Oh Moon, My Mother

Islam Nashrif

The night has settled for a long time already,

I have found refuge there, in the plight of the steady.

Against the world for its noise and filthy commotion,

On the pillow I rest, while I listen to the earth’s motion.

I have found the parade, which offers me the mystery:

The inside of my mind, muddled with lessons from history.

Your pale face shines bright through the shades,

And calls me your daughter while nuzzling my braids…

My friend, my glow, who comes to me in peace,

Ushers with sweet silence and instances of caprice.

Tempestuous rage, for a long time I have borne,

Brews like Mount Vesuvius asking Pompeii to mourn.

In the shadow of her grace, a harmonic lull is heard,

My angst evaporates, like spilled spirit on lard.

From my head to toe with moonlight, you smother

As I find in you my one true mother…

 

About My Poems

The great painter Edgar Degas once confessed to his friend Stephane Mallarme that he would like to be a poet like her because “he had too many ideas to express.” Mallarme exclaimed that poetry was not made with ideas but with words.

Just as the composer uses musical notes, the painter brushes, colors, shapes, and sculptors of marble, wood, or stone, the poet’s instrument is language. It would be befitting to say that they are at the mercy of language rather than wielding it.

My poems are a meagre reflection of my language and a quintessence of my thoughts occurring autonomously. I only hope, with my limited knowledge and experience, to touch upon hearts that are not bound to certain lands or cultures. I howl for a unified world where souls congregate and exchange vitalities just like mother nature herself. (Nashrif)