Musicman (Villanelle)

Musicman  (Villanelle)

his linen song in half-light cast her
swallowed by the burn and sway
in cashmere waves on alabaster

unbound in time that’s turning faster
midnight climbs upon the day
his linen song in half-light cast her

their shadows dance on lath and plaster
straddled bare and mirrored grey
two cashmere waves on alabaster

a blinding flight that pulling past her
strumming fingers circle play
his linen song in half-light cast her

collapsing images may capture
scale the walls in rhythm they
turn cashmere waves on alabaster

as beauty’s spun in Black and rapture
silhouettes beneath the fray
his linen song in half-light cast her
in cashmere waves on alabaster

© image and words christi moon 2013

The form—

The essence of the fixed modern form is its distinctive pattern of rhyme and repetition. The rhyme-and-refrain pattern of the villanelle can be clearly defined as—

A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2.
Though the form doesn’t dictate meter… I have written this one with the A and A1/A2 refrain lines in Iambic Tetrameter +1 and the B lines in Trochaic Tetrameter -1

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Honor

Honor
 

 
did her life
flash before
his rabid eyes
  
awash
in the logic
of caustic kin
fifteen years
of sizzling sin
 
in rancid
twisted
blistering fits
of brooding
pride
 
familial ties
are liquefied
 
      for eying a boy
      just driving by
      on a motorbike
 
        I won’t do it again, Baba
 
but it’s too late
for absolution
fate’s already splashed
it’s  hatred on her
 
     acid to ashes
     evil’s wrung round
     those patriarchal posies
 
        as we all fall down
 
a daughter’s eyes
dissolve
in sullied puddles
 
of his honor
 

 
 

 

© words/image cs moon 2013

 

note:   According to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan, at least 943 young girls and women were killed in the name of “honor” last year.  The real toll is believed to be much higher as most of these crimes go unreported.

 

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Arrivals

(foreword)
 
I want to write about a man beside a train.
A year later and I’m still looking for the words.
The palm of that strong hand-
balm on small of my lower back;
always, pulling.
 
I’m getting closer.
 
 
 
 Arrivals 

 
I’ve only taken a few steps
when my legs stop responding
to the signals from my brain
 
my vision locked
on an image
 
     you’re running
     beside the train
     your green hat folded
     in your hand
 
five hundred thousand minutes
       careen
                                
into this   
        one        
   
    my feet can’t feel the ground
   
airy echoes  
of your name
far away and
thrumming
 
      she sounds like me
   
in  s l o w  m o t i o n 
cinematography 
we are captured
in these frames
 
     in front of the lens
     behind the lens
     we are the lens
 
we are
 
standing still
      and spinning
 
     as the clocks vanish beneath 
   
we are
 
heaved beyond
      the gates
 
of this brief ceiling
 

 

 
 

cs moon 5.10.13

 

 

 

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Bereft

 

 

we laid them down

still gripping
our spilled milk
and graham cracker
dust

innocence
left us

staring small
and toothless
through the barrel
of our guns

pleading

       as we pledge allegiance

sirens blare
in  wide-eyed wonder

twenty-six Seconds
lost

                                                                  as one

rusty homespun
apple pie

bleeds

        amend us

our smalltown
playground
just recessed beneath
a crimson
finger-painted sky

when will we be
stunned enough

when will we
have won the West
           enough

to lay them down

 

© image and words christi moon 2012

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Butterfield

 

Butterfield 
 
every day
 
at least one
bomb
     stops
 
      t.i.c.k.i.n.g.
 
nightly anchors
airbrush
insidious
hush-hush
steady ruination
and rushing
of a self-predicted
epidemic
inflicting statistics
on a homeland
battlefield
our truth yields
    
    to its own hand
 
heavy medaled
magazines
empty missions
shouldered-shifting
post-to-post
traumatic token
soldiers hoisted
roped
and broken  
their folded hope
is hanging high
 
        now commanding
 
the white-gloved Tapping  
of a Butterfield lullaby
 
 

footnote—

Every day, one US soldier commits suicide. More U.S. soldiers have killed themselves than have died in the Afghan War.  47% are under 25.

 

 

© image and words christi moon 2012

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wanna

 

wanna

wanna trip a night fantastic
wanna drip impassioned drastic

wanna pomp some circumstances
wanna romp in true romances

wanna British night in armor
wanna bluejeanbaby charmer

wanna paradox contrary
wanna polka-dot canary

wanna sway in nature humming
wanna lay in linen strumming

wanna dance five rhythms knowing
wanna chance the row boat rowing

wanna catch a wish from cupid
wanna let him kiss me stupid

wanna lock hips rolling thunder
wanna feel lips rocking wonder

wanna rip down brief grey boxers
wanna flip off false news-foxers

wanna downward-dog your yoga
wanna peek beneath your toga

wanna meter wrapped and rhyming
wanna straddle Blacklight climbing

wanna tangle up these tresses
wanna stop the printing presses

wanna skillful cunning linguist
wanna gentle(man) distinguished

© image and words christi moon

 

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