[to "archaic" Poetry, kicked to the curb]
missing the nightingales modern
words flooded the town squares,
the school playgrounds;
looked down on lilacs,
drifting moons, the
heart, kept hidden
drifting like a cloud:
the one for whom
Regulations
could not be made.
missing the nightingales,
roses turned to rust;
stars were only dust:
ah there was no more shining.
what are you pining for?
the savants asked me,
clipboards in hand.
already shaking their heads.
there is no mysticism
they tried so hard to say
their mouths forming only
soundless snows.
I'm not translating this;
I turned away
from all they would say
to me next
and heard the nightingale
lone singing o jeweled
in the mulberry tree
and glimpsed the ghost of Keats
writing feverishly in love
with the patter of garden rains
and everything Beauty named-
putting all of this to shame
putting all of this to shame
mary angela douglas 2 june 2015
