Monday, August 31, 2009

Found (My Lost Unicorn Wandered Far)

[to poetry]


my lost unicorn wandered far

from the tattered tapestry, unseen
to graze in someone else's


dream

the one with the jeweled soul
the one who would eat
from my hand fresh amethysts


every day



poetry, too, is wandering from the world

no longer wanted
living on scraps in


faith-based precints (faith in what - can't they say?)

they're vivid as ice-cream colors
but they can't recall


the King of all bright words and stars.

but there was no vanishing point
in my picture


there was no heraldic distance ever

and I have looked so far to find you
and take you home


while scavengers remained behind

snipping at the last few
shining threads


since they know better

how the chanson should end
being themselves


such household names



but I know how the song begins

and this small glissando
I hid well in my last pocket


against the dread day of your disappearance

these golden threads I have
wept anew, dealing with so much straw:

remembering the promises made to thieves;
entreating the King of Heaven
to make your broken music box -
turn again, this way:


let the storied creature

with the kind and nuzzling horn
clomp on before your many-hued gaze


led past confetti corridors

and children's best birthday parties -


home.

where you are breathing the color of roses
where you are breathing the color of roses


mary angela douglas 31 august 2009

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The Novel Is A Dollhouse

[dedicated to my sister, Sharon, a great pianist and:the English teachers who rationed my adjectives]

the novel is a dollhouse

in which characters can be
rearranged

they have bendable joints

whether they are in the parlour
with the mauve carpet

or positioned happily by the rose-

sprigged taffeta curtains
in the grandmother's sitting room with its

rose leaf-green

tinted walls its
tiny hatboxes on the topmost shelf
its delicate tea service polished on Saturdays

and the petit-fours on display

that somehow never get eaten
(they're for Company)

the novel is a dollhouse

especially on holidays

you can see:

the minuscule bubble-lit

Christmas tree
and forever the fairy lights
at the frosted front-window

right between the caramel armchair

and the table-top fleur-de-lis lamp
with its circle of butter-cream light illumininating

just as it begins to snow.

(will they ever open their presents?)

in the kitchen off the

dining room stand
the children with their

heaped up plates

of pink divinity candy
on a pattern of

old country roses

(they got straight A's)
they are bewitched
by the poems of Walter De La Mare...

the rest of the dolls

are downstairs watching TV
probably "The Wonderful
World of Color" in black

and white or "Brambly Hedges",
getting banana splits and finger paints all
over the rag rugs, playing
with matches as best they
can, waving the butter-knife and
taking turns

running with the pinking shears

slamming doors.
helping themselves to
the last of the spumoni-

they cheat at Candyland.

and the floppy dog runs

in fired-up curlicued circles
with a chicken-pie je ne sa quois
that Raggedy Ann can't

understand, so she just keeps

smiling, smiling, smoothing her white
pinafore under the shade tree

by the lemonade springs.

and the furry dog flies through the

fenced-in yard with the gate left wide open
past the green metal garden chair

the neon nasturtiums

and the bean stalks...

there's the charming sister in cherry-violet velvet-

Belgian-Irish lace-
still seated at the music-box tiny gold piano

polishing off her maple-red Scarlatti,

"An American in Paris," and.
"Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" simultaneously-
forever changing music history;.

the glittering sounds are far-reaching-

lifted over the candy-striped swing-set
and the circus tent-

wafting over the mimosas

straight into the Giant's castle
(how very brave)-

while the Lily Pons doll

-in fresh pink organza-
thinks in arias, quickly,

how to save the stage-

and offers her pink-ice earrings for ransom...

but it's too late

the adjective egg timer on the teacher's desk

boils over, (not a bicycle bell)...
and means it

mary angela douglas rev. 11 october 2011 from version of 18 august 2009