The Heart Folded Under

once we had roots of gold, dreams of gold, light,

peach light, the light of long ago stars 

the clouds in magenta, the sudden flare of meteors, 

autumns, the berries in cream 

the heart folded under the dovelike quilts of childhood.

once we had windows into the panoramic Easter eggs

one rose guarded by one swan and Grandmother played the

record of Peter and the Wolf as a lullaby to somehow let us know

that golden days are few and must be guarded

that the oboe warns

and the wolves are gathering.

I know that she was right in her rose taffeta dress playing Liebestraum

love's dream as if she were dreaming it up right there at her piano

for my  Grandfather listening in the living room

I wonder did this happen, were we really there

what golden age can compare with the least moment the moon sailed slowly

over our brick house. or Telstar, or when the pine trees rained down their pine cones

or gum trees the sweet gum balls

so that we might spray them gold and silver to adorn the Christmas tree

I am woven on the loom of the past not quite Alice through the looking glass

I wander in the world of trains that cannot leave the station

I know that memory is real and fairy tales.

it is the news that is made up now.

mary angela douglas 3 may 2021

Philippe Petit: Balanced On His Best Day

[for Elaine Fasula]

he will be balanced on a diamond thread

between two points: connecting the heart

to the Heart someday

around his head flowed the stars of Van Gogh,

the unfounded galaxies, the future snows,

the opalescent birds cut from their fairy tales at last,

escaped into ruby paned air.

oh how will he wound the doves from there with a mere gesture?

she sighed to his detractors

doffing his crown of breezes and if he slips it is not into

the abyss but into our wondering care

or wedged somewhere, so quietly

he thinks it is dreaming,

in a pale blue notebook,

cloud clotted lines

of the elegiac poem of a

little girl's old homework,

wind tossed (never lost),

returning.

she's from the everywhere,

collecting her bouquets,

her pocket creme sachets,

who rushes there-

as if to say:  oh, not too late papa-

with borrowed gemmy wings o!

just in case?

mary angela douglas 8 june 2014

Note on the Poem: the little girl in the poem is a reference

to his daughter, Gypsy who died at 9 years old of a brain hemorrhage.  This poem was written just after a very poetic interview (I mean Philippe Petit gave poetic answers to perfect questions) of Philippe Petit by Bob Edwards radio today on the subject of Mr. Petit's new book: Creativity: the Perfect Crime. Previously I had watched the lovely film Man on Wire, which also influenced the poem in a similar way.

By "unfounded galaxies" I mean: non-commercial space,

Space as dreamed of through centuries by children, poets, and astronomers...This is the man who walked on a wire between the World Trade Center Twin Towers while the were still with us on no one's say so but his own. A poet of the air, of space, of impossibilities suddenly, possible.