Thursday, February 14, 2013
["Music, breathing of statues, perhaps..."
-Rainer Maria Rilke]
[to the memory of my sister and I playing swing-a-statue
in the dew bright grass. Just before supper...
[for MBY and LWY, the "Grown-ups" in this Play]
all Beauty was a doorway into God:
the latch that chimed, the secret Spring in winter's hues
the hidden passageways we knew, the playhouse played
whose brick was laid so well where few could see
its lemon candied Sun above
when we came home from school; new jump rope rules;
the small room colored in, pale blue
the wind that sailed the cherry petals
sown and just as you were taking your first steps
in a sunshine ruffled gown near the Rose Garden
(and with a pink parasol, balancing.)
or watching a Grown-up pull the taffy of a smile from you
by winding up the pull-toy moon or
showing you the latest lady bug perched
dilly down down from a Grown-up's point of view
with its own cuticle moon rising or setting.
or on a slender thread of grass as dear
as the orange nasturtium we loved.
enchantment only grew and grew
when measuring the birthday shadow of a dream
that flickered when you blew the candles out
on the rose crowned cakes. year on shining year
what was it whispered in your ear, oh, stay...
now they want Change: too chic, too late
to find the doorway or the gate, the baby star
the thistledown sigh
and Poetry is run off in a ditch-
I don't know why
and the apricot cupolas singed
on every fairy tale page.
and those who talk among the stars
or feel they do, are half in love
with only Magnitude-
and miss, sheer Light
and miss, sheer Light
misreading the music as the end
of the One who made it shine in them
on all those peerless afternoons
mary angela douglas 7, 8, 10 february 2013
I caught something golden at the world's bright end
thinking, surely I will be among friends
if I bring it to them.
For my pains
I was slammed against a wall-
but it was golden
mary angela douglas 8 february 2013
*a condensed milk imaginary primary source version of The Brother's Grimm, imaginary, The Frog Prince, or perhaps, the query letter, proposal to an unnamed publisher for the Froggie's memoir...alas, poor Froggie, thrown against a wall...transformed and then married to a princess with a very bad temper who judged books by their covers. I see the froggie /Prince as essentially, an incurable sentimental idealist, optimist. A promise is a promise he would tell his children which is exactly what the King, her father said.
Monday, February 04, 2013
to a dry fountain
small birds came to drink
when holes were punched in a daylight sky
and the blue of old plaster flew as if it were the wind.
and an eggshell quiet shattered in a dream
of the whispered sonnets
freezing through the trees
and I said only, I do not lie
to the dry fountain where the small birds came to drink
in the Park you may remember or not at all.
and a small twig breaks that was already broken
and nothing scurries through the last leaves on the ground
where small birds shiver near a glazed stream
or lodge in the holes punched in the sky
and sing through the end of the punches thrown
in delicate aqua or marine
where an eggshell quiet shattered in a dream
of the whispered sonnets freezing through the trees
and the ghost of Mary Stuart counting all her beads
deliver my blue soul from the cracked marble of the world
mary angela douglas 31 january 2013