The Buck Moon was full last night. I take the dog for a walk every evening, and I strolled to a nearby High School’s practice field for a clear view, to take the summer moonshine, to moon myself just as I would go out and sun myself on a clear winter day. There’s not enough night in summer.
The weather of the world, the zeitgeist, has been so…unsettled of late that I’ve been thinking of this year’s Buck Moon as a “bad” moon, which of course brought to mind the old Creedence Clearwater Revival song “Bad Moon Rising.” One of my bad internet habits is do a video search on a particular song title, and click through pages and pages of links, sampling among every possible iteration, cover, parody, mash-up, use as soundtrack for collage, what have you. The viddy above is a gleaning of such a search. I like it better than the John Fogerty original.
This bad moon is nothing personal. It’s just the weather, passing through the heart. I also looked up “bad.” B-A-D. At the Hypertext Webster Gateway, the 1913 Websters result informs me the word bad derives from the Anglo-Saxon word “baeddel” meaning hermaphrodite. Think about that when you listen to the song.
Perhaps due to all the moonbathing, I’m sweating poetry. The muse lashed this lunatic with her cat-o-nine tongues. Battered me with moonbeams. I’m on the third draft of this little nocturne:
Half past bedtime
the bad moon rises
full above the cypresses,
on the windowpanes
the elder runes
of the goddess
whose ogam is my name.
The nighty-night ants
crawl out of my eyes
and go right to work,
sextillions of infidels
hauling crumbs of dreams
in their mandibles,
to the equally perfect pismire,
to queen and colony, to feed the sisters.
Lilliputted into the Land of Nod,
I am sewn into the sack,
my head on a ruined cathedral,
my feet afloat in the Dead Sea,
my body confounded,
a Leviathan stranded on the flat,
lifted at syzygy to slack water,
no brute bound in shallows
out of venture.
She who names me into rivers,
She who iambs me to the mothers,
She lays me down to sleep.
Under three sheets of wind
guilty as owls, She tucks me in
and blows out the stars.
Should I wake before I dream,
I pray the Lady my soul to slake
in the congeal of gleam.
Oh yes. I’ve begun to remember my dreams again, to retain details in waking memory. I had lost that, dreams evaporating faster than breath on a mirror. But they’re back. Cue the dark music.