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