Sunday, November 24, 2013
It's Only When The Parroting Colors Seem
it's only when the parroting colors seem
to dwarf Your Light I cannot breathe.
and I have lost my arctic dream and the
holy quiet You had laid aside to set the stars in.
my Crystal tuned to shimmering.
why have they reft all sound from sense?
the heart from everything.
why call it singing at that pitch
when it's attention that is garnered and
not Your laddered music fetching gold on
gold, forever modulated, reaching farther
than the soul believed from childhood
ever could be-how high is the sky you whispered
filling the cup of Beauty overfull.
then let us depart this scene
throwing ourselves away
if this must be-
beyond heart's need or recompense;
beyond the spoiled frame, reeling
it all in and the numbered games.
harps are wounded at my door
of all the poets sent before
and each with no other end than this:
through polar night or wilderness or slogging
through the witlessness-
learning, someday, to sing true
mary angela douglas 24 november 2013
Note on the Poem: of course, it isn't only at my door...how ridiculous would that be -but at anyone's door reader or writer, dear human being who feels this way.
We all have this marvelous, incredible heritage especially of lyric poetry in every nation, in every language, and also (if we choose) a world-wide inheritance of Beauty. The sorrow is that in the drive to be new, and inventing it all again from the beginning (with each new generation) we will live ignorant to the riches that
others died to give us. This is how I always feel now.