A Poem I Love

August Moon by Robert Penn Warren

August Moon

by Robert Penn Warren

Gold like a half-slice of orange 
Fished from a stiff Old-Fashioned, the moon
Lolls on the sky that goes deeper blue 
By the tick of the watch. Or 
Lolls like a real brass button half-buttoned 
On the blue flannel sleeve
Of an expensive seagoing blue blazer. 

Slowly stars, in a gradual 
Eczema of glory, gain definition. 

What kind of world is this we walk in? 

It makes no sense except
The inner, near-soundless chug-chug of the body's old business—
Your father's cancer, or
Mother's stroke, or 
The cat's fifth pregnancy. 

Anyway, while night 
Hardens into its infinite being, 
We walk down the woods-lane, dreaming
There's an inward means of 
Communication with 
That world whose darling susurration 
Might—if only we were lucky—be 
Deciphered. 

Children do not count years
Except at birthday parties. 
We count them unexpectedly, 
At random, like 
A half-wit pulling both triggers 
Of a ten-gauge with no target, then
Wondering what made the noise, 
Or what hit the shoulder wiht the flat
Butt of the axe-head. 

But this is off the point, which is 
The counting of years, and who 
Wants to live anyway 
Except to be of use to 
Somebody loved? 

At least, that's what they say. 

Do you hear the great owl in the distance? 

Do you remember a childhood prayer—
A hand on your head? 

The moon is lost in tree-darkness. 
Stars show now only 
In the pale path between treetops. 
The track of white gravel leads forward in darkness. 

I advise you to hold hands as you walk, 
And speak not a word. 

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Commentary

by Me

I love how in the first stanza, the speaker hones in on his image—it’s coming to him as he goes. The moon is half full and looks like a sliced cocktail orange. But it’s not just the moon, not just the orange he sees. There’s the deepening blue of the sky around it too, so what’s he going to do with that? How about a real brass button half poking out of its buttonhole? Much better and closer to the real thing. The background is the right color, it’s blue, but not just any blue, blue blazer blue. Yes, that’s better.

In the second shorter stanza, we are reminded of that ticking watch, already invoked, though briefly in the first stanza. The sky continues to change, and the stars come out. Here the speaker employs one of my favorite devices: the metaphor that compares a beautiful (in this case even heavenly) thing, the stars, to a kind of gross (no offense to people who have Eczema), very bodily thing, Eczema.

Then comes the question, given its own single-line stanza: “What kind of world is this we walk in?” The poem expands its scope. There is a we now, a more collective attitude. We share the world after all; we walk together. Additionally, instead of just describing what he’s seeing, the speaker begins to consider the “body’s old business,” death and life and the “darkling susurrations,” or murmuring mysteries of the world. He says “It makes no sense,” and yet, he maintains belief that some “inward means of / Communication” might be possible, might, with a little bit of luck, allow us to understand the whispers of the universe.

From there, he turns back to the question of time, the passing of years, perhaps the biggest whisper of them all, so constant, underlying everything, that we almost have no choice but to tune it out. While children count years only in celebration, we—the adults—go about not counting them at all, until suddenly we remember to. In those moments, we are caught off guard by their passing, and we are fools to be surprised—like someone shooting a shotgun and “wondering what made the noise.”

We can easily understand what’s happened by this point in the poem. The speaker is looking at the moon and stars against the deep blue sky and he’s wandered from the point. What is the point? He arrives at it quite simply: “to be of use to / Somebody loved”—simple as that. With everything else, all that we understand and do not understand, all the years that pass counted or uncounted, who wants to live without love, and the holy service that love demands?

It feels like that could be it, but not yet. In the two single-line stanzas that follow, the uncertainty creeps back in. First, he qualifies: “At least, that’s what they say.” He must admit again that he’s guessing at the point, not really sure of anything. And then, “Do you hear the great owl in the distance?” acknowledging again the unseen power, perhaps even the unknown, ever untranslatable wisdom of the universe. He invokes the childhood memory of a prayer and the feeling of a hand rested on top of your head—the protection and guidance that’s so literal and inhabitable when we are young, but that, as we age, can only really be felt through faith.

The poem draws to a close and the speaker’s meandering thoughts are reflected as we discover that he’s been walking along the whole time. He is traveling down a “track of white gravel” leading into the darkness. The trees to each side of the track obscure much of the sky, including that August moon, but there is a path of starlight that mirrors, and will always mirror, the gravel track below. It feels like the speaker has landed on a more suitable image for the passage of time. Not a ticking watch, but a moonlit path.

Finally, he arrives back to his point, this time with more certainty. Again, it’s simply put: “hold hands as you walk.” Yes, he was right after all, the point is love. Love, plus one additional piece of advice: be quiet as you go. Only if you do not speak will you be able to hear the call of great owl and the darkling susurrations. If we have any hope of deciphering them, we must first hear them.

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I wrote this late last night, and I don’t have time to edit it because I’m going outside to look at the moon and hold hands with my lover. Forgive typos and unwieldy sentences! Love you, bye!

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