dedicated with great respect and admiration and in all their generations to Maxim D. and Karen Lasser Shrayer...
beautiful, on the lake of my dreams float the swans
innumerably
in a light that is hushed and jeweled:
crystal precipitate!
in a prelude that indicates the whole ballet
I too that is my soul each night would alight
or on enameled afternoons, flashpoints of Beauty,
to thread through death the ferrier warnings in even one
shimmering thread;
to perfect such floating seclusion
whatever epoch we are stranded in.
how can there be sin
in a world where the swan appears, the swans
as from Tuonela or Hans Andersen, Pavlova,
mythically, waiting for the great bells to ring
out of their legends into our entranced hearing,
seeing, feeling.
I too have sounded my griefs in the foreign ballets
awash in wonder beyond all fearing,
beyond any country known or unknown
and where will I come home
to say whatever it means
this fine iridescence, this pearled thunder
mirage forever pealing wherever seen
in the hall of memories or of dreams, in the public garden
for a day tripped Space
or in all of Art if only to pray
in the merest trace upon strange waters:
now you will drift
after long tribulations. sifting the mysterious.
and in the plumage of the freed.
mary angela douglas 30 august 2022
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