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New Orleans At Night: A Deep History – Part Un

New Orleans French Quarter rooftop moon

New Orleans History: The Moon Calls to Me

Part Un

Stockpiles of yearnings delivered to the back door of remembrance.
The locks rusted and fallen in the river-clayed mud.
The bracing of the fast wind, too powerful for justice,
blown out doors carrying soot and dew.
I remember you.

This is the lost lawn upon which the land of no time
dreamt itself out of existence.
From out of no existence existence bred.
Now along the limed lane
lies the levee in all its resplendence.
The hill top and hell top,
the bumps in the grindings of waddles and beer.
The sweaty palmed Sundays,
the holes in the cast iron brazings
now on and on into the night sky.

I ask, what is this here? Where is the corn?
Where is the new morn with all its resplendence
and the sky broken into a thousand pieces
as I look at the shadow under the moon.
The extra crescent that floats in the eye.
I will draw myself nigh to the moon,
the tune brazen in the lamplight,
it pulls me to its melody.

Now as I lean against the far wall,
the wall in the outside protected-ever patio
in the courtyard of the two-storied building.
I look up from the candle-lit tables
and see the roofline of the old Quarter buildings
play against the night sky.
The up and up of it,
the stretching out of it.
On the high verandah walk,
I imagine the pretty girl all in flimsy white,
the breeze catching the dress
and her long dark hair in the emptiness.

The sound of the music,
the music wild and free here in this country,
calling the country to be.
The feeling of this ghost of a city,
the history and plaintive cry of the ecstasy, of alive.
This place that is art itself, like living inside a painting,
like I am the painting be.
And the air of it, the up and up of it,
the near of this and the far of that,
over the rooflines moving
like a mountain range of rooftops.

Posted in New Orleans Art, New Orleans Culture, New Orleans History, New Orleans Life, New Orleans Poetry.

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