Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Song Is A Ladder Of Diamonds

["like a diamond in the sky"-
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star"
(traditional children's nursery song)]

song is a ladder of diamonds
flung into space
we try to reach You on

every rung
and fail

song is a web of stars
we get lost in
a mist a drizzle of

music half-forgotten
when the prompting angels

fade from view

song is a difficult road
in a drenching rain on the way to work
and being on foot

with cars flying by
on either side, and people yelling
things out of the window at high speed

and still, ascending

song is a place remembered
we can almost reach

but not without You-

this is my diamond,

mary angela douglas 18 november 2009

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Chaconne For Federico

[to Federico Garcia-Lorca]

the paper birds won’t sing here anymore

the crystal birds can’t fly – they say
the moon is leaving home

and I don’t know why

the children turn away
from oranges from sweets from ruby fountains

how softly the angels

carried their carnations
on the day

your windmill was repealed-

Quixote having no tears left
bowed down under

a moon of shaded green…

how stars of pomegranate

should rain down

and the silver sea grow olive-colored

as it did beneath your gaze-
but words can no longer be found

for so many things and the soul sheds

golden wings and aureoles unknowingly.
they will not ambush

your hidden flights of jade

poetry my wounded bird poetry
my wounded bird

mary angela douglas 17 november 2009

Una Chacona por Federico

[ Federico Garcia-Lorca]

los aves de papel no quieren cantar nunca mas

los aves de cristal no pueden volar - dicen que
la luna se va para siempre de

su hogar

y yo no se porque

los ninos se alejan
de naranjas de dulces

de las fuentes de rudi.

que suave han llevado

los angeles sus claveles
en el dia en que

su molino de viento ha revocado.


a quien no le quedan lagrimas
se inclinaron abajo de

su luna de verde sombreada.

como estrellas de granada

deberian llover

y la mar de plata debe cambiar

a color de aceite tanto
como hago

abajo de su mirada-

pero las palabras
ya no pueden ser


por tantas cosas y la alma derrama

sin saber
las alas de oro y las aureolas-

ellos no van a emboscarte

sus vuelos escondidas de jade-

la poesia mi ave herida

la poesia mi ave herida

mary angela douglas 17 november 2009/Spanish translation april 24, 2011