Ride The Horse Of Gold

ride the horse of gold

not the one of pitch

use the broomstick to sweep

nor hasten the witch

tell the tale as it came

beginning in Light

and then the words

will come out all right.

mary angela douglas 31 july 2022

t

THE DEATH OF VAN GOGH (REPOSTED AND REVISED)

 there was a blue road, marbled with white

he thought it was water in the dying sun
and a field the clearest of lemons

I have carried this sunflower heart
he cried all silently until I can hardly stand
and now it beats without me

so that the crows can see
and the blue road intensified
as if it were the sea

the painted clouds weeping

will I disintegrate now
half wondering he wandered
dissolve into time past - stumbling-

and dip the brush at least, at last
into a glass of infinite colours Theo!
let me drink it up

and the blue road with it

drink up the sun as if it were absinthe
and give God back His colours lent
and a shot rings out

in a field the colour of lemons
and he clutches the gold of the sun
the feeling that life is done or seeping out

or bleeding in blues and yellows
and a burning, blurring wound
and senseles slaughter

of the sunflower heart

at noon a blue gold radiance,
dissolving into God;

the blue road intensifies into iris

and the field gnats mourn.

mary angela douglas 27 december 2017;29 july 2022

JENNY LIND (REPOSTED AND REVISED)

 

to Jenny Lind on the curve of Song
Hans Andersen wrote
in a rose leafed scrawl

to Jenny Lind.
to Jenny Lind on a mermaid shore
Hans Andersen cried

oh evermore I loved you, Jenny Lind.
but song is brief and life is wronged sometimes oh Jenny
my muted swan

drifts on the current and passes by
but Jenny Lind cannot espy
the awkward heart that is so nigh.

tin soldiering on he still salutes
Jenny Lind with the voice of a lute
Jenny Lind.

Jenny Lind in a pale blue shawl
why do you turn your face to the wall
and cast his embroideries out to sea

he only made for love of thee.

mary angela douglas 16 march 2020;29 july 2022

JANE EYRE (REPOSTED AND REVISED)

 

JANE EYRE

[to Charlotte Bronte]

Dove grey is the unfolding sky
above the lucid dreaming of her soul
shaken- still awake at midnight
the singular one in the household
to show

there is no love without truth
and she must leave, she knows.
stern conscience holds her lantern in the rains
and all she sees is God through torrents, through disdain,
through all the villages begging bread

from the living and the dead
from those who feign.
from bakers, tradesmen who won’t comprehend
she is the soul’s white flame
not derelict.

once she was walking down a faery lane
that ripened into summer's gold.
once she was painting ships without a rudder
pale green and foundering in an icy sea

somehow, still at liberty in the austere-extravagant imagination-
far above her given station
but not, oh not yet free.

ah, now, Lord Jesus, come and see
the frail figure lashed to the landscape
in no watered silk, in her wilderness

and to the hilt:

indomitable in Thee.

mary angela douglas 9 april 2013 rev. 28 march 2017;25 may 2019;rev 23 september 2020.

IT WAS THERE WE CHERISHED THE MEMORY OF STARS, PEACH MELBA (REPOSTED AND REVISED)

 

IT WAS THERE WE CHERISHED THE MEMORY OF STARS/PEACH MELBA

[“what a beautiful earth-turning”
-remark on a sunset by a character from a book I can’t remember the title of…(on my Grandmother’s shelf) ]

it was there we cherished the memory of stars,

that way station:
carnation crisp, delineated-
in the ice-box next to the lemon ice-box pie;geranium pink of kindest skies

and all the cooling winds-
apple-pie divided“a la mode”
for summer days ahead…
in almost crepe- de-chine.

”Peach Melba is the best dessert,”she said, for musicians.
flowers fade last on
the purple sides of hills and
neapolitan ice-cream*
still has everything
to recommend it…

I still know the time by the
crimson clock with snowy numerals…
the “Plan Ahead” sign with its cramped last letter…making the point.
the Psalms in my grandparents voices-
golden cherubs chiming candle-lit
around the angel-abra…

I hear the ice-cream
bell in fudgesickle-rhymes, running out with my sister;
dark blueberry popsicle wish just granted
in blueberry dusk
by my Grandfather’s swift-hearted two dimes for us.

