Lunar Philosophy

A moon climbs above the University College,

a new moon in a modern age,

an old moon palsied, pale and sage,

the hidden lady loved by lost philosophers

who rest their limbs at noon.


This was the toe-nail of Guiton

cut by some lascivious lover

at an hour of bitter dawn.

Toenail of old Confucius clipped with scissors

by some fat, obsequious slave,

pawned for pansy blossom gifts, donations

swapped for decorations

round the hips of dancing girls.

Moon sliver

subtly slither

delicacy of moulded form

hewn stone and sand papered wood

belly smooth.


The moon wafts her delicacies abroad,

scent of Nightingale blood on thorns,

shades of tree-flit fawns

soft mothers fur doe white

doves cooing on sunburnt afternoons.

Images of sea froth and epileptic foam

Purple mouthed pubescent with a half broken voice;

images of snake-sleek propagandists selling "Daily Worker"

to hollow eyed protagonists

of steel machines;

images of lancet lights

and cloister columns' arms entwined,

the arch-eyed listener keen to fathom

dark recesses of a paltry mind;

images of gravelled courts

patterned shadows on moon-struck towers,

cake walk idylls of small boys.


Why forsake your virility

You hollow eyed!

Whence came this time of sterility

- Hollow eyed men?

We listen to a lecturer

telling us how to fertilise a woman.


On the wireless J.Z. Young

talks of decerebrate cat

philosophy of neo-fate

shades of modern Rubaiyat.


The moon? They call her exoteric

lady, madam, mother of the skies

but we are the progeny of nature's baby

time and all eternities.

We have before us three score years and ten

before the soil is turned again.


The Moon ? Oh aching heart,

I, an old man in my youth,

find it there to say

she has no influence.

There is no guidance council in the skies

We can find it only in each other.


Oh animus and anima

let us to the cinema.