Diamond Nights

  Lyra by Beth Moon


The Body as a Prayer 

after Lyra by Beth Moon & “Lift Yr. Skinny Fists, Like Antennas to Heaven...”  by Godspeed You! Black Emperor



tonight my bones are filled with wonder.

You have bled out

the sky & filled its corpse

with sparks.


Tonight the ceiling is on fire,

you have stolen all that is quiet

& tender in the dark.


You have chewed on diamonds

& spilled them across the table

a procession of brilliant crumbs.


And Lord,

these hands, they are hungry.

I have lifted them up into the black

all broken, a dozen fingers on each.


They are hungry to be swallowed whole,

to be carried into the air

to grow into your embrace,


to break their cores against the fishbowl sky,

picking at stars like lyre strings

wondering which will be the first to snap.



you have made a meal of the nights

& I am lifting myself up to you

slender wooden fists

all my tumbling bones.


I have lifted my entire body

as a prayer.


My skin is an open mouth.


Feed me your light.


Torrin Greathouse




                  after Beth Moon's "Ara" from Diamond Nights


A reverence for baobabs makes sense.

Apart from fruit, there's size and age, a shape

beyond human writ large, writ long. And here,

beneath Ara, the star altar that tells


a tale of unity among the gods,

these trees, roots intertwined, star-struck branches

enmeshed, mirror community, signal

a place of sustenance, shelter, water.


This grove oasis, made sacred by need,

humble altar of thanks made so by all

who amble through its shade, enjoy its fruit,

gnaw, famished, through its bark to softer wood.


Crossroads of wild things, of stones and stars,

its trees sentries of centuries. Amen.


Marta Ferguson






                  thoughts on Beth Moon's "Volans"


deep run our roots

into the sanded plains

seeking, piercing the veins

the arteries of earth

pulsing with hydration


solid as rock our bodies

from thinnest infant sapling

to massive wooden mammaries

that nurture each year's

meager-leafed bonnet

unmoved by wind

by time


but in the night, what dreams!

branches morph to wings

as drunk with starlight

we rise from earth to moon

beyond, if dawn delays






Diamonds of the Night

This tree looks like a woman trying to hold up the sky.
Nature is above our head like a disco ball tilting forward and back.
Like an everlasting dance illuminating our stories through eternity.

Ellyn Maybe





To the Oldest Tree


Response to Beth Moon’s Diamond Nights “Andromeda”


Your thoughts are long

stored in root and cell.

They begin before there were cities

before Egypt

before the earliest

of our many kings.

You have seen the stars move

in their slow procession

through the houses of the sky.

You wear them netted

in your branches like a crown.

You pull me into your silence

where there is room enough

to spin out all the dreams

and tell all the stories

of our small lives,

to remember those first dreamers,

who came with visions of fire

and brash ambitions,

laying stone on stone

to rebuild the world

in the image of desire.

You did not build.

You grew,

root and branch

a library of living cells

the tides of life responding

to the pull of distant galaxies,

the languages of light and gravity

spelled in the patterns

of your secret heart. 


Mary McCarthy 



Ancient Trees by Starlight


We live too fast to see

your slow  waltz                 

your finest branches reaching out

like a web of nerves,

sensitive as the fingertips

of the blind,

reading messages

written in the light

of distant galaxies.

We are like children

drowsing beneath the hum

of grown ups’ conversation,

knowing only something more

than we can apprehend

sings between the maze of roots

and the spill of starlight

through your limbs.

And so we stand suspended,

incidental to the long dance

whose rhythms we can barely sense

as you turn with the earth

in the starry arms of Andromeda.                 


Mary McCarthy                                                                                     



Oh no, we are not too old, my love.

Dance with me beneath the night sky—

our arms abandoned to the music

of a million stars. Our hair riotous and untamed

as in our youth, the tendrils entangled

with evening dew. Press against me

as if we were saplings—supple once more—

our limbs free to touch, enfold, then pull away,

not this rigid girth set so firmly aground.

We are ancient. These roots we share go deep. 

But oh, our wild, wild branches! 


Christina Lovin



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