“The poetry of moonlight has yet to be written.” Wallace Stevens
“Oh, you bloody think so?” Me
This moon isn’t any of the moons you know
and, reluctantly, I’m here to tell you so;
this moon’s not some ghostly galleon
or Apollo’s back-up stallion,
it’s not Homer’s, Virgil’s, Dante’s
and forget about Cervantes
and before he says Que pasa?
it’s not one small step for NASA
and even when it’s full, it’s no pub sign.
This moon’s different because, you see,
this moon never lit Debussy,
it’s not a drummer for The Who,
or a love song when it’s blue
it don’t shine on Carolina,
it’s not wiccan for vagina,
or your trousers round your knees
with your arse out in the breeze
on a drunken charabanc on the A9,
it’s not Byron’s, it’s not Chaucer’s
or a base for flying saucers,
it’s not Milton’s, Shelley’s, Pope’s
and it sure ain’t Wendy Cope’s,
it’s not a lycanthropic trigger
and, before this list gets bigger,
this moon isn’t little Frieda’s
or any other bleeder’s –
you can stick all those moons where the sun don’t shine.
In other words, back off pal. This moon’s mine.
Rob Evans is an aerospace engineer whose work takes him all over the world. When not doing that, he writes poetry and sometimes reads it to hushed and not-so-hushed audiences. He is a one-time UK All Comers Poetry Slam champion but has since regained some shreds of dignity.