[to Robin Williams]
complexities in music are expected; yet, a fantastic flow of words, a disease decreed the doctors to the poets time out of mind though Light itself is scattered beautifully from
quartz to quartz and this is what we call sparkling
in some quarters.
dimestore symptoms cannot ride out the storm oh spare me the diagnosis of the beautiful or Shakespeare's worlds on worlds when we on our best days
can launch from here balloons in every shade
and firecrackers, rockets of the full spectrum spinning and fizzing whirling into tulips, and leaves and trees in colours of the oohs and aahs of Chistmases remembered; or split, open
to fairy tale fissuring,
glittering with the more quiet splendors
and, for this, we set sail to find:
the crown jewels crowning the longing of a language
inwardly felt oh Rilke in the woods catching birdsong on his sleeve and harkening.
leave the pathologists who have murdered
imagination as if they could, forgetting the multiple pathways through the woods of Dostoyevsky, the Joycean epiphanies or Proust's jeweled passages twined and intertwined with
a passage from Faure
oh pack the saints away you will not knowing as they do
that God spun out in myriad silken directions once the starry web that you would break endlessly in us:
thinking that you do good.
mary angela douglas 14 august 2014
