The Flight Of Ideas From Here

[to Robin Williams]

complexities in music are expected; yet, a fantastic flow of words, a disease decreed the doctors to the poets time out of mind though Light itself is scattered beautifully from

quartz to quartz and this is what we call sparkling

in some quarters.

dimestore symptoms cannot ride out the storm oh spare me the diagnosis of the beautiful or Shakespeare's worlds on worlds when we on our best days

can launch from here balloons in every shade

and firecrackers, rockets of the full spectrum spinning and fizzing whirling into tulips, and leaves and trees in colours of the oohs and aahs of Chistmases remembered; or split, open

to fairy tale fissuring, 

glittering with the more quiet splendors

and, for this, we set sail to find:

the crown jewels crowning the longing of a language

inwardly felt oh Rilke in the woods catching birdsong on his sleeve and harkening.

leave the pathologists who have murdered 

imagination as if they could, forgetting the multiple pathways through the woods of Dostoyevsky, the Joycean epiphanies or Proust's jeweled passages twined and intertwined with

a passage from Faure

oh pack the saints away you will not knowing as they do

that God spun out in myriad silken directions once the starry web that you would break endlessly in us:

thinking that you do good.

mary angela douglas 14 august 2014

Cantlcle To Robin Williams

[for Robin Williams (July 21, 1951-August 11, 2014)

"Nought but vast sorrow was there -- 

The sweet cheat gone"

-from Ghost, by Walter De La Mare

dreaming in colour with our eyes wide open

we thought we heard them say that you had fled

oh no oh no oh no we cried we cried we cried

the fool in motley wiser than all kings is dead

by his own hand and we the starless  witnesses of the news

and snows bled snows in summer, shock by shock

in California, spreading clockwise fault line by

fault line: can't you make it disappear, sad conjurer,

dear robin, making amends?

but this, this the thing that can't be mended

by a sudden sortie of your hidden angels

fraught with the tinkling of bells on the jester's

cap, and doffed and doffed again, to us

as if we were royalty in a velvet box

convulsed with happiness; zig-zagging

lightening quick, mercurial, ariel ariel

why, what- is this?

last seen at 10 p.m. on sunday night, and at home..

(yet not at home)

and the fairytale 

decreed with its happy ending:

let it be 10 p.m. on a sunday always-

didn't it? or earth, earth has skipped its heartbeat;

honey ceased its sweetness,

captain crossing now, crossing the ragged line-

never coming back this time cross

rainbowed meridians, scarves pulled out of the hats

as if from the borealis, wonderful! and multifaceted,

the doves of extravagant wit flew up from the silk top

hats towards what, towards who, towards when you're

jumping off the shortest cliff of all,  o Lear, come back

come come back they must be wrong...

the laugh lines in the moons of distant planets dim-

oh were you Hamlet in the end, mad Lear-

the one we thought we knew send not to know

to know to know for whom the bell has tolled

has tolled has tolled has laughter ceased

and music spilling from the soul oh jigsaw piece

my favorite one! exclaimed the child in us

all unconsoled:

is merriment weeping unregaled?

ah, Genie, out of the bottle now, murmured

the Academy.

o tenderest of clowns

we will not find you though

the puzzle's strange without you

fretting upon no stage at all that we can see.

the hour was golden, seized,

but it has raveled,these, our revels...

dies, laughter on the lips of God for

this brief shining,

now

mary angela douglas 12 august 2014;10 june 2019