The Playhouse Dreamed: The One With Tuliped Curtains

the tulips on cream curtains glow

in brilliant red, in purple, orange

convincing you you're in Holland

and perhaps you know Van Gogh

and are kind to him

and he paints in your backyard

which somehow is enormous.

and this is where the clouds stand still

in fantastic swirls of blue

the air vibrates around the poplars

longing for the entire spectrum

and the stars grow so huge

that Yellow drips from the moon.

you fix coffee for him and bread

with cheese, a little toasted.

he paints the pear trees as if

it were the last Spring

for the Universe.

as if the earth were his bride.

mary angela douglas 26 january 2015

Canary Diamonds From The Antiques Roadshow

canary diamonds from the Antiques Roadshow.

I think I may have one of those mused someone's grandmother in her fuzzy bathrobe,

matching bunny slippers.

peacock feathers from the quills of Rilke?

a cherry silk barouche

(and matching horses)

in the attic? under the hatboxes?

the candy coloured palette of Chagall.

under the sink?

in your Grandfather's tool shed with the lawnmower.

they must be somewhere somewhere somewhere

the mariners maps behind the paintings bought from a 5 and 

10 store way back when in the aisle near the Tangee lipsticks

or the ruled tablets, the zinnia Burpee seeds.

pink china from Marie Antoinette,

handpainted by herself.

a basque shawl, red  rose poetry aflame.

and glittering, still,

the stars above Van Gogh's cafe,

the originals, crowed the apprasiers.

we've looked everywhere.

the names of famous ancestors unearthed

and all their diaries glow in faded handwriting

in the tv aftermath, switched off.

we didn't find a thing. it's not so bad.

it's fun to dream of things we almost had.

mary angela douglas 26 july 2014

His Paintings Mourn His Departure

[to Vincent Van Gogh]

cypress and star

and the wind soughs through the paintings.

a yellow wind;

the one of orphaned gold.

with heartache's  topaz hardly dried yet 

on the brushes, knife- the palette with its rare

hint of carmine,

of carmine that sobs like a rose in a gully washing rain

when the petals leave-
 as if, they are bruising the sky.

as if, they are bruising the sky

the milk glass galaxies strain against the blankest canvas

the executors have ever seen

and the hail of sorrow pelts in aquamarine's

distraught- summer-

and the crickets, who, because of you,

thought they were stars in the grasslands=

and that they sparkled-

simply-

cease to sing

mary angela douglas 1 july 2014;rev. 20 april 2015

Van Gogh Mid-Afterlife In His Wild Rose Fields

I weep in gold dust fields over which his blackbirds fly

in the museum

and they cry: "ominous, ominous"

can't you see it in the skies?  truculent is the world

toward the artist who only loved the sun.

yet in his letters home

in three brilliantly lucid volumes.

closely read his colorist desire to

use all colours well and unforgettably

but, Dear Theo, colours cost money-

how much it cost him to go without

them making do with yellow and yellow

iterations 

only he knew.

somewhere beyond

the marigold's sigh,

couldn't you weep anew

said the angel by my side

(sheer sunflower glow)

in the hope of his Heavenly

fields, post murder and not, suicide- 

when, burst like a light upon him,

all he did not understand;

where wild rose fields are climbing toward a sun

that cannot dim, vermillion.

and in the skies a freshly minted green

is ornate as the heart could wish that loved that much;

emphatic as a heartbeat are the brushstrokes' impact

viewed from this side only, clear amber crystalized in

the thick honey of days unbelievably

made of poverty, disdain, 

of painting in the rain

while the neighbors spied on him and

cawed against his sanity; were they sane?

it's slow tears I am crying now

crystalized in the poem- 

all amber gone by now

for the misplaced poet hardly anyone read

closely or otherwise while he was alive; allegro or penseroso

as the golden scores were played unfinished-

as they had to be and second-guessed,

long years without the  sun;

oh then- as now-

sub-lunar, distant are the puppeteers of

docentry everywhere but not 

the field flowers.

may it be said, though I am no painter,

it isn't for him I mourn 

nor for the rolling auctions 

of a heart that never could be dead ah,

how they must have said in the days that followed

(the gathering angels of his harvest)

but who will befriend now 

the orphaned haloes of his stars 

mary angela douglas 17 november 2013;revised, 6 december 2013

VAN GOGH TO HIS BROTHER, UNDATED LETTER, SUMMER, 1891

VAN GOGH TO HIS BROTHER, UNDATED LETTER, SUMMER 1891

[to my brother, Alan Leslie Douglas, in memorium)

the yellow leaves were falling

I could not catch them with my hands

the yellow stars and the pastel haloes

round them, ringing like colored glass

and every shade, a sound:

I was painting them mid-flight-

rosettes, like medals pinned against

the night, my

Legion of Honor-

you know, we always knew the

time of orchards was so brief, remember?

the pink and the mauve - the

apricot light - the moment's lightening.

I have a new studio; the walls are iris,

touched with snow.

I'm painting in colors we never

dreamed existed - without haste.

Dear Theo.

nothing is wasted.

mary angela douglas 23 april 2009

Note on the poem: I do know that Van Gogh died in 1890. I wrote this poem imagining what might have happened if he had lived for another year as it often happens in life that unexpected good happens after tremendous difficulty. 

Or the poem can be understood as a message to Theo from Van Gogh in the afterlife where he understands his art completely and is allowed to continue in it.

I Went Back To Find The Golden

I went back to find the golden

age, finding it among

the things you left behind:

your old papers, sausage,

bread and cheese.

the artifacts that fell into

your hands

as if in a fairytale:

a bird on a crystal twig, pink

and blue towers,

a sobbing princess, elaborate

valentines.

a signet ring with no inscription,

strawberries and cream, a

propensity for suddenly appearing,

a beautiful acuity.

silver and gold

I found, rubies

strewn everywhere, a rose-red

flamingo,

slightly out of place-

an iridescence like

snow remembered.

old shoes in the corner

with hidden properties,

Van Gogh's orchards, Cezanne's

reticence, "a cloud

shaped like a piano"*, Chekov's

last spoken word-

the colors of hydrangea,

Dvorak in a newer world,

my soul

mary angela douglas 8 february 2009

*a line from Chekov's Seagull

Ordination

[after a painting by Van Gogh, "Portrait of Eugene Boch"]

I wasn't ordained to

sleep in your shadow to

be the wheel turning

in your hand, the pure

silver backing of your

heart's mirrored

mirror

but I still shine at your

momentary table,

breathing the flutelike air

between us-

letting the stars upon stars

unfold above your head-

mary angela douglas 13 august 2002