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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

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The Moon Diver: A Poem That I Started Last Summer and Just Finished




The Moon Diver


Have you heard of the Moon Diver,

A foul mischievous imp,

Who puts lines on ladies’ faces

And gives healthy fellows a limp?


He alters us while we’re sleeping

Or in a restless swoon

By diving straight into our dreams

From his perch on the swaying moon.


So, when the moon glows overhead

Fasten the windows tight

And watch the sky with wary eye

For this naughty fairy in flight.


Don’t look for him too near the moon,

You cannot see him there,

For his skin is polished onyx,

And dragonfly wings form his hair.


No, it’s best to find him slinking

From the luminous sun

When pure safe light imbues the world

And nightmarish visions are done.


He spends his days in ponds and streams,

Inky watery nooks,

Performing nasty turtle tricks,

Tangling lines and straightening hooks,


Or sliding through unkempt gardens

Causing dried leaves to shake

And hiss as if they’re being stirred

By scales of a venomous snake.


Where any mischief may be done,

He slithers out of sight,

Buts waits all day to do his worst

Under cover of looming night.

At dusk, he slinks up ivied trees,

As fledglings flee their nest.

He sits among the topmost limbs

And eagerly watches the west.


When no small sliver of the sun

Splinters the western skies,

He leaps up past the canine star,

Pulls its ears and punches its eyes.


He twists the ring in the bull’s nose,

Blaming poor Orion,

Plucks the hairs of both the bears,

Riding the back of the lion.


He hides behind the moon’s dark side,

Trailing it through the stars,

Stealing the three rings of Saturn

And plucking the cherry of Mars.


Then, he squats with trembling haunches

On a pale lunar beam

Like an incubus sits on its victim

Waiting for a crippling dream.


When he hears unsettled moaning,

Moon Diver stands to leap

And falls dart-like through the black night

Into your delusional sleep.


I think that probably the first thing that my blog readers will want to know is how did I get a picture of the Moon Diver. Well, I will tell you. I was outside getting Luna in from her pen one night last summer when I heard the deep, bass hooting of an owl very close by. I followed the sound until I had located the owl in a dead tree across the road from the house. It was sitting perched on the top limb of that tree with the moon behind it. A perfect shot of a perfect silhouette of an owl! This was going to be awesome! I took my phone quietly from my pocket, raised it to take the picture, zoomed in just right, and pushed the button. Somehow in a split second that I was not looking, the owl had flown away, so all I had was a picture of the full moon behind a dead tree limb. When I zoomed in on the limb though, I could see that the light of the moon had cut the limb into pieces, and one of the pieces just happened to be the Moon Diver. I had caught him at last, the treacherous little fella who had plagued so many of my nights.


Now, why did it take me so long to write the poem? I couldn't get it right. I have actually written five or six versions of this poem over the last six months or so--none of which I have kept besides the last. The first focused on Moon Diver's days in water with fisherman seeing him. I didn't like that. Then, I put him in flower beds and gardens during the day, and I didn't like that. I took him out of the day entirely and only had him playing amongst the planets and constellations. That didn't work at all. I ended up using extremely abbreviated versions of the three and added all the parts about him entering a person's head while the person dreams. That had never been a part of the versions I had written earlier.


To maintain this poem's musical and rhythmic sound, the A, C, and D lines of each verse are iambic tetrameter. There are four "feet" of unaccented/accented syllables in these lines with, of course, variations. Each B line is a trimeter. That is three feet per line. Verse fourteen has a longer line simply because I really loved the sound of "Like an incubus sits on its victim." Why change the meter if it sounds so good?


I have placed a new comment box on the blog page. I did not know that an app could be downloaded into my blog for a comment box, but I accidentally stumbled upon it. I don't know how it works because nobody has commented in it yet. You can be the first. Please drop me a note. The new box is on the upper left side of the blog. As always, most of all, simply ENJOY!


* At the excellent advice of my friend, fellow blogger, and fellow poet, Patrick Gillespie, I made some word and verse adjustments to the poem on February 2, 2023.

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I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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