Moths
speak of tiredness,
and dream:
of days not spent
chasing
an untouchable light
in the distance.
One drowned
in a coffee mug
left out overnight,
and I poured
libations
to demons,
and the gods
that let
things like this
happen.
I don't get the title. I tried dictionary.com which informed me it was some kind of spanial with erect, butterfly ears... that led to immature mental images of mad scientists creating dogs out of aroused animals, but nothing that has any meaningful relation to your poem.
Yep, well, death in a coffee mug... it's a very mundane death for a creature always striving towards untouchable light (like an artist after beauty, the pious after heaven etcetc). Being a conscious, fleshy box for genes, it's kind of the way we were born to be. And death is always pretty much mundane, however close to touching light we get our bodies will always have to get poured away one morning.
But then we can turn that act into a libation. I think there's kind of a positive ending here. We can't touch the light, but we can create meaning for our actions, represent the light in ways we can touch. That's what gods are, and poems, and dogs made from horny animals.
But then none of those things really provide salvation. Not in any literal sense. In the end there's still just a dead moth in a coffee cup.
Yeah, anyhow, when I first read this poem it reminded me of a video I saw once, so I'll end this on that videoy note.
I really can't say anything that hasn't been said. I shouldn't read comment before I comment, it's depressing.
Moths are good. They're kind of sad, fuzzy nighttime butterflies. They don't really hurt anything except maybe clothes. They're calmer than flies and mosquitoes but still frantic enough that it seems they're always looking for something, and they still freak me out when they get in the house and I'm like oh [censored]! what's that? And then I realize it's a moth and I look at it for a little while before ushering it outside.
and UGH!
Cause we're all chasing a light we'll never reach.
Cause we all dream of not having to.
Cause that dream is as close as the light seems.
We all know that moths don't dream, they're incapable (no brain), but it's poetically correct to cretae ones that do. That's what we're here for, to create, from our imagination, the improbable, the impossible. When things die, we humans are touched. We possess emotions. Large or small, whatever the size of the creature, there is compassion, and you have portrayed it well in this poem.
Only one suggestion: In L14 drop "the" so it's "to demons / and gods."
Wonderful observation, great feeling, beautiful poem.
No two of your poems have the same sound, and I love you for that.
There are so many sub-tones and layers in this piece. It can be shallow as condensation or deep as a well, giving back just as much as the reader can put in. But no matter how it's read, there is a subtle blue coldness like winter dawnlight on a moor. It is weariness and regret and silence.
The breaks on those last four lines are killer. Such emphasis. Such longing!
Submission Name: papillon
