The something in the poem I cannot explain
like a fissure of gold in a heart of stone, molten and alive like a blue crystaled opening on the surface of another planet, door
through which you pass not even knowing that you do
over the border of an unseen country, the place called beautiful
no matter what language you use
is this the something of the poem we have lost, are losing. will lose again if found like children too easily distracted
or some had never found the headwaters of the music there
In its plunging onwards through dry gulches
As in Shakespeare, angels rushing in the wind of those words
Angels rushing to future generations about to lose even the word
for Soul or as in Hopkins not to be
Trodden down, but to uplift with gold red images and spirographic
exultant, currencies
Of the wind caught, unbound, and soaring and the majestical
artifacts of God relayed and the sound of it, the sense of it
the current is lapping against your soul
and your soul cannot be eroded, but soothed, made still
In the drifts of God of Christ of lighted windows
Into a finer understanding, or like someone adrift
finally you see something in the distance drawing near,
though you can’t make it out yet and feelings long disused cry out
to a sudden guest, yes. Finally, my consciousness, dream transliterated
there is land. Even a small place, green, consoling above the churning of it all,
to stand, to breathe. Not to be commanded unduly.
mary angela douglas 21 november 2023
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