THE CHILDHOOD OF MARCEL PROUST
your teacup brims with starry light, rich
traceries of time - translucent as
fresh raspberries bought
on a day by M. Swann
heaped on fairytale plates that chime
when the scenes shine through
somewhat berry-stained.
bright doves float through your
stained glass hands through
opaline rosaries of the rain and
tuned to a strange cessation
in a dream we almost see
the glint of (home):
taking the madeline
dipped in snow
and a nectared universe...
your linden angels pause, mid-air
cognizant of a pale green rustling
but no one's there
just once to say:
Good night, dream's child,
you'll sleep the steeple
out of the sky's
late roses at Combray
and wonder how
it all turned into
stalactite colors overnight
dripping down winter walls
sweet candle-wax and pure
resurgences of rain.
but the 13th guest arrives
mid-scene to no
gold place setting
set with rubies
and who can still the lime-leafed - unrestrained-
lamentation of the rain...
your hawthorn branches
in the dusk
its storied snowy paths more dear
to lead you out of houses here-
this suddenly - no longer home.
but you're still writing when the angels come
the rose-torn chanson of the rain
scratched out, then blooming once again;
they wait for you to finish up
fanning themselves with their crystal haloes
distracted by your clouds of sheer Limoges...
mixing the pink or is it blue
tinctures of remaining skies
you turn to ask them
just to stall:
the peacock or mimosa?
but God turns down the flaring wick
color by color almost
regretfully.
the angels turn:
fiery medallions on their sleeves
like Christmas refractions
most intensely felt,
a silken step...
and mama comes
with a bunch of heliotrope
a fugitive smile then
"Marcel!"
blue violet banks off creamy distances.
prevail in Heaven now
when childhood fears are hushed
and the holy candles lit forever
from hawthorn petals in your hands
you clutched at the last moment
afraid to let go.
how would you ever leave them here-
all your white orchards,
where Beauty's often not revered
along the via dolorosa
and breaks the thin importunate glaze
on a lake of half-way frozen
lies.
and lost and lost
where mirrors on the
other side
can't give the key-light back
of cherished nacre
anymore.
but the phrase in rainbow clarity appears
through veils and veils of summer rain
and this gardenia darkness knows that
every time the music's played.
it rushes on...
mary angela douglas 29-31 may; 1 june 2010
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