His bright amber pennies flung into
the wishing well of the world…

remember the chill chimes of pink and green
watermelon non-pareill;I’m dividing the scent of cut-grass,
cut-glass shining evenly, to be fair
for the future of Light-
split everywhere by those unkind-

and Christmas days jangled
link by link on yellow-gold
charm bracelets-that pink-cake, swirled;

orange pomanders with cloves and other things glistening-
leading up to the one Star’s unimpeachable finale,
oh far charm in the sky of
His Nativity-these cannot wear out faithfulness.

the day wears gauze
embroidered in small rosebuds
tiny bells on the hem
doll mirrors stitched there

I’m only naming
all Your past miracles of sweet design-
so may I ask oh what is time?is it the kaleidoscope you keep

shaking that never breaks down
that it does not fail to launch into further
expositions:candy-apple or cathedral- spun;

the snowflake on your lost pearl mitten
still crystalized, incognito-
where it dropped from your hand- is it the small rubber ball that rolled

under the furniture when you weren’t looking
never found again
not even in the Dog’s mouth pried shut as if
by taffy-or is it the shipwrecked histories of dolls, unchronicled…
the sudden fires and fevers
a few legalized captivities unprolonged
that took the antique
babies straight into God…at once
and unmistakably-
while the angel cousins looked on...

our reenactments, when we played

is it in pictures on the wall-the remaining souvenirs:

a something eternal showing through;
the malt-frothy clouds in the painting
still may show ever deeper shades of
green-blue, peach, pale yellow-

when the Strawberry wick of afternoons
dissolves like jams on the toast of a sky or
is pink- glassed -momentarily- in the china cabinet

reflected, reflecting-etched, carefully

the yearning rose faces
leaning in
of long-ago children
admiring the teacups endlessly;
beyond sorrow now, if not, Beauty-

mary angela douglas 14=15 march 2012;28 july 2022

I SAW THE GHOST OF WALTER DE LA MARE (REPOSTED, REVISED)

 

I saw the ghost of Walter de la mare

leaning, on an April curve of music,

unaware

I saw his hands of tender glass

and the thin china he was drinking from,

reflective, the dark raspberry still waters

of beauty he drew up in pailfuls-

the silver pooling stars

at his beck and call-

the curio cabinets bedizened,

strongholds of childhood jams

and the apricot laughter of the cherubim,

by his side.

now acorn cups half brim from twilight rain

the fairy feast’s abandoned, he complained

“Is there anybody there”?

he said, answering his own soul alone

“the whispering trees of Eden”,

he wept.

they pour the ocean into a thimble

our golden ships may founder in the Moss,

there are other losses,

song is made desolate, Walter de la mare

long years since your flag was

lowered to the ground,

marring with pearl

mere semblances of Music

everafter.

rust from the muted region’s flaking.

your antique tears I brushed away,

no one’s watercolor, for so long.

mary angela douglas 20-21 december 2009; 27 july 2022

PLEASE NOTE: THE TWO LINES IN QUOTES ARE DE LA MARE'S OWN WORDS IN TWO OF HIS POEMS: The Listeners, and Goodbye. I do think his poem Goodbye, outside of the King James Bible, is the most beautiful poem in the English language

In A Ghost Town Frame Of Mind

there's thunder like a rumor in the air all day

or maybe the ghost train on its way

it's impossible to tell are they staying or going

portmanteaus at hand or is this a haunted land

or is it kind of a spell when waiting is alleviated

by the sound effects of storms

or are we forewarned

like sailors on these ships of dust

who long ago had turned to rust

packing it all in, heave desert anchors, ho!

still wondering where the wave begins

the shore retreats beating the querulous question sweet

like an ineffectual drum

ghost armies on the run

does anybody know

did anyone ever show up

at the depot to meet you?

mary angela douglas 25 july 2022

It Was Certain

it was certain the legend was beautiful

as time can be, when viewed from eternity

as truth is, when the tournaments wear out

and the reasons for fighting

who could deny the shimmering on the lake

the hand upraised with the glittering sword

sinking down

sinking down as the sun is sinking down

covering the hills with a carmine light

that later certain painters will immortalize

at least in fragmentary dreams

when the cream of the fairytale

will spill out on the stone flagged floor

and you will start singing

a song you don't know anymore.

for certain, the beautiful song.

mary angela douglas 24 july 2022

The Rumors Squelched

 

may the air grow rich with wonder

may green return for the coloured in trees

the air be full up with unaccountable sparkles

and we be at our summer ease

we be at our ease to sing full throated

enriched and enriching with our desert blooms

all the naysayers with all their talking

that they heard we had died too soon.

