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