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Thom Moore: Blog

Keep This Thought
 
Keep this thought, awake at night,
wind across the willows:
you'll catch no sleep in silver light,
the moon outside your window.
No sleep, stormy night:
branches rattle, wind blows;
scud cloud, silver light—
the moon across your pillow.
 
Silver comes to fill your eyes;
keep this thought, or otherwise
no stopping when you wake and rise
and float up through your window.
Float you must, but don't give in:
the senses in your cheek and chin
will tell you where and tell you when
to find your homely pillow.
 
Sleep and toss, late at night,
clouds press up in billows;
you'll be weeping silver like
a moon upon your pillow.
So steep?  Don't you mind:
climb that cliff by moonglow.
"Eyes up," the wind is whining:
"watch for where the tune goes."
 
Melody will fill your mind;
keep this thought, or otherwise
no stopping when you wake and rise
and float up through your window.
Float you must, but don't give in:
the senses in your cheek and chin
will [...]
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Life Ahinge
 
"You weary soldier, hear me sing,"
the Bright One says to take away the sting.
"You ragged squire, come hear me sing,"
the Bright One says, and fugitive is king.
"Like heavy vine, like fruited bough,
in company with women now,
for you alone all of us sing:
the champion home, the hero king,
champion come home, hero made king."
 
"You've done your labours, everything,"
the Bright One says, the Bright One sings,
"Done every task, tied every string,"
the Bright One says, and makes the man a king.
"And like the dead, ended and all,
wait for the matrix choice and call,
so our wombs ache to fetch you home;
the welcome rings, the king is enthroned,
welcome rings out, king has his throne."
 
"There never was, is no other way,"
the Bright One sings, and levels her gaze,
"no way on earth, by night or by day,"
the Bright One sings, and man is all amazed,
"no way to come to paradise
save through these gates, true and tight,
this fatal stricture, man-commanding,
opening up [...]
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Low Blue Drum 
Hear it in the windy night: 
slow music, low, blue drum. 
While it blows, you feel it inside,
a heart-throb, calling
to come and fly. 
Your face against a windowpane,
you wonder what you're told: 
try to grip, and it's slipping away,
then close again like the clutch
of a cold, cold rain. 
 
Follow the tune like tide follows moon: 
beauty, hunting blind,
has tracked you all the time
through this world you thought you knew..
 
 
The spirit plays a game with me:
it knows just what to do: 
take my eyes and see what I see,
then in my voice
it muses on what to be. 
The moments come to life somehow: 
slow music, low, blue drum
find a way through the clamour around,
a heart-stopping, artless,
and longing sound. 
 
Follow the tune like tide follows moon: 
beauty, hunting blind,
has tracked your soul and mine
through this world we thought we knew.

©1993 Thom Moore, reg. IMRO, MCPS
 
This [...]
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The wizard was not alone, musing above his tomes:
a little girl smiled and asked him to style the figures a-ranked on high.
"What do you think they're called?  How do you see them all?
Seven things here, and one, my dear, looks like a brand-new moon."
 
Hey, diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
the cow jumped over the moon;
the little dog laughed to see such sport,
and the dish ran away with the spoon.
"Seven things aloom,
yes—one of them's the moon."
 
"Th'one with the horns is a cow, over the moon , somehow;
top of the stack and arching its back, a cat's at the window, now.
Leaning down over his bow, playing a reel, but slow,
a fid-dl-er seems to be in a dream, fid-dl-ing all alone."
Hey, etc.
 
"This one's a naughty dog  , finding the door unlocked:
see how the thing is eager and keen, ready to take a walk.
The middle one's round and flat , and we've got a dish like that,
the smaller one, too, its handle in view,
's the spoon that comes with the platter."
Hey, [...]
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KOSMOS CAFE
1.
As prisons go, this one's to know:
a paradise of waiting
for what's undone, what's yet to come.
Look up, look down, look all around,
it's what you're paid to do, here:
just keep your gaze off of the ladies
down the way.
 
Chorus:
Lai, lai, lai, lai, lai, Gypsy Kings, and tipsy things. 
Oh, Friday night, and she'll be there,
and you'll be right
to dance the world away at the Kosmos Café:
words to the wise in cheek-to-cheeky guise,
cheek-to-cheek disguise.
 
2.
Across the road, another load
to set the boys a-buzzing:
fits and starts and do your part.
Drag the wagon, man the scan –
and when the work is over,
it's back to waiting for the glimpse
to start your heart.
 
Chorus:
Lai, lai, lai, lai, lai, etc.
 
3.
The snow comes down, the road to town
is covered up completely:
your dreamy evening won't be soon.
True grit don't freeze, though: get your skis
and see if someone's lazy.
The circuit waits: behind that gate,
a kind of love.
 
Chorus:
Lai, [...]
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