for Martin Burke and for Marie-Anne
for the eye lidded upon
its own worlds now
only angels know
in their celestial vows.
what music there is
what music can there be
when the sea runs down to the sea
its own disappearance allowing or
for the harp too suddenly unstrung.
and familiar streets are overcome
familiar bells unrung
by the bookshop, cafe absences.
the sun in your eyes more fugitive now
than I imagined it who never met you
except through poetry
who dare not imagine your sweetheart's grief.
or how she binds laurel, leaf to leaf.
there is a glow by fruit stalls
old cathedrals.
the angels hidden in the shrubbery
that shook when you strode by
thinking you were the wind.
now that you no longer
breathe upon glass
or recognize old friends
how could they pretend
Brugge is not bruised now
that you've become her past
who seemed so vital and proud
tilling your garden of words
so happy to be, it seemed
the genial brother of so many,
poetry's herald.and all the rest,
second guessed, now.
what music there is for this
I can't bear now.
no elegies, you said
for those you had lost.
and now we bear that cost as well
who cannot call you back
to Beauty's spell on earth,
to your mythologies who miss you,
your twilight harbours;
you Irish Belgian Orpheus
maddeningly gone
from our midst.
what music is there for this.
mary angela douglas 12 december 2017
...the light on my hand is the shadow on the page and the silence a perfection..."
Martin Burke, Vortex
what music there is
for the hand, fallen from the pagefor the eye lidded upon
its own worlds now
only angels know
in their celestial vows.
what music there is
what music can there be
when the sea runs down to the sea
its own disappearance allowing or
for the harp too suddenly unstrung.
and familiar streets are overcome
familiar bells unrung
by the bookshop, cafe absences.
the sun in your eyes more fugitive now
than I imagined it who never met you
except through poetry
who dare not imagine your sweetheart's grief.
or how she binds laurel, leaf to leaf.
there is a glow by fruit stalls
old cathedrals.
the angels hidden in the shrubbery
that shook when you strode by
thinking you were the wind.
now that you no longer
breathe upon glass
or recognize old friends
how could they pretend
Brugge is not bruised now
that you've become her past
who seemed so vital and proud
tilling your garden of words
so happy to be, it seemed
the genial brother of so many,
poetry's herald.and all the rest,
second guessed, now.
what music there is for this
I can't bear now.
no elegies, you said
for those you had lost.
and now we bear that cost as well
who cannot call you back
to Beauty's spell on earth,
to your mythologies who miss you,
your twilight harbours;
you Irish Belgian Orpheus
maddeningly gone
from our midst.
what music is there for this.
mary angela douglas 12 december 2017
