Skip to content

Moonhandled and Weird

Unmoved by what the wind does,
The windows
Are not rattled, nor do the various
Areas
Of the house make their usual racket—
Creak at
The joints, trusses and studs.
Instead,
They are still. And the maples,
Able
At times to raise havoc,
Evoke
Not a sound from their branches’
Clutches.
It’s my night to be rattled,
Saddled
With spooks. Even the half-moon
(Half man,
Half dark), on the horizon,
Lies on
Its side casting a fishy light
Which alights
On my floor, lavishly lording
Its morbid
Look over me. Oh, I feel dead,
Folded
Away in my blankets for good, and
Forgotten.
My room is clammy and cold,
Moonhandled
And weird. The shivers
Wash over
Me, shaking my bones, my loose ends
Loosen,
And I lie sleeping with one eye open,
Hoping
That nothing, nothing will happen.

—Mark Strand, Sleeping With One Eye Open

My favorite bit is:

Oh, I feel dead,
Folded
Away in my blankets for good, and
Forgotten.
My room is clammy and cold,
Moonhandled
And weird.

The rhymes here are aces. “Feel dead” to “Folded,” and “for good, and” to “Forgotten.” Ah, me.
Also, “weird” in this context connotes more of the Weird Sisters than the overused adolescent epithet of lazy confusion. A good example of the elevation of language Stevenson was on about, which Borges referenced in his lecture, Thought and Poetry.

Post a Comment

Your email is never published nor shared.