mary angela douglas 23 july 2022

EVERY TEAR THAT'S CRIED

no one wants to be lied to

no one wants to lie

many long that the world should stay

a springtime lullaby

green is the promise always

before the first rock's hurled

that's when the soul starts slipping

into another world

God keep the tie between us

beyond incredulous storms

Christ save my heart forever

and keep me forewarned

though no one wants to be lied to

no one wants to lie

this is the cause of history

and every tear that's cried

mary angela douglas 21 july 2022

Early Lessons Tardily Learned

some people are tygers

but not the radiant kind

made of butter rum candy

in the picture book sunshine

when you know, you're fine

at the sugar time tea time

behaving and behaving-

a sudden lunge in the conversation

on a pink and customary occasion

plunges you out into the garden

sunflower blind and weeping

the pupil enlarged to take in

the miseries and the switchback tracks.

mary angela douglas 19 july 2022.

Ark

 

we will survive all infringements

braced in the Ark where the soul can breathe

looking out on other seas

adrift yet not alone

time is a stone

I will drop down the well of dreams

to see the Infinite, the glaze on the stars

to turn aside from the lock stepped days.

mary angela douglas 18 july 2022

Light Falls On The Surface of Things

 

light falls on the surface of things

you look up and suddenly you realize

there is a customary splendor after all

so easily the light  falls 

without drawing attention to itself

without being made to

submitting no resume

not having to prove anything

more quietly than can be understood

on the simplest thing, the spot on the rug

the undusted corner

light sings

while you are thinking about the bad news

while you are rehearsing the final lines in the play

it does not interfere

it shines

why can't you be happy about that

mary angela douglas 17 july 2022

If I Had Written On A Stony Page

if I had written on a stony page

on rose alabaster in Italian script and. in a distant age

so chiseled my heart

in a dream a song without words

who would sing it but a realm of birds

long since departed;

the currents of air above great elevations

but speculation fades, like wildflowers on dark autumn's crest,

speculation which no star attends

and I am left to mend my words on earth

that may as well be flowers of frost or snow

that may as well be, for all I know.

mary angela douglas 15 july 2022

For My Sister Sharon In Her Musical Displays

I wonder if we'll be on the other side of music one day
ushered in with pink programmes
or you will swing on the gate of it

as you did before, roller skating
in preludes, wading through scales., Scarlatti
geranium coloured.

will the notes sound like crystals

falling;will we still admire the azaleas?
will Grandmother spell out tone poems
while we listen to small records

of the great composers;
remember, when we're away

the reticence of Beethoven

how he was charged with Light
after the rains, the wind shaking the leaves free of raindrops.

will the sheet music be scattered through the rose garden
because we left the windows open

or glimpsed in the pink nightlight

short songs on the page, arranged.
our faces in cameo infant profile;the toy pianos at rest
and then, the nocturnes.the almond trees somewhere,

blossoming.

it seems so distant now
the way we dreamed it then:
both hands on the keys

the gardenias, scented through the back screen door

now we are carried each on such a wave
through portals on a ship that wasn't there before

we never booked passage on.
you said in your sleep a baby corsage!
I know you must have in your rabbit dreams

with the guardian angels and the metronome;

this is Heaven

this is home where
music goes on and Mama sings our birthdays
rose light through the curtains in the afternoons.

may it always be.and near the pines.
after a dry season
you will lift the piano lid

like a sunrise.
and small bouquets will arrive
for the recital.

mary angela douglas 14 january 2020

YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY

 

you don't know what to say

and so you crease the wind

or float upon the moment like a mute swan

or gather the light into your consciousness

as though you were the bride of the sun

and tomorrow is the darkest day of winter.

you don't know what to say

and so you let questions go stranded

gipsy like in a turquoise bracleted instant

losing the keys to language in some shimmering nebulae's 

laundry day pocket

you don't know what to say 

in the common fray

how to convey: the angels coming and going

in the clouds that are far away

to the whip smart practical

who want to they say

ferret out so they can put on display

what on earth can make you this way

that they may be over praised for their perspicacity.

mary angela douglas 12 july 2022

FOR POETRY FOREVER

 

 TO POETRY. FOREVER.

if I could have written on an endless sky

the beginning and ending of your fraught and mysterious syllables

and only in clouds that I knew would fade

Poetry, still I would have tried.

or gone up in flame like the least, scarlet leaf to find one gold

remaining song from you

in pieces, weeping on the ground-

one singing fragment from the ancient past of you still singed.

