The moon tonight is only waxing gibbous, but October 25, only a few hours away for me, is the day when I might see the fully full (Hunter’s) moon where I live. But I enjoyed standing in the street to look at the white globe in its lesser glory, not quite fully revealed. I even took a picture from the spot I often do, with my neighbor’s roofline and redwood tree in the frame. But my camera isn’t really up to the task, so I’m sharing this painting by Ivan Marchuk.
I love to think and consider again and again, the way all the people who have ever lived on the earth have seen that same moon in the sky. I only know how to gaze at it, so I’m thankful for Ivan and others who can magnify its beauty and enlarge my vision of our beloved moon, how it blesses our neighborhoods everywhere.
Ivan Marchuk, The Houses are Illuminated by the Moon
Walter de la Mare in the poem below does not sound sad for himself, that he should leave this world and go to a place without lamentation and darkness. But when he is removed from this earthly realm and will no longer be around to praise and wonder and delight in its beauties… will someone else take his place in that role? I’m intrigued by the idea he puts forth here, which sounds like “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Beauty is somehow also personified, and passes on the legacy of wonderment from one generation to another.
I don’t believe that when we leave this earth, we will forget its beauties, though He Who is the source of all beauty will certainly consume our attention. But it is surely a sign of his great love, and most natural for him, that De La Mare wants to be sure that those earthly delights have admirers when he is gone.
I wasn’t familiar with the flower that the poet names, Traveler’s Joy, so I looked it up and found that yes, it’s a clematis that is famous in the U.K. for climbing to the tops of hedgerows. Late in the season it takes on the appearance that makes people call it Old Man’s Beard, as in the photo at the bottom.
FARE WELL
When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs; How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me? Memory fades, must the remembered Perishing be?
Oh, when this my dust surrenders Hand, foot, lip, to dust again, May these loved and loving faces Please other men! May the rusting harvest hedgerow Still the Traveller’s Joy entwine, And as happy children gather Posies once mine.
Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour. Let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou have paid thy utmost blessing; Since that all things thou wouldst praise Beauty took from those who loved them In other days.
New housemate Bea has been browsing my bookshelves, which I encouraged her to do; it’s always a little sad to think of how lonely all those books are, the ones that have been in the same place for months or years without me even touching them, much less taking them down to look inside. One morning she was reading in a collection of Mary Oliver’s work, and when she discovered this poem below she brought it to me to read, too. We liked the part about stones, because we are great collectors of them. And the singing — and the silence.
THIS WORLD
I would like to write a poem about the world that has in it nothing fancy. But it seems impossible. Whatever the subject, the morning sun glimmers it. The tulip feels the heat and flaps its petals open and becomes a star. The ants bore into the peony bud and there is a dark pinprick well of sweetness. As for the stones on the beach, forget it. Each one could be set in gold. So I tried with my eyes shut, but of course the birds were singing. And the aspen trees were shaking the sweetest music out of their leaves. And that was followed by, guess what, a momentous and beautiful silence as comes to all of us, in little earfuls, if we’re not too hurried to hear it. As for spiders, how the dew hangs in their webs even if they say nothing, or seem to say nothing. So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe they sing. So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe the stars sing too, and the ants, and the peonies, and the warm stones, so happy to be where they are, on the beach, instead of being locked up in gold.
How did the rose Ever open its heart And give to this world all its beauty? It felt the encouragement of light Against its being. Otherwise, we all remain too frightened.
