On The Lost Notebooks of Loren Eisley, Ascending Music, The Fawn Coloured Dawns
they see white gold often shading into the
rose gold, fawn dawns easily in the day when I looked
out in vain, some would say, my peers
to hear that they contained the murmuring of leaves
those choirs unknown, unannotated
their skies a silk screen painted with birdsong
how all things human then did seem suddenly,
absent and the winged things prevailed
holy and fountaining, some sacred trust
and ferns like souvenirs from an ancient green,
or rust and a forgotten Age, the palette guaged
were rearranged and the amber fossils in their
museum cages raged,
partitioned in sadness.
there is music in everything but wound up,
not a key in sight
and then, the amplitude of stars
the silk fanned violet nights
the folk tale simpletons
with the riddling Rose
their pie faces crumbling
into, Who Knows
and then, antiphonals, Spring,ascending
oh why not, neverending
the flights that made me weep
from fortresses of fleece, fleeing;
having to evade the staircase
a long ways down, and then, the shifting
to the glaced ground where it was winter.
I was late and the traffic all in ash drifting
there was no work in the world that day
the world was canceled
when I said
the inlaid clocks can bend
their deep waves faltered
in the semi-terraced seas
what do you Believe in
when it is showering Pearl
with not one friend in the world
and the marled dream-silver spooned into
all this sleeping;the altered tones:
melting like Messiaen.
never the snows on celluloid where
it was impossible to ascertain
given the technicality of the Project
was it all a dream, unsayable, then flickering,
only what was Before us remaining
and no more the
here we are or now
no longer writing on cream paper
or lifting the coffee can out of the cupboard
stirring the golden instants there waylaid
in a linen world perfumed with the
nearness of Easter, the window shades rippling
in lilied array;
the hummingbird inscriptions, gone away
and I in a garden garbled language hanging onto
the least quilting scrap, scribbling the news
the rose endued, with what,
the sun a mere crystal toy
my head in my hands
from the burden of wonder
and the relay lines down.
mary angela douglas 11 march 2018
they see white gold often shading into the
rose gold, fawn dawns easily in the day when I looked
out in vain, some would say, my peers
to hear that they contained the murmuring of leaves
those choirs unknown, unannotated
their skies a silk screen painted with birdsong
how all things human then did seem suddenly,
absent and the winged things prevailed
holy and fountaining, some sacred trust
and ferns like souvenirs from an ancient green,
or rust and a forgotten Age, the palette guaged
were rearranged and the amber fossils in their
museum cages raged,
partitioned in sadness.
there is music in everything but wound up,
not a key in sight
and then, the amplitude of stars
the silk fanned violet nights
the folk tale simpletons
with the riddling Rose
their pie faces crumbling
into, Who Knows
and then, antiphonals, Spring,ascending
oh why not, neverending
the flights that made me weep
from fortresses of fleece, fleeing;
having to evade the staircase
a long ways down, and then, the shifting
to the glaced ground where it was winter.
I was late and the traffic all in ash drifting
there was no work in the world that day
the world was canceled
when I said
the inlaid clocks can bend
their deep waves faltered
in the semi-terraced seas
what do you Believe in
when it is showering Pearl
with not one friend in the world
and the marled dream-silver spooned into
all this sleeping;the altered tones:
melting like Messiaen.
never the snows on celluloid where
it was impossible to ascertain
given the technicality of the Project
was it all a dream, unsayable, then flickering,
only what was Before us remaining
and no more the
here we are or now
no longer writing on cream paper
or lifting the coffee can out of the cupboard
stirring the golden instants there waylaid
in a linen world perfumed with the
nearness of Easter, the window shades rippling
in lilied array;
the hummingbird inscriptions, gone away
and I in a garden garbled language hanging onto
the least quilting scrap, scribbling the news
the rose endued, with what,
the sun a mere crystal toy
my head in my hands
from the burden of wonder
and the relay lines down.
mary angela douglas 11 march 2018
