If An Angel Came

for Harold Bloom

if an angel came
came to the door and wept
keening the disappearing
of the lovely bequeathed

with a look less blazing
and in a haze of sorrow
why wouldnt it be believed

what we have seen, I have seen
the poets relegated to the ash heap
who might as well have been the ones

to invent the lyre;
to such an extent
the heart is misrepresented now

and their date is expired
it is generally understood.
by those lost deeper into Dante's wood

but in my heart a rebel notion rises
I am not loth to express

and you can take the rest
of the dystopian martyrs the ones
who stress less is more when it is only less

because perhaps I am sorry to say
they are just not up to the task themselves


yet still I will bless Shakespeare
Keats, Yeats, Rilke  and all the rest I learned
in green years past;

that is the Heaven I would live in
unsurpassed where words strike sparks
and there is life enobled, unbidden

to defend itself established in the Living Word

unwilling to leave Paradise even if the herd requires it
refusing to go, preparing in all I know  to stand forever so,
forever toward Eden gazing.

mary angela douglas 15 november 2019