The Moon Cracks Open

A Field Guide to the Birds and Other Poems

Marc Beaudin

Genre:  Poetry/Nature

'The Moon Cracks Open' on Blazing Trailers
"What is the soul if not the sum of the flights of a thousand birds?"

Book Video: "The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds and Other Poems" by Marc Beaudin

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Publisher:

Heal the Earth Press

Release Date:

2008

Length:

66 pages

Paperback ISBN:

978-1-60458-307-6
 

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Book Preview: "The Moon Cracks Open"

The Moon Cracks Open contains 49 poems, 20 of which form the Field Guide: a series of species-specific poems honoring the various birds that have had an impact on Beaudin’s life and understanding of the world. They are arranged following the order used by most bird field guides, but with poetic interpretations of the species (or in most cases, of an individual bird) rather than scientific descriptions. The remaining poems in the collection range in theme from political outrage to lost love, from childhood memories to the quiet reality of growing old " all with a lyrical nod to the natural systems that bind and sustain us all.

REVIEW

“There's an especially remarkable moment in Marc Beaudin's poem "River Music": He says, after floating in the Cheyenne River, "I hope that the toxins I have absorbed / will leave this river / some small part cleaner, // and will shine on my skin like a mirror." Not only does he want to sacrifice himself for the restoration of the primal but wants us to see ourselves in him, in the body of his work, in poetry itself. The Moon Cracks Open is spoken with such honesty and openness, and written with the blood of such a lyric eye, that we do.”

Reviewed by: William Heyen
www.boaeditions.org

EXCERPT

Federico Garcia Lorca Reminds Me of Robert Frost

On a night like this
you can hear the ropes creaking
in their pulleys as the moon rises,
and the click and hiss
of each star coming on,
a hum of machinery sounding
almost like wind through the trees

When a coyote knifes the darkness,
you think of sirens.
When an owl echoes your question,
unseen,
you look for a door to lock,
a window to latch.
You pull your coat tighter
to your chest, and try
to remember that song from Sunday School;
but all that comes to your mouth
is the iron-salt taste
of your own blood.

It’s then that you look down two roads
and wish you had paid more attention
to that poem
you had to read for class
years
and years
ago.