Monday, April 8, 2024




Will we ever live on that star? — the thought

Itself has me reeling

But Moon, when you move through August's

Evening skies in enchanting silence, I salute you!

Also when you careen, like some dismasted ship,

Through heaving black breakers of cloud!

Oh to ascend, one of the lost, and slake

My thirst on your baptismal moonshine!

Stricken by blindness, your beacon is lethal

To Icarus-types, left stranded and grieving

Sterile suicide-eye-preside

Over convocations of the world-weary.

Ice-cold skull, heap ridicule on our bald

and terminally ill bureaucracies.

O pill of ultimate fatigue, infuse

Yourself into our stubborn brains.

And chlamys-clad Diana, fermenting

Love unleashes barbs from your quiver

Which infect — ah! — the wingless, the hearts of those

Who would do good  on earth!

Star prone to unheard floods, I pray

That one of your chaste, and anti-febrile rays veers, tonight,

In my direction, drenches my sheets, drives

Me to wash my hands of life!


Lunar Solo, selected poems

Jules LaForgue

translated by Mark Ford

The Song Cave, 2023