Nightingale Nightingale Nightingale

[to the forgotten, or the unacknowledged, lyric poets of Earth; forgive us…]

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‘re 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 the good road to the Palace…

[poem embroidered on the poem]:

running down the crystal staircase

with no crystal shoes

remembering the prince with a backward

glance

everything was not translated,

she cried at a tree overlooking her mother's grave

and her tears caused everything

that came after; her heart, that

crystal most isolate

began to break apart

like floes of a dream on waking.

new translators carted,

never saying a word,

the golden coach and the sparkles away…

[under a Book of Hours by the Brothers Grimm

her embroidery is set aside, then taken up again as the wind draws thecurtains lightly over the gold edged figures in the distance and she sings-]

like hummingbird wings

minute pulsations floating over the flowers

that always disappeared

time and times, again transcend

the lines in antique

books with hand-coloured

pictures for the fairytales

beyond historical disregard

these near-glosses in the margins

of God oh cherished God

are like brushstrokes of snow-

like the braille of my heart in His

century after century

I will embroider swiftly

with thread of cherry silk,

while I remember

or violet, on grenadine-

the things the children said when they were small.

mary angela douglas august 2012