Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Coming From The Cinema I Met My Soul

[reimagining a Charlie Rose interview with
Dame Maggie Smith, the poem being her answer to
his questions about her "process"...in a kind of monologue with her own soul.]

coming from the cinema I met my soul
caught in the tread of the moviegoers exiting;
whirling in the turnstiles.
dream on dream in the seam of all this seeming
I feel carpet-tacked under the shuffling
sometimes in the scarlet lobbies of the world

she said to me, on the escalator, going down.
is poetry dead? is there an arrow in my back
skimming the moonlight at the crossroads?
it snows on the screen and I am cold

and stitched by the anti-heroes to the track

with my best silver sash I never lent them
and only God to lean on when the train comes.
somewhere there is thick soup and a pale blue shawl,
Chopin’s etudes and the blossoming trees
beyond all this popcorn and the flatlands’ flash.
and is my jeweled kaleidoscope
still trained on the moons
I left for you at home

dissolved in sequined weeping near the weeping cherry?
oh nowhere do I find
the citron country sung of long ago:.
the silken maps the missing compasses

for the kingdoms broadly confiscated, never atoned for…
oh what can I begin to say
who still can see in bright array
the subtexts of the brave and free
shifting imperceptibly
from stage to stage.
at the gate of every village left on earth gold coins
rained down her face instead of tears
as in the ancient fairytales when the sun appears

or near the atriums, decked in pearl-on-pearl
she merely stood
embroidered with laments from the dream-time.

unraveling:

like party favors at a birthday.
or what can I pretend to know
who saw the weeping cherry go
in winds that heeded not my will
in a tinfoil crown that’s shining, still…
is there feeling anymore she asked the straggling children
in the afternoon-
before the sun fizzles or the universe or

wouldn’t you like to know.
what is the sun they said
descending like no twelve
princesses ever could.
she fastened her words to the spokes of 

the winds behind them-
are you lost she said, almost in velvet

prodding with a violet hatpin

a tearful music, missing home:
 ..brief -  charioteers-
in the mesmerizing tread of the tread and the tread of the knock-off party shoes

plodding on in front of you, and filing on and on

into a dungeon, and not a jeweled mine?
oh Love from love cannot be severed when
enchantment’s  thistledown blown down the opaline anything
chimed from the stage God would have staged for you forever

in any summer evening’s lemon sheen…
lean, lissomely, to hear
her least soliloquy in a lilac picture hat
for the last rose leaving…
take the pale green daydream
wrapped for you in snow.
I really think you should
she whispered to the last child in line,
the one with the Juliet snood
and the cherry car-coat…
it may do you good.

mary angela douglas 23, 24, 25, 26 march 2013