The Lune is animated by the quietude, gravity, and fidelity of its namesake. Writings in print and online — by previously unpublished and national award-winning authors alike — explore a wide-range of approaches to poiesis, whereby mythos, memory, identity, and dream infuse contemporary life with raw ancestral truth.
We wonder with Thomas Merton: "What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are unable to cross the abyss that separates us from ourselves?"* Our feeling is that poets — who work in the deep space of language — guide the whole of society on this journey to the interior.
Simply witnessing lunar phases from where we stand, with what we have, we can divine essential truths about time, space, and our relative position in the universe. "The secret of seeing," writes Annie Dillard, "is to sail on solar wind."† The crescent moon becomes an emblem of interconnection—"a cosmos of nothing but poetry."‡
We hope that suddenly with the poet in the landscape of the word, you experience The Lune as a sliver of light hovering in the fathomless distance of the mind.
"[The Lune] has humble aspirations. It doesn’t really market itself to mass audiences and it isn’t necessarily hungry to grow. It welcomes new subscribers, no doubt, but it remains focused on putting the poets first and keeping the encounters with readers as intimate as possible."
— Ray Rinaldi, The Denver Post
From arranging looseleaf poems in pre-stamped envelopes to producing full-length perfect-bound collections, we have always published poetry for the sake of communion. The Lune insists on the freedom of ideas to associate creatively; we neither host nor post advertisements of any sort.
In lieu of asking for donations to help us offset our costs, we invite you to tell your local bookstore about The Lune's editions, distributed by Ingram. (We love hearing from booksellers directly, too.)
Thank you for your love and support.
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
—T. S. Eliot, "Little Gidding" (1942)