Green Violins

GREEN VIOLINS

green violins are drifting near the sun

I think of clouds as Marc Chagall

tipping his thick fingerpaint colors

over.

it runs together in my mind

with oil-spun opals on the concrete

or mirrored puddles I walk by-

concocting always other skies.

and Bella, with hidden lilies in her eyes

composed and bridal as before

and the confetti roses raining.

and rising over rooftops after rain

is a corsage of lilac...

her last tear.

it's living through these shifting rainbows here

springing up again - I know that

I'll survive:

holding my pitcher's terra cotta

up to the fountaining sky-

reading the holograph upside down while

hoping to catch one green violin

with spiraling music rose rose red

or the flowing parachute moon

as it sails down

the clockface of the clotted

clouds and citadel,

dissolving;

the sequined-velvet pear just ripe

from ever and ever the

tree of night

and sewn like a charm

at riddle's end unraveling,

shaken out of a dream you

won't remember

you'll be reminded

by a torn-out scrap

so evident to you then

as the tear-stained apple-green scrawl

of the Pirate's best hand with

one tiny diadem's cornered clue remaining:

for the almost perfect fingering of the blue viola-

or a single fretted silver day-

mary angela douglas 28 october 2010;20 may 2024

STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

I am fully commited to the beauty of the English language: both to the lyrical tradition in English and American poetry and to the English-speaking world, in all its mythical and infinite variations, as well as to the beauty of translation into English of the world-wide lyric from other languages: from the beginning of poetic and literary history through the present age.

For inspiration, in terms of setting the bar for the model of perseverance and spiritual courage, I cannot find anything higher than the Russian Poets of the Silver Age of Russian poetry: specifically, Anna Akhmatova, Boris Pasternak, and Osip Mandelstam (as well as countless others, known and unknown) who continued writing under the horrors of Stalin despite public humiliation, scorn and never-ending shame- only for writing non-political, singing, anguished and lovely poems; proving beyond any shadow of a doubt that what threatens dictators the most is the simple, individual soul and voice of the artist - something that may be overlooked in a highly technical age -

and should - not - be-

I dedicated my poetry blogsite to them as a way of promulgating this understanding - but I am continually looking for other examples of this in all other cultures and time frames as near or far as the motif of the rose in Persian poetry...

In an age that often skewers (unknowingly, I believe) and obscures this, I want to remind myself of the value of Seeking unashamedly, and with no apologies - the values of Beauty, Truth and Goodness-

In this most positive sense, the ideal of the poet-warrior must not be abandoned in any generation. No matter what happens, it must transmitted and carried forward.

I know that this is the truth and I will never believe anything but this to be true. People have died for this. They must not be allowed to die for nothing.

I stake my life on this, frail and imperfect as it is-

Mary Angela Douglas
in the Year of Our Lord 2010

in the United States of America, forever - under God and with
the freedom to say this and for those whose works perished with them to be published in Eternity.
copyright 2011

To A Young Artist Anywhere

to a young artist, anywhere and to the poet, George Herbert fill the sky with stars, your very own: rose arias, soft green galaxies- a periwinkle moon no matter what they say inlaid with a mango music always on beneath the surface of your matchless dreams believe the dark green stains of the moon on so much dewy grass you must walk barefoot in! any weather- any distance- I tip my rose-tipped hat to you! through roads not strewn with moonlight read psalms, not tea leaves- don't despair- pray in every color all the time survive all disrespect- tending the stark bright lilies of your mind as Christ when all alone did- flame on towards the true-hearted bier of your last words on the subject- working out the inward scarlet drumming of your soul, fight your fear as others did, before you- God willing may you rise on your own Easter day with brand new things to say- in Gold- mary angela douglas 26 october 2010

A Un Artista En Cualquier Lugar

llena el cielo con las estrellas

sus propias-

arias rosas, galaxias suaves y verdes

la luna vincaperivinca

digan lo que digan

incrustada con una musica de mango

siempre playando

debajo de la superficie de sus suenos sin igual

creen a las manchas de color verde oscuro

de la luna

sobre la hierba humeda de rocio tanto

hay que andar descalzado-

cualquier tiempo-

cualquier distancia-

me quito el sombrero de rosa adornado

a ti-

a traves de las carreteras no sembrado de luz de la luna

lee a los salmos y no las hojas de te

no te desesperes-

ora - en todos los colores todo el tiempo

hay que sobrevivir a todos la falta de respeto

como Cristo lo hizo cuando solo-

queda usted llamando

hasta la andes del verdadero corazon?

de tus palabras ultimas al sujeto,

hacia el interior escarlata de tu alma

de tambor

lucha contra su miedo

como lo hiciero otros antes de usted.

si Dios lo quiere, puede resucitar

en su propio dia de Pascua-

con cosas nuevas que decir en oro.

mary a. douglas translation 28 june 2011

THE KITCHEN MAID REMEMBERS THE EMPEROR'S NIGHTINGALE

THE KITCHEN MAID REMEMBERS THE EMPEROR'S NIGHTINGALE

once more I stand

before the palace wall

my chores half-finished

to hear the nightingale singing

as if it were

the last time at the dim window

and all the little griefs compounded

and the storm clouds

above the Emperor's chamber

turn into fields of

white violets before my eyes.

and there is somehow a liquid

ladder of jewels near the veranda

I could climb to anywhere and

no one could call me back;

then I look down at my

embroidered apron in surprise.

the Emperor hangs onto life,

his every tear worth half-a-kingdom,

and the hidden trill is everywhere now:

it settles slightly in my heart

as if it mattered that a

twig could break.

color washes back into the scene

well-played - down and down the cherry sought

orchards on towards the riverbank of lost delights

beyond-

the fine-edged iridescence

of a small departure only I noticed.

I never heard music like that again

though I lived on:

sifting the snapdragon shadows

on gold-dimmed afternoons;

calling to God when the willow-ware dusk

poured into porcelain skies-

bidding the firefly angels all, goodbye-

mary angela douglas 22 october 2010

Ivory

standing before the space where

poems may come

you dodge the thrift of

ravens overhead the blue ribboned kind

of wounding competitions

seen and unseen

the withered branches

branching

it is

held in the heart like snow

almost appearing-

very near

in the shade of ghosted apples

they can't pick

in the frost-

tipped syllables backstage

or in the hold of a ship

they'll never sail the

blue crystal distances

you understand-

without being told

and the next gold radiance you

hear will slip, alas! from view

down down and down the dead words

told to much applause by vague

passersby who live to silence

who can say what as long as they're ahead:

the jeweled watch unjeweled

the sentries astonished-

the gnashing instant the

rose is tipping so ivoire into

ceaseless light

you catch in your weeping hands-

mary angela douglas 26 october 2009