There’s been a lot going since June’s brexit vote.
Since Donald Trump won the US election,
since Guy Fawkes night and nary a Guy to be seen,
since Rememberance Day 100 years since the Somme
since the manifestation of Supermoon on a Monday.
This poem, Remember Remember, was originally published as Moon Weight by Stride a few days after it was written. Follow the link to Stride…
But since then, as poems often do, changes have occurred, the name has changed, the light is in a different corner, and who casts shadows anymore? We’re vampires, us, blank in the mirror and blond under moonlight, as slim as cyberspace and as long lasting.
The spent fireworks look like stubbed-out cigars.
Aliens are here in code form,
the moon staring down from its shortest distance to earth
in a generation, and what does it see?
Of course the moon cannot actually “see” anything
and poets do not use words like “moon” anymore.
“Moon” and “fronds” are on the banned list.
I know the man who banned them and the suffering he endured.
Of course there was a penis involved.
We’re going to build a wall.
The light of the moon will shine
across its surface in my life time,
which has phantoms in every room.
What do you make of the pointing?
I’m ecstatic about lunar surfaces.
What have we become and what does the moon make of it all tonight,
on the night of the supermoon,
does it shine upon the good things in life
and what signs can you make out from here?
What disturbance, what disclosure?
Here’s a man whose eyes are full of property.
The sense of loss at his arrival is like a flood of moonlight
on a patch of serious poetry.
I learnt words late, found them hard to speak,
they had too much weight.
Take the words of a powerful man,
stirring the bottom to get to the top.
It takes a while to work out what comes up with him,
where the face is meant to be.