Sep 12, 2014

Friday Poetry


A curtain of fog
pale & ruffled
crossed the moon
it teased the eye
in its path.

The cloth of a toreador
before the bull
the passing motion
a salute,
an invitation.

A moment brief
& unexpected
crosses life
an conceives an image
in her mind.

The birth of words
before the poet
the writing process
a celebration,
a necessity.


by Elena Arosemena 

Origin of this tiny poem:

Long ago I used to work in San Juan Capistrano, in south Orange County in CA.  

I commuted to work everyday from Vista, CA, about 35 miles away. 

During a warm summer night, this poem was born. I was driving home, after sunset, the sky decorated by a generous and confident full opaque yellow moon. It was a golden saucer in the sky hanging so full, any moment I imagined could drop. 

The moon was many things that night; regal, fascinating, beautiful. It was poised in perfect view, out of the drivers side window as I drove south from Orange County. On one side I had the moon, on the other the still Pacific Ocean. 

And then in an instant the most faint curtain of sliver white fog crossed the moon's path. Right then and there this poem was born. I saw the image and immediately the cloth of a toreador came to mind.  The intimacy of the pass, the grace of motion, the focus of the moment; for me an invitation from nature to pay attention, to celebrate, to record. 

Some people driving that night, I am sure never saw the curtain of fog. Some saw it and went home and told their family.  Some perhaps recorded the image with soft water colors or pensive strokes in ink black. 

For me, Ole.