel free to correct me if you know otherwise), is a more recent name which makes reference to this Moon's proximity to the celebration of Imbolc, Lá Fhéile Bhríde & Groundhog's Day. It points to the stirring of the Earth -- the earliest reawakening after a long winter's slumber."

I can add to this the "Chaste Moon," moniker which some argue stems from the "chastity" of early Spring, while others describe it as referring to the purity & introspection of Pisces. I am inclined toward the latter, that of a thoughtful, self-protective inwardness. Either way, chastity in this particular case seems to be used to emphasize what has not yet happened, but is anticipated. 

But when?

Hunger Moon. Aren't we hungry by now? After months of navel-gazing & waiting, waiting for the Sun, don't we hunger for transformation?

Alaska is making us wait, but even here, deep in the snow, I see small signs of change. Last night, I stepped out onto the deck to speak with the Moon. I was barefoot. In the balmy 31° F air, the snow felt warm between my toes.

Bohemian Waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus) waiting.
Alaska's February birds.

Our birdfriends are moving about more too. I am utterly dumbfounded that tiny birds like Black Capped Chickadees (Poecile atricapillus) actually overwinter here. It seems like sheer madness to me. I believe they accomplish this feat by hunkering down, keeping quite still & waiting... But now they break the silence & shake up the stillness. They appear en masse, mobbing what is left of our edible holiday ornaments (strands of cranberries & popcorn, hung on the trees outside). They cock their heads & peer in the windows as if to say, "More cookie crumbs, please... & can we get a side of Sunlight with that?" I have seen many familiar faces & a few I do not yet know. I feel a fellowship with them -- we are all hungry & waiting.

The Changeling is waiting too. Waiting for his Moma to be done with the computer. With that thought, let me get right to the poetry. It too, is about inwardness, waiting, transformation & also snow, shadow & barbed wire fences which I find myself missing quite a bit right now.



Hunger Moon
BY JANE COOPER

The last full moon of February
stalks the fields; barbed wire casts a shadow.
Rising slowly, a beam moved toward the west
stealthily changing position

until now, in the small hours, across the snow
it advances on my pillow
to wake me, not rudely like the sun
but with the cocked gun of silence.

I am alone in a vast room
where a vain woman once slept.
The moon, in pale buckskins, crouches
on guard beside her bed.

Slowly the light wanes, the snow will melt
and all the fences thrum in the spring breeze
but not until that sleeper, trapped
in my body, turns and turns.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

The Wheel: Signs of Change, Part 1., Or, Who Turned Up the RPM?

Did it begin with the Belugas?

The purpose of this post, at least in part, is to continue building on our "reinvented" Wheel of the Year. Keeping awareness of the changes in our bioregion, the passage of time & the aspects that touch us as creatures of Place is key to developing our New Wheel.

Searching for Beluga Whales on the Cook Inlet at Sunset.

 August 21st. While chasing Belugas chasing Salmon up the Cook Inlet, I said to myself, "The Wheel is turning the corner. Quickly." How did I know this?

Highbush Cranberry leaves (Viburnum edule).

The same day, we noted how the Highbush Cranberries (Viburnum edule) had begun to turn colour. Soon, they would begin to smell, a strong, distinctive scent that says, "We're almost ready for picking..." 

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  Autumn commencing on a Birch-lined path.

  August 27th. I paused to take this photograph which struck me as quite telling. Also telling is the ongoing frenzy of bees & wasps as their season rapidly comes to a close. Not long after I took this photo, some harried hymenoptera stung me on the back as I snooped in the cranberry bushes for a status check. Of course, I should have let it rest. Cranberries must be gathered after the first freeze.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

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    Shaggy Manes, Puffballs & Champignons from the ballfields.

    September 3. After crowberry picking in Arctic Valley, the Little Lad pleaded for an opportunity to hunt for Shaggy Manes (Coprinus comatus) a notoriously cool weather fungi. I was not so excited about this venture, mostly because I knew if we found them, it would be another sign. The boys returned from the ballfields with their bounty bundled in Hubby's hoodie.
    
    
    

    
    
     

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      ARR train returning from Seward.

      September 5. We took the train to the seaport town of Seward. This is a significant cultural sign of the seasons changing. As the tourist season wanes, the local folks have a brief window of opportunity to acquire seats on this train before it is tucked away for the winter. This is something I would like to make an annual ritual -- both a welcoming & a goodbye -- as ceremony can manifest in limitless forms.

    
    

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      Yesterday. I went for a walk, taking my knife & a bag but forgetting my camera. The scent of cranberries was heavy in the air. There were no fleshy fungi. None. In the hard tilt of the late Autumn light, I considered their absence & felt very lonely.
      
      

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        Today. I see that it froze last night. It is almost over. Time for cranberries.