Mary Moore’s new chapbook, Eating the Light, selected by Allison Joseph as the winner of Sable Books 2016 award, was published in August, and she has poems out this year in Birmingham Poetry Review (BPR), One, Cider Press Review, McNeese Review, Canary, Coal Hill Review, and in “Hoppenthaler’s Congeries” (Connotation Press). Work is forthcoming in Georgia Review, Poem/Memoir/Story, Unsplendid, Still the Journal and In Eyes Watching From the Woods, an anthology from WVU Press. Other recent credits include Terrain (one of three finalists), Nimrod (as contest finalist, and as regular submission), The Moth, Drunken Boat, BPR, Cider Press Review’s Best of Volume 16, Sow’s Ear Review, and others. Besides earlier poems in Poetry, Field, Prairie Schooner, New Letters, her first full-length poetry collection, The Book of Snow was published by Cleveland State University.
Ear To the Sun
Stanford Solar Center Satellite
The satellite’s winged tympanum
turns like a sunflower to the sun’s hum,
a long, low chord. Two hours
it takes to roll from corolla to core
and back again. You can hear
the sun’s audio: 40 days of hymn
pressed into seconds, a continuum roar,
basso profundo: Om
it says, in the opera villain’s key.
The sun’s skin oscillates with the tune,
like the ripples we can’t see
in a struck bell’s metal.
Knell of a giant slow bell.
Silence is all in the ear. Ours
are shaped like bells made of felt,
pink, brown, yellow,
bone hammer, skin drum, resonant
with the million notes of the world.
The first bell was a stone.
The Druids’ in their curious pantheism,
ears to the standing stones,
must have heard the sun’s low thrumming,
like the groans of warning and mourning
we now know the eldest trees
make in drought. As if atoms
and the spaces inside them can suffer.
There is no silence. Om is a prayer.