I dreamed that Poetry was going away
or had gone already like the aurora borealis
snapping its colours, from rippling music parted.
what has happened to the soul by candlelight
to the meanings of what there was left to say
to honour. to valour. to even talking this way
when the beautiful books were still hours
and not stowed away.
and held, in a golden reverence past all sundials.
even the moonlight snarls its silver
on the back of the great winds and disappears
like a tear on Hans Andersen's face. stranded
at Elsinore and earth, earth I would say
has vaulted into
a wilderness of no pianos;if I could speak at all
in the snow hushed languages I used to love.
down the stark nights no angels can be called;
we have forsaken God
and down the Carolinas the seas are no longer jade
but have turned to murk.
speak in the ticker tape half light
on the diffident stage
bark into the land of no become.
in the Kingdoms of the Blessed
we have left our inheritance
and the libraries strike strange poses.
there is there is no resonance
but tears rain down
the children of imagination cannot be found
stuck from pole to pole learning their dismal roles
from East to West small numbers
take up all the rest we are numbered
among the populations.
the swift to the same old race.
I cannot stand this place.
we only watch the news
or hum for a little space
and the news is stale.
no I, to you such a tale
would unfold...
mary angela douglas 15 may 2023
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