A poem for a Moon Day

This one is a bit strange, and dark, with a hint of beauty. I can image the critics trying to decipher what it means about Mary Shelley.

The Waning Moon

Percy Bysshe Shelley

And like a dying lady, lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky east,
A white and shapeless mass.

Posted by Steve

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theconfluencecountdown

Two Ashtangis write about their practice and their teachers.

2 thoughts on “A poem for a Moon Day”

  1. “The rice around the lingam stone will be distributed in the dying sun to the unblessed poor. I bring neither rice nor overpowering jasmine but only my full gaze of love and loathing. With the beautiful Hindu woman I drink in the phallus. On her face the trace of a sneer. (She may be Christian.) Under the nine domes of the Kali temple we make our way to the Divine Mother, Savior of the Universe, Kali in basalt, in gold and precious stones. She stands on Siva. A garland of skulls hangs from her neck. In one of her four hands a severed human head; with another she gives the sign of peace. Her triple eyes bring peace of terror. This was Ramakrishna’s darling, standing on Siva, who lies supine on the thousand-petaled silver-lotus.

    He drank her smile till all was blue, that saint. He joined the hands of all gods. In his room a picture of Christ as well. He reached the seventh plane at will.” ~ Karl Shapir from The Bourgeois Poet 1958

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