Thursday, December 19, 2013

There Is No Death Of The Romantics

swans in the mirror of the soul
float on, having been banned from
post modern poetry.

where else would they go?

constricted and confined
condensed at the ballet to
save the audience time;

no longer needed at school
when slipping through the slit
of the Valentine box

wrapped in silver foil
decorated with red construction paper hearts
on white lace paper doilies, no more.

configured differently-

oh! not at all.
for they shone brilliantly
beyond the dress-circle diamonds of the
spectators who cannot guess now
when the clues are far too few
what they are missing.

over the footlights

swans in the mirror of the soul
drift on a wisp of
Pavlova, perhaps the
waters of Coole;
half-murmured in a dream

you've neglected to be transformed

your former poets mourn
and supplicate but you must be
dreaming

they say to you on the job and if they knew

they would disapprove of the Romantic
leaning of the ghostly scholar

poet, pianist holding out to you

unseen, too rich and variegated the
thread of what has been
cleaved clear in two.
no cream for the apple tart.

other ages darker than this

you think but cannot say

have known have known the
soft flutter of few stars,
alone above the trees and witnessed, then, that

the swans in the mirror of the soul

float on and exquisite as pearl by pearl
impervious to wars, cultural or otherwise-
to poets unlearning their trade
wild Beauty wild with grief

unraveling and undeterred.


mary angela douglas 19 december 2013;22 november 2014;28 december 2014