HeyJaredWest of the Moon
West of the Moon is a publication of poems, or rather, trifles, written by J.Z Schafer
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 13
- Latest publication
- Sep 29, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 5, 2026
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(a trifle) (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI threw some pennies to a beggar on the street And he gave me the key to the city In the shape of a golden carp; And in his eyes one could discern the memories Of wars that had been fought and won Before the gods were born. And also was a song his gift, Of a young maiden in the lake beneath the lake Whose silks were of a blue that has no referent Either in seas or skies or lapis lazuli; A blue that is a world unto itself, Ru
(a trifle) (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe growth of trees is friendliness to you; It is an elfin greeting, courteous, Like blessed shadows asking for a dance. The growing and the being and the fact That form remains; a tree may turn to ash And yet its child whisper heaven in a branch Shaped for the silence of the sky; No rebel-prince who gnarls for no cause, Or says, I will not sway to this great tune of wind, The song is old, and I am young. We must begin as si
(a trifle) (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedMy soul is like a ghost That I found wandering in a field Searching for his lost horse, Plucking a little harp. We played a riddle-game; The final one was this: Where is the horse you lost? He did not know and could not guess. Why did I fail to bring him home To eat of golden butter, whitest cream? To listen to him sing Upon that little harp Before a fire he did not recognize But was not the less therefore his heart.
(a trifle) (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI must sit still And recognize that breath Is not a fire that I lit, But fire nonetheless. I trace the emptiness And find its name Euclidean. I feel that I must introduce myself To you again, Face terrible and young like sky, and gold. Spread, fire, Spread, open history again. This winter of the causeless things, I hate it very much. Tell me to build a church With nothing but blue stone Cut, continents in width, From the sea
(a trifle) (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedA powerful old man is walking in the rain Of centuries. His back is straight and tall, His robe is made of heavy, dangerous dreams. For every lash he suffered while alive Another pure blue lightning gathered in his eye, Like chieftains gath’ring round a flame to council war. Out there, upon the lowlands where the eagles cry, A powerful old man is walking in the rain Of centuries. And to the naked eye He looks a planet seen a
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