Or Not Live At All

here on the roster of the unimportant

through my rococo angels of the rose and gold

unapologetically may I muster

the call to arms of the beautiful that has been designated

waste, ash.

something oh surely human beings no longer need.

oh all the taskmasters are in agreement. with their blank ecologies.

I will embroider every sun and moon of it, the least star

the scantest ray through the basement apartment window:

a thousand angels in each dust mote reflecting Light

or we will live in the shadow on the sundial all other colours failing

contemplating the swift the still silver rains falling

how they sweep the birds in, in waves of utterable music

how you can still hear them

though the drones drone over you.is the Great Mystery.

I will stoop to the small pink flowers in the grass

and whisper to them the end is not near

the end will never be

till the last quasar of beauty sparkles

we will endure you and I

listening to the call of wild and irrevocable beauty

from the far regions,

or not live at all.

mary angela douglas 5 march 2021

She Remembers The Predominance Of Music, The Dominant Chords

could it be that we were that small

to view the ascension of angels

through our vue finders

to make of the green leaves a permanent castle

to blow soap bubbles into the sun 

were we that young

to know that we could spend our dimes

on any far flung enterprise

being taken to the school book fairs

and wander happy there for all our lives

or to the circus the popcorn dreaming matiness

or listening to Mozart in our blue room

on our little records, or Beethoven

we heard it with our ABCS

the sunken cathedral of Debussy

or when sudden storms blew up

in the garden: mysterious Music

Or Grandmother's Liszt in the piano studio

where she played like fountains weeping on

the mystical keys

with Grandfather at his ease in the brown recliner

listening listening 

Lord help me remember these, our scenes

my sister and I

our lines

all our lost valentines to You

and to our Mama

the play is long

with few intermissions

except, for the rose scent, evergreen glint 

of Song.

aamary angela douglas 28 february 2021 

Time And Motion And The Angels In Flight

time and motion and the angels in flight

the sudden epiphanies the morning light

the cost of living and the cost of dreams

summed up riddled on the silver screen

how we lived then without a hitch

the popcorn aromas and the Disney flicks

at the matinees some Saturdays...

the school day maples and the dog does tricks

nudging us with her nose

and secretly prays for the fried chicken crumbs of it

of all that dinner radiance

the happy landings because we are always clumsily

dropping our food there on the linoleum under the kitchen

table what we wouldn't give to relive if we could

even being extra good for Christmas

any of those antique scenes

the escritoire of aqua green

the scent of rain through the back door screen

fountain pens and deep ink stains the strains of Liszt

and listen to this:

it was no strain at all to love the blue winter air

Grandmother's piano, the willow ware

the jingle bell freedom being out of school

the extravaganza of the Golden Rule

the doorbell chime the pink orange soaps

nursery rhymes and quarter notes

the red gold sunsets in the vacant lot

the shine of crystal and the dreamy cot

surely in Heaven I will greet

the winter snow stinging our cheeks again into roses

and recognize it all.

mary angela douglas 1 january 2020

Small Fugue On A Phrase From The National Geographic

"the dreamlike fungi" the caption read in the National Geographic

snow has fallen on the asphodel mused Conrad Aiken and I find

in the swell of enchanted words no difference in the article

from a certain slant in the poem on asphodel

a quaint light a yearning toward the nightshade phrase

poetry has not disappeared from the world, not as I thought

but in the unexpected, flares out in the common day to the uncommon

reader

there is hope in the pick up sticks of words strewn upon the nursery 

floor

in the patterns we thought accidental while the angels smiled mise en

scene

tuning their synchronicity

as I remember them unsought phrases will emerge from unexpected 

spaces

as the silver moon from clouds with the stamp of fancy renewed the 

mind of Keats,

the wings of Shelley

and light from old cathedrals burns as we turn the tin kaleidoscopes 

the dreaming page again

where moss bright kingdoms shine not for one instant only

and let us know, there is no time but the May blossoms shining under 

the moon

the child in the dew struck grasses, examining.

these facts that anywhere, unaccountably bloom...

mary angela douglas 19 november 2020

Last Spring As Notre Dame Burned

last Spring as Notre Dame burned
I felt the world coming apart in my hands
as if it were a pomegranate bursting with stars
and this was its stain in space and a garnet Infinity
where so much beauty rose released into Heaven
and angels were seen walking along the Seine
walking along the Seine and saying their beads
with a terrible concentration and no gestures at all
and fisher folk putting out to sea all the changelings
when the Floods dreamed inland to douse
our souls
is this a sign or can it be told and time time
to leave the Museum of sighs
facing forward launched into an unknown
so vast where Beauty cries out to be saved.Alas

