The Harvest Moon on
September 13, 2013, was to be full and bright, only a storm threatened
viewing. When the moon rose full and
orange in the eastern sky, I did not see it.
I was telling stories to eager faced elementary students, and besides a
thunder storm was raging outside.
But by the time the
storytelling was over, so was the storm.
The clouds were drifting apart exposing the moon to the earth
below. After driving home with moonlight
in my face, I wrote:
“Last night the goddess moon finally slid gracefully
from beneath the tattered remnants of clouds from the earlier storm, hanging, a
luminous bright alabaster globe in the sky, bathing the earth below with
radiant light, as in the west a few hardy stars ventured forth to wink and
blink among the wispy clouds still floating there, and to the south lightning
backlit the turbulent clouds still threatening the mountains.”
“Poetic prose,” one of my
friends wrote on my Facebook page. “Could
you turn it into a poem?”
Normally I do not write
poetry, preferring prose; but I took the challenge and changed it a bit.
“Goddess
Moon slides
Gracefully
from beneath
Tattered
remnants
Of
passing storms.
Hanging,
luminous, bright
An
alabaster globe
Bathing
the earth in radiant light.
Across
the sky hardy stars wink, blink
Among
wispy clouds
Still
floating there.
And
near the mountains
Lightning
flashes
Backlit
clouds
Threaten
rain.”
Yes, I said a bit, not
nearly enough. The friend who issued the
challenge read it and made a few suggestions, leaving everything up to me, as
it should be. So after a few more
Facebook chats the final product lies below:
Moon Goddess
©Julie Herrera 2013
Goddess Moon
Glides beneath
Tattered remnants
Of passing storms,
Hanging – luminous
Alabaster globe
Bathing earth in
Radiant light.
Hardy stars across
The sky wink, blink
Amongst wispy clouds
Still floating there,
Above mountains
Lightning flickers,
Backlit clouds
Threaten rain.
All of that and a call for
submissions for "The Conejos Writers’ Circle Book" prompted me to take another
look at a longer poem I attempted to write a few years back which was rejected
for different anthology. The two versions follow directly:
TRANSITION
By Julie Herrera
When the darkness reaches forward
gobbling up the light,
When the dull browns of the
fields turn to gold and shadows lengthen,
When the clouds of dust on the
dirt roads add to the beauty,
When wheeling flocks of raucous
cranes and geese call to each other as they look for a place to settle for the
night,
When some fly so close to the
mountains, they look like the shadow of a giant helicopter,
Only to be seen for what they are
as they fly south far enough to leave the mountain aside,
When clouds go from white to
bright yellow and gold to orange,
When the clouds fade to pink and
grey sometimes with a violet cast,
When the Sangres turn pink,
When the sun gives one last
glorious burst of color over the western mountains,
When the moon starts to brighten.
Then is a sense of peace,
Then is a time to reflect as the
cares of the day slide from the shoulders,
Then is the most beautiful time
of the day,
Then is a time to behold,
Then is a time to reflect on the
beauty of nature,
Then is a time to see the
wondrousness of God,
Then is the time called dusk.
DUSK
©Julie Herrera 2013
When
darkness reaches forward gobbling up the light,
 |
| Sandhill cranes against the San Juan Mountains |
Dull browns
turn gold, shadows lengthen,
Clouds of
dust, beauty add;
When
wheeling flocks of raucous cranes, geese
Call to one
another looking for places,
Settle for
the night;
When clouds
turn bright yellow, gold and orange,
Colors fade
to pink and grey, a violet cast,
The Sangres
turn pink;
When last
glorious color bursts over mountains,
The moon
imperceptibly brightens.
Then comes
a sense of peace,
Cares slide
away,
Gaze at
beauty.
Then, a
time to contemplate,
A time
named dusk.
So in writing a poem, I learned
to tighten up the language, to cut out the unnecessary words. It was a challenge and an exercise in
discipline. For instance in the
Transition/Dusk piece what prompted me to write it all down in the first place
was the cranes that “look like the shadow of a giant helicopter…” As you can see when reading “Dusk” the
helicopter of cranes is gone. Writers
must learn to “kill their darlings”; but one might also think of it as the
darlings giving birth to an idea which needs to be molded, then they don’t have
to be killed just given the
opportunity to grow and stretch, to become what
they were intended to be. After all
that’s what we do with our children, isn’t it?
©Julie Moss Herrera 2014