I traded in beauty the poet Sara Teasdale said

who left your words to prove long after her evening star

had vanished that she lived and suffered here;

so had she anchored so many goodbyes.

even in a banished Kingdom, in a mere and clouded handful of sighs

we still will whisper your name:even in the Kingdom of lies,

still shine with your truth:down to the last and ragged shore of our

breath

form of music;

form of the quenchless tremulous soul eluding death

lyre unquenchable through all ages:

burnished, anguished, raging ineffable heart

streaming with all the Maypole ribbons of your art

world without end do not leave us orphaned

at the core of all speech

forever beautiful and just beyond our reach.

touchstone, high watermark of God Himself may you prevail.

mary angela douglas 16 april 2021

Yeats In The Seven Woods

 

all that wild summons he had set upon the winds

surely the winds must have turned away

for there was no hearing

and so he called again

past all hearing, bearing-

in the seven woods 

to no avail

except the moonlight beaded the desolate waters

like a veil never lifted, lifting

the sons and the daughters of dream

beyond the summers' green

and crowned thee with fame

and myth was stirred into an infinite flame

and poetry

though lamentation remained of all the lyric gifts

his best while his soul sang

what good was it to rename

the constellations in her honor

least of all to rechristen the old, old names.

mary angela douglas 3 july 2022

Words and Music Lately

 

mirage like music comes and goes

oh beautiful mirror beyond the sing along

that the heart can't help but gaze upon

but the words fail every time.

i'll go away with music then

and not with the lyrics from the same old bin

for the jeweled haze

of the music seems so beyond it all

from the words that can hardly manage a

scrawl;that could never stand on their own.

i'll go away with the music 

that refined

the after mirage and the after chime

and find the slot where my dreams have hid

and the language to live in them myself.

mary angela douglas 9 july 2022

Escorial (Revised)

 

(for Professor Anthony J. Cervone)

last night I dreamed of the Escorial
of the paintings of saints with angular faces
Toledo in grey and the storms gathering

la vida es sueño or it may have been and the siglo de oro
the siglo de oro the infanta with roses in a square of light
and skies glisten dark plum overnight

and I am singing a vagrant's tune

Garcia Lorca,kaleidoscope moon

moon of the verdant green
moon of the everlastingly verdant green
over the sobbing balconies.

I'm in the book of the small blue flowers;

how shall I play my pavane for you for the hour is late.
the pavane for you and the piano locked.
the bell tower's weathering of storms grows pale

too hard to believe. or to contemplate

a children's lullaby etched in silver.
a paper bird before the war.
a paper bird singing with brilliant plumage

a bird that cannot sing anymore.

the stage sets adored in miniature thrashed.
the sky as pink as the Alhambra at last
all of Andalusia gleams the rust of autumn

and life as a dream of a dream in a dream is past:
tiene que ser de esta moda
a caged music flying into the gold

into the gold of the siglo de oro
Cervantes furtive at the windowpane
laughing at the thought of fame.

the matador's cape is lined in flame,

Segovia. the music of amber.

flamenco barters by the hour.
while I am in a high high tower
with clouds and angels beckoning.

I want to go back to the Escorial.
to the way that I felt then from only the pictures in books.Iberia, to
the oranges composed in a bowl of blue

and that was the whole summer I learned Spanish
the way that I wanted to.
the soul of it the subtle shadings.

as if the kings were looking for you.
all the hidden Magi, for legendary Spain...

were looking for you for costly,
for lost lost time..

in the preterit of dreams.

mary angela douglas 18 july 2020;24 june 2022

-

DEAR READER JULY 10 2022

 

Dear Reader,

Through a series of technical problems beyond my control or comprehension I lost access to this blog on February 23 2022

As of today through the grace and serendipity and kindness of the Living God I was able to regain access and will soon be posting new poems and in some cases, slightly revised poems. I truly hope you will like them.

In the interim I also set up a new blog with the address of www.poetrymaryangeladouglas.blogspot.com with the title of THE MARVELOUS FLOATING BOOKSHOP AND VIRTUAL ICE CREAM EMPORIUM and you are welcome there as well. At this blog I am posting my favorite poems of all my poems.

THANK YOU whoever you are and wherever you may be and God Bless You for reading my poems.

I hope and pray for every blessing on your life and family and friends and I wish you forever the JOY of poetry and everlasting beauty, truth and goodness.

Your Friend,

MARY ANGELA DOUGLAS