to make sense of my watching a moth
last night, late
beating it's wings in futility to reach the light inside a lamppost
so of course, like any good twenty-first century human, i turned to google for more
I wanted to understand the work of moths, of butterflies, and why it's so beautiful and mysterious.
what I learned was incredible, from caterpillar to chrysalis to moth.
singlemindedness, it seems is the hallmark of the stages of this amazing creature. first for eating, almost to the point of disgust, imagine eating your own skin as these creatures do.
having a garden, you would know the voracious appetite of a caterpillar.
having flowers, you would know the loveliness of a butterfly alight, sucking the nectar to produce the energy needed to fly, to beat the painted wings that scare away predators and attract a mate. the transformation of caterpillar to butterfly is classical, remarkable, and holy to a child. many caterpillar destinies were played out in a pail in my garage as a child, where I watched in tingling anticipation for the emergence of a butterfly. a miracle that can be witnessed every summer, a prayer alive on the wind. and finally, butterflies are only seeking what so many of us search for, the union to procreate, namely s-e-x. yep, those lovely creatures that seem to represent our very innocence and spark a childlike wonder in almost everyone with a pulse, are voracious, sex-crazed and on a desperate, pheromone induced hunt for copulation. of course, unlike us humans, they are doing it for true procreation, but is it really any different for us at the core, or are we all programmed to search for a mate, for that very purpose, though the various fictions of our lives might lead us to believe otherwise? nonetheless, i was curious enough to keep searching in that unique and modern way that only this generation can truly understand, taken over by the ease of answers beneath your pulsing fingertips.
so, I found something so lovely and simple that I couldn't help but feel humbled and awed by my longtime poet, Carl Sandburg. Why try to pin my experience on the hallowed wings of the moth when i can just read these luminous words...
A GOLDWING moth is between the scissors and the ink bottle on the desk.
Last night it flew hundreds of circles around a glass bulb and a flame wire.
The wings are a soft gold; it is the gold of illuminated initials
in manuscripts of the medieval monks.
ah, just forget it...
or read on. this is my take. after google research, after soul search. maybe it's a lame attempt that comes after years of inactivity, but it's a start.
a moth, last night
flickering around a lamp post
held aloft, thick wings
beating a pulse to reach light
diving midair, prostration
worship before a naked bulb
muscular wings, hairy bodies
flying toward a timeless musk
will she, will he
meet again in this lifetime
paths lit, floodlight
the scrawl on her back
wild beating, in vain
compass reading distracted
disoriented, confused by light
which is not the moon.
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