I remember the snow ballets, ballet blanc preeminent
all graciousness and grace when the least gesture
under the stage set moon could call forth meteors
in bloom and the roseate:
all that impearled and imperial choreography; the after life of Light
and I would be entranced,
certain of enchantment as if it were a right; terra firma at last
that fairyland of old
at the ballet dressed in its pink and gold, costumed
in all the flower pastels and glittering
and with my own programme notes in view
dreaming within the paraphrases of dream.at least for those suspended hours.
each rose, rapt scene. the clouds that towered.
now they have taken the better part of the heart
and technicality reigns and what difference does
all that tulle make. that prescient lighting when you dont convey
the stories anymore, the graciousness and the grace, the glimmering sitings
but only dazzle so that you will be seen
above the peril of everything
oh lost tragedians! through what steps have you been led
through what realms of the living and the dead
your coded language they no longer know
and on the imperiled wavering stage
it no longer snows and the heart is lead nor are we anymore
the Blessed,
on honeydew fed.
mary angela douglas 26 january 2021;22 march 2021
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