[to the immortal voice of Ethel Barrymore-
to all the outriders of our language]
jewel-like in the stirrups flash the outriders
saving what can be saved of a forgotten line.
fitful sleep the children near the hills
that they forgot to climb.
when will you return, if ever,
my dissolving language, trebled with tears?
forever shining on the brink-
so lost! for years.
I hear it like a whispered snow
of maytime petals recherché
but who will clink the fairy tale chime
against the painted backdrop of her moons in storage?
portray: the silhouette of Juliet as once she was remembered
when brief, the nightingale was in tune
recedes into a ciphered gloom as
the audience streams from the garish marquees
pleased with themselves and
taking aim at the sound of waters
the sound of waters
outcroppings of the stars
beauty in exile far from the land
and the promontories
where the sea walls broke through.
and it's the odd story in an antique book
no one ever looks at now.
an actress floated in on
white rose perfume, in rose fraught dresses
stage post stage
in the jeweled stirrups outriding,,,
are you deriding, deriding
the sound of her own language so out of style?
where the heart was wedded to the
sacred names-
the Soul remains:
impervious in her dreaming voice - outlawed-
while the commonplace takes hold dressed
up in preening gold these after years
by foul-mouthed stage coach robbers
techni-ooloured turncoat generations of
the whatever.
but are you sure she's disappeared
disposed of by the Huntsman; unanimous
mirrors tuned to the unfair "Fair..."?
I hear a murmuring lapping at the cliffs
of ignominy, not dispossessed! angelic,
wearing away at the stone:
ah, the Mysteries; the voice unwearied, starry-
recitative as scented rains:
remains. Remains.
synchronized to an inner flame.
mary angela douglas 24 february 2014;rev. 3 march 2014;rev. 3 november 2014
