Hadn’t realized that W.H. Auden, author of my favorite poem, wrote one in 1969 called “Moon Landing.” I’m unsurprised, loving “Musee des Beaux Arts” as much as I do, that he was less than inspired. Wish he’d written about Alan Shepard.
A grand gesture. But what does it period?
What does it osse*? We were always adroiter
with objects than lives, and more facile
at courage than kindness: from the moment
the first flint was flaked this landing was merely
a matter of time. But our selves, like Adam’s,
still don’t fit us exactly, modern
only in this—-our lack of decorum.