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new moon poems

Poems to Meditate on During the New Moon

The moon’s energy has the power to control the ebb and flow of the ocean and can even impact human behaviors. To honor each phase is a spiritual practice that can greatly impact your life and your healing journey. Each phase holds a special meaning, representing the regrowth and renewal we seek. As the first phase of the moon cycle, the new moon phase holds special meaning for cultures around the world. It is often viewed as a symbol of new beginnings. During the new moon phase, the moon, the sun, and Earth are all on the same longitude line, resulting in the moon’s orbit being invisible from the Earth. 

 

New moon rituals often consist of meditation on personal desires, dreams, and intentions. The energy of the new moon helps people grow spiritually as they seek out the moon’s healing energy. The new moon represents a time of great self-awareness where hopes and visions for the future can be manifested. Below are five poems that honor this time of renewal and pay homage to this scared moon phase. 

 

Sitting with the child of the moon 

I saw how much I have been avoiding her stare

Her restless stories of being alone

I find them old and gross

The hole in her chest

I turn away

She’s a big mess

Her tears that fall for reasons she cannot accurately recall

When my mask falls, when the leaves fall

The sadness in her eyes

I turn away

She’s a burden at best

Sitting with her

I am itching to leave

Back out there, a world full of thieves

In her cell, she waits for me as her only friend

With the same patience and faith

I am her person

I am her only person

I am her world

I am her

She is me

Sitting with her I choose not to leave

And the hole in her chest heals

I hold her close

Her warm tears melt my walls

She looks up and sees there is no roof to her jail

She can finally soar away

Jessica Semaan 

 

Rise

said the moon

and the new day came

the show must go on said the sun

life does not stop for anybody

it drags you by the legs

whether you want to move forward or not

that is the gift

life will force you to forget how you long for them

your skin will shed till there is not

a single part of you left they’ve touched

your eyes finally just your eyes

not the eyes which held them

you will make it to the end

of what is only the beginning

go on open the door to the rest of it

time

– Rupi Kaur

 

Look to the New Moon 

If you must hear      the story

of my turbulent gaze      after waking,

 

the march of my hours      to hermit

into a higher body,      it is that

 

whatever you put            into the Universe

eventually       returns.

 

In our oneness      of gift,

                     we are eyes together,

 

nerves together,         affected together.

If I’ve never      told you

 

how madly we share      in the stars,

 

how it was all      founded for you,

then let the longing      for Arcturus

 

                     be the gilding      of our sleep.

 

I know      when your time      was in its

making,      I was left   to sing alone,

 

unfed      to trample through      a hundred

layers      of night   without a heart

 

                                   to hold my guard.

 

If I had known      all those days

to listen deep   into myself so that you

 

would begin      to hear me,     I’d sooner

soak      the decibels      of your cells

 

into  the exhale  of my embrace.

            A scorning within       is within

 

                coming back      to scorn.

A rose quartz promise      lifted into

 

the world   is the world      coming back

                          to surrender      its love.

 

Even after      I took my health

into a vineyard      of hawks,

 

I could not break myself from caring

but only     to seek you,     find you,

 

            whisper into your palm:

you are not lost,      you won’t be lost.

— Mai Der Vang 

 

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold

A Night or two ago—

And now she turns Her perfect Face

Upon the World below—

Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde—

Her Cheek—a Beryl hewn—

Her Eye unto the Summer Dew

The likest I have known—

Her Lips of Amber never part—

But what must be the smile

Upon Her Friend she could confer

Were such Her Silver Will—

And what a privilege to be

But the remotest Star—

For Certainty She take Her Way

Beside Your Palace Door—

Her Bonnet is the Firmament—

The Universe—Her Shoe—

The Stars—the Trinkets at Her Belt—

Her Dimities—of Blue—

—Emily Dickinson 

 

The Moon and the Yew Tree 

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary

The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God

Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility

Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

 

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —

Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection

At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

 

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.

The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

How I would like to believe in tenderness –

The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

Blue and mystical over the face of the stars

Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,

Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.

And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.

—Sylvia Plath