The full moon where I live, at 7500 feet (2500 meters more or less) away from city lights, is so bright you really can read by it.
Last night, while the reflected light of the sun blasted through my windows, I thought of my masters thesis, not it, exactly, but some of the things I read so I could write it. My thesis is on the fiction and poetry of a 19th century lady’s magazine, Godey’s Lady’s Book. Its editor, Sarah Josepha Hale, is one of the women “rehabilitated” by the feminist movement. My relationship with her and her work goes back way before that and I’m glad. I believe it gave her the chance to ‘speak’ to me without any political filter.
One of the most popular topics for poetry — judging by the magazine — was the moon and mythology around the moon. There are, in the hundred or so magazines I read through (and indexed), monthly (ha ha) poems about the moon itself, or a moon goddess, or the love story between Endymion and Selene, maybe inspired by Keats’ poem; maybe not. I don’t know. I do not, cannot, live in the minds or time of the women who sent their poetry to Mrs. Hale hoping to be published. I believe that poems about the moon ran second in number to poems about death.
The moon wakes me up, and lying awake I think, “Put something over the window that blocks out the light, idiot.” It really would be that easy but I haven’t done it and I doubt I will because, well, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”