Tuesday, 24 February 2009


“A poem begins with a lump in the throat.” - Robert Frost

The moon inspires the pessimistic poet, while the sun inspires the optimist to write more prosaic pieces. The night invites the insomniac to stay up and confront the ghosts of thoughts and traces of old emotions too strong to sublimate completely. Day lights up the crannies of our soul and bright sunlight is a potent disinfectant for old festering wounds. The moon inspires the poetry of love, and love unrequited is strong inspiration for the spurned poet. Night revives old corpses that vampire-like come to prey on our weakened mind.
Drinking Moonshine

Tonight the moon fell into my cup
Was drowned; and dissolved all up.
The stars fell down as golden rain
To assuage my loneness and the pain.

Tonight, I’ll drink the fallen moon
And sup on stars with silver spoon,
To make the blackest night less dark,
Less silent, as I try to clear your mark.

Tonight the clock seems stopped
As minutes drag, the hours dropped.
I drink the moonshine, swallow stars
In hope the potent mix will heal my scars.

Tonight, your absence all the more acute
My thoughts run after you in vain pursuit.
The drink burns more than any spirit neat
In deep swallows it’s drunk, my pain to cheat.

Tonight is black; of moon, of stars bereft
As dregs of moonshine are in my cup left;
My sweet star-meal has a bitter aftertaste
My empty night has my soul embraced.

Tonight I’ll stay awake, despite my drink
My mind too full of you to think;
My heart too empty, and my bed too cold,
Tonight I feel deserted, frozen, old…

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