The Language of the Moon

While still playing the role of the Preacher, I took a deep breath, while Satirist and Humorist listened.

"I know little about cheerfulness," I said, "but perhaps a little poetry will make you feel better. Please listen to my recitation."

"Gladly," said the humorist. "Poetry can lift one up, add levity to a bad situation."

"Fine," I said, "but let me warn you:

Poetry is not some lunatic out to fix the world;

Poetry is beyond ordinary words, hovers above, below.

     poetry is not an accusation;

     poetry is not incrimination.

Poetry is the feather floating slowly down from Heaven,

then caught upon a breeze, drifting over unsettled seas.

Arranged in perfect order, it is the language of the moon;

It is the veil that trails her hair, the glance of eager eyes.

     It is the frankincense of days long gone;

     It is the ruby glow, the warmth of fire.

It is the frequency that tunes the nightly blaze of stars,

the monk upon the mountain praying ernestly by the fountain.

But it is more than these archaic, stilted lines of mine.

It breathes the air of a new planet, and does not hesitate

     to show the body naked

     or truth without some clothes.

Real poetry does not apologize or theorize

when line fails to deliver on time its discontent of content.

Real poetry is her lips slightlly parted, bleeding and pleading,

tearing the heart apart, gasping for breath to say, 'I love you

     and I hate you at the same time;

     tell me you feel the same and never

want to be buried married or stuck in traffic needing to pee

or go to sea to see a mermaid in a mirror mumuring.'

And you responding:

'Tell me it isn't so while truth stares me in the face;

I do not want to know the obvious. Lie to me lovingly, love,

     and say it is not so;

     Lie with me lovingly, love, and

hold me tight while I bite your ear; the beer is getting warm now.

Now isn't that better without the sweater? I can make you itch all over.'"

"But this is not poetry either," said the Satirist. "You're just teasing us with your words."

"And making me horny," said the Humorist, "though I kind of like it."
By Louis Martin