BECAUSE THEY COULD NOT
They stole my tears
From my bright song
Because they could not
Squeeze out tears of their own
Or afford the price of paid mourners
At the funeral of poetry
Dry nightingales with hearts of stone
Who dressed you up in my scarce finery.
Oh Keats could sing around them in faery rings
In his sleep;in former incarnations
They sucked his dreaming breath as well
And suddenly his poems acquired a dank and sere air;
He could no longer breathe.
To what shall I compare this strange garland about my neck.
Artificial winter snowing everywhere
My signature and Time as I felt it to be more than borrowed
The slight music that was written in me
By the Lord God I have honestly received
It seemed to them honorable to do so
To snatch and then pretend
Imitation was for them
A form of honoring me
False nightingales, fetch jewels from elsewhere
Though It wasn’t hard for me
Near the too disenchanted stream
To find fresh tears
When they did this.
Oh Judas kiss on a primrose day
What honor it is to be honored this way
Only Christ can really say.
And I cry Cherry Ripe down to the ground.
mary angela douglas 18 april 2024
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