Tessa, On A Full Moon Night

Are you ribbing me?
In your flannels we’re stripped
of mask. The full, opalescent moon
watching, watched.

Do we need formalities?
With a felicitous turn of phrase
you’d anointed the night.
I, leaving hysteria, winked.

Prompt: Poetry is a weird sort of meditation. I’m not even sure how it does it. Reading a poem, writing a poem, is a temporal activity. It gives us a moment. Time is a fluid and vaporous thing, but moments are real, grounded, intimate. So this literary journal that I’m curating (by accident or on purpose?) asks that one finds one’s voice through writing poems. Write a poem to find your voice.  Because you’re paying close attention, in that moment, within your poem, perhaps you’d find your soul.

The Journey
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

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