When Notre Dame burned and I felt the spire of
words crumple inside me and the shards of
such colours never again to be seen on earth
by little children turning their kaleidoscopes
at Easter
and histories weeping inwardly and the book of
Life opening suddenly on the snows on no lilac page
then Spring itself stepped back Eurydice
taken into the plum darkness or Persephone,

all myths being clouded over now
where there are rivers of an immense sadness
and the poets wind down to no avail and perpetually
turning to stone the moon to dazed pearl
as in Plutonian realms
where the dream walls are shattered with the antiphons
where the ice cannot glaze the leaf
and I am not the self I was before this grief
under the luxuriant shadows of the great cathedrals
where the almond trees chimed
and God collecting up all our tears
in crystal bottles.
and the Sun going backwards
in full throttle.

in golden adieus to the little children..

mary angela douglas 18 april 2020;16 may 2020;rev. 23 march 2021

Old Christmas Revisiting

[on the Nativity of Christ the King]

dream sequence sequined you return again as
in old movies, to a harp glissando
to this drift of leaves

and this year's calendar
in red and gold comprising all others

or to old houses with the pantry stocked
and the cherry preserves falls unexpectedly
as if the angels announced their joy

not that mysteriously, entranced by
heavenly provisions here on earth;
or your pause, on entering a room

in this nativity

in a few steps descending a few stairs as
if you were eurydice
on an unseen stage still

capable of turning back
where there is Light
at the sheer beginning of  your myth

to rearrange the lines inside
your head and hope

that poetry will lead you
like the Star
to the more than decorative

silence, shine! out! from the dark
from the corners of your eyes
espied, the lilt,

the vivid Heart
of all things:
standing still

before-
in a hushed and snowy Hour,
this Miracle

flowering

all over again. Jesu.

mary angela douglas 10 november 2015

I Pray For The Angels At The Ruined Gate

I pray for the angels at the ruined gate.

the silent angels. the ones with sheathed swords.

the ones who have turned aside from weeping

it says in the music when you turn the page.

can you turn the page for the ruined angels

at the silent gate that cannot open now.

it cannot open because it is ruined.

we sing in the rubble.

mary angela douglas 28 february 2015

Etagere

its the dreamy mint green that intensifies

around the rose, violet pattern

of the demitasse bone china cups on the etagere;

of the demitasse bone china cups

perhaps they are rimmed in gold

or afternoon sunlight

for the child that can only stare

at a rose garden world represented this way:

as if the angels slept the dream of the roses

whispered Garcia-Lorca from somewhere

in Spanish en el jardin.

you know, the one where there are fountains

of rose perfume and a little room where

the angels dress for supper

of lightly toasted cheese and

chocolate afterwards.

and stories of princesses,

their collections on the etagere...

mary angela douglas 8 february 2015

The Museum Of Sadness

and do you have a museum of sadness?

your very own? scattering the flowers before

you as you walk the trees may be while you

walk alone or on pavements of snow

hand in hand so tenderly with the Holy Ghost

the klieg lights of the moon on the lustre of the

very same marble and you know you know

the exhibits you'll want to see. the cafe across the street

as you remember the twilight's blue.
the angel guards with their grave faces.

you recognize the saturday sweaters, various letters.

the dried arrangements of who knows the best

bouquets you could have been sent at the time.

and in a frame of pearl the day you believed in

that came and went. the little stove that cooked cheap noodles.

the cinnamon shades are drawn.

and now, is it enshrined?

are the shadows mauve as if they were flowers too

in hiding from the brilliance of your sighs?

the pale green rectitudes in the scrapbooks on brown paper

where the tape is peeling the Christmas lights unwind

and in the corner, the things you wore
 amid fresh tuliped dreams:

the scarves with the glittering thread

the pale dance shoes.

the things you thought you said

inscribed in gold

and in your heart with the arrow drawn straight through:

a sob.

mary angela douglas 17 january 2015

Northern Lights

[to Rainer Maria Rilke and his angels]

this- glazing of angels

melting of Chartres.

this- herd of winged colours:

lightenings of mint and rose.

edged in deep lemon, inside of  a Shell?

a shell of blazing quiet assailed by shimmering.

and if it has a name, whose is it?

who are you etching in icy skies

these violet banded flights

outside the frightened houses

drawing back, as if they could, and chalked in white

as if to mark the place excessive Beauty ranged:  

raveling and strange:

the Distant Heart's glissandos,
ringed with snow

mary angela douglas 25 december 2014;last two lines added
 26 december 2014

They Would Not Send The Angels To Help Us

they would not send the angels to help us

through a sea of tears and the door is locked 

on alice into the garden floats the little key

lost, lost without her

they would not send the angels to help us

or stay the executions even one more day.

one more day on your bright earth the

one you intended the one you gift-wrapped for us with

starlight brighter than tinsel tenderly

with your little leaves just coming out on

the vines of our houses 

they burned it all down who would not send the

angels to help us

tho chained the angels each to each

and mocked their brilliance.

but you put the rainbow in their wings

in their wings that flew over the seas of ink

the poets died for

dying to say we loved your light Jehovah

they would not send the angels to help us

so You came yourself

mary angela douglas 14 january 2014