THE
FLIGHT OF IDEAS FROM HERE
[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 blessedly 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 for 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 a fairy tale fissuring,
glittering with a subterranean splendor
and, for this, we set sail to find:
the crown jewels coronating the manifest of a language whose ship’s
unknown and but
inwardly felt: to wit, Rilke in
the woods catching birdsong on his sleeve and harkening
like all the rare others, to the souls unseen.
leave the pathologists who have murdered
imagination as if they could, forgoing the multiple pathways through the
woods of Dostoyevsky, the Joycean epiphanies or Proust's pale emerald passages
twined and intertwined curiously
with a telegram 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 some would break
endlessly in us:
thinking that they do good.
mary angela douglas 14 august 2014
mary angela douglas 14 august 2014
