The Night the Moon
Was Closest to Earth
June 26 2013


The night the moon was closest to earth
the clouds lifted.
An act of grace
after day after day
of suffocating rain.

The moon seemed unnaturally large.
And so sharply etched
every imperfection was clear

to the naked eye.

A heavenly body
in a cynical world,
in fine-grained dust
and airless shadow.

Distance

was hard to figure

in the silvery light,

all glowing surface

a flattened world.

And gone with the 3rd

was the 4th dimension,

indirect light
stealing depth, and time.

As if only I
had been graced with motion,
gliding through a tableau
in magical light.
Should disturb
nothing

leave the silence untouched,
as in those sacred places
even sound would profane.

Until the howling began,
a cold shiver

running up my back.
A night when sound carries.
Or the wolves
padding on silent paws
are on the move as well.

The closest approach and the brightest full moon this year was June 24. I never expected to see much; but, as in the poem, the undifferentiated days of overcast and rain unexpectedly lifted, and I walked out in the middle of the night into this still silvery light.

I hope the repetitive line "after day after day" doesn't sound awkward or slipshod. I wanted to convey a feeling of both tediousness and undifferentiation: of going on too long, and of days dissolving into each other. So instead of something that slows the reader down with a lot of cognitive processing, such as "after undifferentiated days", why not draw a picture with simple words such as "after day after day": that is, show it instead of say it -- the cardinal rule of good writing!

The wolves weren't howling that night, despite the mythological moon. Perhaps it was too late, or they'd moved further away. But to give the poem some narrative force, and to reinforce this feeling of exceptionalism -- the suspension of time, the exotic light, the indefinable sense of menace, the privilege of moving through a motionless and slightly distorted world -- I thought I'd take the liberty of conflating that summer moon with the feeling of other nights, when the wolves are indeed at it: a feeling of primeval excitement, danger, and exhilaration.

I hope the poem leaves you with the feeling that the world consists of only the wolves and me, as well as an anxious sense that I'm being stalked. It may strike the discerning reader that this last stanza comes out of nowhere, and illegitimately transforms the entire poem. If you think that, I invite you to revisit the second stanza, and make note of the foreshadowing there: the unease conveyed by words like "unnatural", and "imperfection", and "cynical". And really, what else would you expect of a "lunar" poem but a bit of lunacy? (Or, for that matter, what more obvious trope than howling wolves?!!)

On the other hand, what's wrong with a little twist, the ending that comes out of nowhere? The poems that most affect me often do this: a final stanza (or preferably, a final line) that suddenly transforms the poem, slightly shifting the meaning of everything that came before. Such a poem is made that much more powerful by this ambiguity and allusion. Not to mention that such a poem invites re-reading, which I think is the sine qua non of a great poem: not only that you want to re-read, but that each reading brings something new.