The Palindromic Astronaut

A blast from the past.

I don’t have much to add to it, really, but I wanted to re-present “The Palindromic Astronaut,” a poem from 1974’s Word Ways #7.3. It’s a snapshot not only to earlier practices in composition but to attitudes about the moon landing still common five years after Neil Armstrong’s visit. Meyer’s claim that “the lack of meter prevents it from being true poetry” seems overly modest now (and may have even then, long after free-verse poems had become popular).

(Note to self: can anything be done with the title “Niel’s Lien”? Workshop this.)

Yaws in a craft on top spot; not far, Canis way.
No! Onward, new if—for a fad—afar. Off I wend, raw noon.
No omen; awed, I was sapid. I pass a wide wane moon.
Do orbit far; Canis, in a craft I brood.
Doom Yager away! Alert, I feel glee—fit. Relay a ware gay mood!
Stir granule rock core—lunar grits.
Stibnite sack corroded, or rock-case. Tin bits.
Habituate now entire mesa base; merit new one. Taut, I bah!
A hero gabs, “Orb! Bag gabbros, bag ore—ha!”
Deep space ride lost one not; so led, I recap speed.
Deed, draw awe. Far off for a few; award deed!
A surer—a radical pose, so placid—a rarer U.S.A.

Tomorrow: A microstic!