You Should Have Been Painted In A Lilac Mist

[for Anna Akhmatova]

you should have been painted in a lilac mist

looking out to sea yet-

holding the sea within.

you would have stood apart

by an open window, breathing-

immemorial-

the scent of pine trees where

another poet walked-

hearing the sound of the sea

holding the sea within,

its dove-grey caesuras

meted out so carefully

like the steps to the fairytale

castle and the end of the story;

your raspberry syllables spilling over

where there could be no decrees;

with your friend who loved Africa

and drew giraffes on your school

slate, possibly, who hated raspberry

jam even then;

with your small son playing

learning to walk in the

pine-needled shade;

with your other friend, who loved life

and pure delight, praising its syllables

of true delight and small feasts managed

in distress: a tin of sardines, Armenian grapes,

a miracle;

banished like a real prince:

by his side, his starling wife

hid all his poems in crummy saucepans -

and in her heart ever after

o darkened wing - o muse

o hidden stars half-turning into fire,

Cassandra, who is listening

like snow it all disappeared

shining into a farther sea

inside you

after nothing like a Golden Age

no one in any language

can explain.

I sit at my kitchen table in America

as white as you were at the

height of Terror,

Anna Akhmatova, getting paler by

the minute, in public housing

with other golden refugees of a

free nation

the kitchen radio proclaims:

"A Great Nation deserves Great Art"

I think sometimes

great art deserves a great nation;

I'm

selling my books off, one-by-one, to live;

when I get to the last book I'll go

live under a pine tree and make

books out of pine bark

but this morning

you shine on my momentary wall

the color of buttermilk

looking for Russia, still-

looking for an open window

for the sound of the sea

for an undeniable clarity

that can't be bought or sold...

Anna Akhmatova.

ask God for me

if you don't know yourself,

is it anywhere in the world

or only in

the next poem

that we live-

mary angela douglas 18 june 2009

THE ROSE BOOKS OF ANATOLY KONENKO

THE ROSE BOOKS OF ANATOLY KONENKO

[to the artist Anatoly Konenko and his rose books]*

waiting for the beautiful ship to come

we stood on sinking continents

our eyes flooded with meteor showers

in a compact room

an artist sat

making books out of dried

rosepetals

children in their sleep

waiting for the beautiful ship to come

might never know

the roseleaves he was turning

at precisely the midnight

of the world

bird shadows over the blue

green melting poles could understand;

sensing the end of all auroras

they sang only for him

the artist arranging rose pages

binding with flowers the ...

with fine mauve stitching that

would not come undone

rose inscriptions

rose inscriptions

rose inscriptions

was all that God could read

mary angela douglas 13 june 2009

*a contemporary Russian artist from Omsk who makes tiny books out of dried rosepetals and other things in amazing miniture. He made a book for his wife out of rosepetals inscribed with Pushkin's poems about roses.

I Lost The Colors Of Giotto

[to my grandparents who raised me, in memorium]

I lost the colors of Giotto:

the steady pouring of

earnest angels; the

forerunning fuchsia

of generations of light

and fountaining ardor.

I lost the sorrowless

carmine quiet, the

rectitude of stars lapped

in lapis lazuli

the indigo stairwell of clouds.

I lost the olive branching, the

sweet cerulean days; the small

birds gathered in the lemon wind;

I lost my place at the shell pink window

and grieved for the shimmering ladder,

misplaced;

through the vacant castle I sought so many things

but the way was fused I lost

the sunset aureoles

the unchastening wing

then it seemed that I lost Earth

and all my tears flowed upwards

in the Space where you were not: I lost

the sundial in the shade

of Your last rose

mary angela douglas 5 june 2009

I Gathered Fresh Gardenias: You Were Missing

[for Virginia Woolf]

I gathered fresh gardenias: you were missing

and zinnia periled summers waved me by.

I followed down the path of your demise,

my own breath caught in trees

above the Flood

and pressed my fingertips into

your orchid-backed mirror's

perfect pearl-on-pearl

turning through each

dream-curled edge

into the whorl of

contravening years

and sallow interpreters.

o willow willow war was near

but the kindness of your mind

does not contract; the crisp

carnation rooms are still

your own:

a crystal condensation's flame

on the flung-open window; the

inlaid diaries of quartz

and rain-

all chatelained gestures foregone-

for these moonlit cloud-inscriptions

of uncalibrated grace are written

on the evening sky.

sensing your angel's churning wing,

I cried.

o rose geranium stillness

violet sky

against which lemon lovely sounds were

splashing...

your apricot excursion's standing down

oh why

no second snow on snow's appearing,

starred like winter's cotillions,

only warmer...

your garnet constellations

break apart and my heart

falters

losing this kaleidoscope

forever

with no continuance:

the semi-precious laws remain in force.

mere sleeves of her egress remain:

sheer-beaded brocade caught

as the moment, strand by strand

too visibly dissolves.

desert me now, sotto voce,

as your angels melt in music,

gone

then I saw

brightness brightness

every shining phrase unshunned

and drowned in Light

mary angela douglas 30-may-2 june 2009

For Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770)

["Il pleure dans mon coeur..."

-Paul Verlaine (after Rimbaud)]

Thomas Chatterton the rain

runs in rivulets off the roof

and down the colors of dreams

so obliquely

this distilled

you might remember

Thomas Chatterton

youngest brother to amending music,

so unmended

is it always raining

at the back of every poem

and just for you?

with your antique pen brand-new

your last loaf hard

as brickbats-

steeped in documents

of moon-drenched moment;

rosebud, salient madrigal

these small strawberries

in the grass

I've picked for you

your eyes pooled with treasure

only you could name.

forgive all lack of feeling:

the forgeries of the cold;

all those who meant to read you

whole-heartedly.

bless from your starry attic

those who followed you, too late

the rain in this poem

and all others

mary angela douglas 1 june 2009