To Every Poet Every Day

as many times as the spectrum shatters

and undeniable music is disbarred or

never brought to light in the first place

by those who stuff their ears with snow

or anything they find at hand -

only not to hear you-

that many times and more,

a hidden star retracts;

your misread nebula hangs fire-

and the broken poem spins backwards-

bone-china,

off the shelf.

you are left whispering

pure gemstone words

in the aftershock of so much withering.

very real nightingale*, hold on

while hemorrhaging light--

it may be that the Emperor will live

though signs are few and an army of

miscreant words is blocking

is blocking the one good road to the Palace.

God's state of mind and yours

can't be that far apart

whenever you are sifting through the rubble-

beyond all help and

cherishing every shard that

it may be

one piece still of the language

you have left.

oh living the jigsaw Anguish

in this way

are you still there?

mending the broken crockery of worlds:

again?

mary angela douglas 14 september 2009

*reference to Hans Christian Anderson's fairytale: The Emperor's Nightingale

mary angela douglas 14 september 2009

The Snow Sledge Drives Through Lacquered Lands

the snow sledge drives through lacquered lands

and I have lost my way again

biting in half for sustenance

the raspberry chill of former syllables.

Anna Akhmatova: you are in my heart

but the Snow Maid's pastel musings still

could vanish overnight in any country where

darkness singes, mimics light since

beauty is always melting here on earth.

and sometimes by decree.

Anna Akhmatova, you are in my heart

even though I am hardly Russian

and I don't know why your

white flocks have been driven to

my door as though seeking shelter-

in every weather your especial Firebird gleams

fiercely above these scenes of quite human

distress where with each fresh travesty you

do need air to breathe and poetry

to remember who you are

even when burned beyond recognition,

Anna Akhmatova or

standing in the ruins or in

the snow-clouded hands of God-

mary angela douglas 9 september 2009