We Shall Expect Again A Phoenix Hour

"Do not expect again a phoenix hour"

Stephen Spender

(to my mother, Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas)

we shall expect again a phoenix hour

for Christ rose only that we should rise again

nor mourn in dust your music's fatal dower

no music dies that sought the heart to mend

turn then again, our swans at the dawns clear chiming

released from woe, from the blasting of the bud

renouncing winter's chill for the sweet aspiring

we knew when we were infants still.

see, my mother,  the greening of the Word renewed

as you instilled in me and turned to go

we will receive the songs of the waning towers

released from the spell that made them nil.

we may expect the fairy tale's golden shower

trusting as we did in the Lord's return

the hawthorn bloom, and the suddenly caroling wren

the Renaissance of all we could not win

lives, lives 

and bids the grieved earth to sing again.

mary angela douglas 15 february 2021

To See Yourself In The Purpling Waters

(for Hans Christian Andersen)

all the sad duckling things you went through

learning to emerge a swan.

see, I will make for you an azure stillness

that you may recognize why you have come

to see yourself in the purpling waters

to see yourself as the only one

with the key to this particular kingdom.

unlocking it, for everyone.

stories will come, circling like Swans

above Denmark, Denmark in a different phase

and Love a strange love will resign itself

to sinking below the waves

only to rise on the next page

in a tin soldier mustering a gun

we are waiting for the winds to divide us

he says to no one

to see yourself in the purpling of the waters

with these frail reasons you have come

the storyteller of love itself unrequited by anyone

refurbished in the oddities of the world

in the mirroring waters as the sun descends

your shadow stories rising and falling

may we begin again?

to crest the wave and then to disappear

to love in so distant a way beyond the years

silhouettes on the screen of the beautiful

past the sad duckling days

swans on the infinite waters

learning to sing His Praise.

mary angela douglas 27 january 2021

Alas The Geese

(tO Hans Christian Andersen)

alas the geese in the fairy tale have escaped and now they have crossed

between the pictured brook and the marshy grasses into some other neverland and I can no longer find them

princess in disguise I was not, will not be and they have fled and every image of them

underground

this is the world we live in now where the ducklings must forego the swans

even the swans themselves find not their reflection in the mourning waters

what is there to say about that this is not a normal news day

though the teletypes clack through the time warp

and they all say my report is inexact

you will sing the notes of the swan perhaps

and they will call you geese even so.

mary angela douglas `10 november 2020

Don't Be Telling The Story Straight

if you tell the story straight it will be over in two seconds.

we want the story to last the way some kids make candy last

the whole day

sucking on lemon drops as they play.



oh let the story be such an unwinding tale

it could go on for years; with cherry danish up to Here

put everything in it please.

the maraschinos and the cheese.


the mouse not caught and running off


with the moment's feast.

or if it's a Christmas mouse

don't leave the sugarplums out.



You know what to do.

put in a castle or two.

make mine pink and make yours

blue


and then we'll switch.


and speak of swans


sailing mirrored on a crystal pond.



we'll put in all the toys


they'll want to hear it too


if you were a toy wouldn't you want that too



put in some teacups and Cinderella's dress


the one you made yourself in sewing class


in dreams all of a pink voille, and in between, a lavender sheen.

put in a jeweled Alas! for the goose girl as she quails past

and put in a vintage song and before too long



put in three bears and make them walk till four


so Goldilocks can get out the door


and off the lawn without a yawn



and speaking of that you better go along.

it's a school night now

much too late for the purple cow


you know where you belong.

though there's time for one more song

to banish worry


scurry scurry


Click off the light.


good night good night.



mary angela douglas 18 april 2020;rev. 16 may 2020

Could We Perceive The White Feathered Sky

could we perceive the white feathered sky from farther up
would we sing in crystal would we fathom the moon
as it is we fall under the spell 

and cannot cross the room. and cannot pick up the pencil of gold
to write on the diamond slate
why will you wait and watch the swans become more remote

and stop writing notes to people who can't hear you
because their ears are stuffed with snow
everything's long ago at a certain point

how will you retrieve it
or will anyone believe you,
when you do.

mary angela douglas 16 april 2020

Duckling Tune At Eastertide

(for Hans Christian Andersen and his story, "The Ugly Duckling")

they rained down so many blows on you
poor little duckling
how could you even remember the swans.

i think of you this Easter day
in the old storybook pictures
chased from the door

with a broom
by folkloric householders.
this is to you my duckling tune.

among the pond lilies and the sodden drip drops of rain.
duckling no one ever claims.
sweet downy one.

look there is the sun.
there is the warming of feathers
by someone celestial.

brighter days will come.
soon the swans will fly over
and your heart will know

the snows will pass my duckling
the snows will pass.
your painful past.
no more "Alas!" in the looking glass waters.

mary angela douglas 12 april 2020

Swans' Tale Variation

I had a myth I followed for awhile
the nettle weaving muted tongue
to save my brothers from the spell of

once upon turned sour that turned them into
swans upon the hour in doomed perpetual flight
with barely a pinpoint haven to alight on

thus my hands, my heart were scarred
and all my dreams marred with their infiinite cries for release
who released not me.

sometimes the road runs out and there's no more walking then
when all is water
save with Christ's hand

over the innundated land we used to know so well.

mary angela douglas 3 march 2020

Some Thoughts on Post Modern Poetry

the scent of no sea salt in the poem about the sea
how post modern poetry seems to me,
the dust rolls up to cover the sun

there are no kingdoms.
no possibility of one.
no names except of

populations.
only political designations.
no cri de coeur.

well what is this then. 
music is more than sight reading.
this is no reading at all.

nothing registered.
like  a civil wedding in a totalitarian country
the whole of it.

you can pretend to like it if you want to.
its a burial without honors to me.
without honour.

not even  in the dictionary.
forget the lilies and the hands clasping them
the maiden looking out to sea and faltering.

but oh there's room for data.
for the wisp of a word digital.
digits. and the paramecium.

counting on one finger.
repeating the middle C. C sharp maybe.
going without a coat

all ice age winter long.

the murder of song.

the absence of swans.

And God.

mary angela douglas 1 february 2020

The Wild Swans

perhaps she was held aloft by threads of the mystic blue and green
or by her dreams prophetic
beckoning to the secret task

as much as by the beating of their wings, the wild birds
her brothers, formerly, enchanted now
and she must undertake their freedom somehow

though the thorns she weaves
won't only break the skin
but her frail heart.

work through the dark of the world 
the handiwork of light
the angels cry.

then leave her.
she finds the nettles near the mosses easily
but concealment is impossible

she must endure
the mockery of those
impure who trick and trip her in the lanes

and those from the underworld revived.
who beg the question  of the feeling of 
still being alive

till in her heart pale birds arise
and cry the cry of centuries denied
the light of the inner sky

the silver bells
the landscape where
all beauty dwells, so unrecovered still.

mary angela douglas 25 december 2019

He Doesn't Like Magic

he doesn't like magic

unless it comes from him

(he thinks it comes from him)

swans flying in

from someone else's sky

depress him.

he's just the guy

for beribboned surprise, or, enterprise

the sudden folding of the fan

and then, the flourishing

of paper lilies.

the joe of all trades soda jerk.

replete with cherries.

he's THAT merry.or lemon ice,

who could be that nice.

he's the one with the wand that works.

the jumbled cups of many colours.

all the oranges in the air

disappearing everywhere;

the knave of hearts, a little dodgy, with

scarves, chiffon, stretched on and on

from a silver tophat, endless song

or mysterious cures for this and that

a gizmo that says Once Upon

"suspensions of belief":

just press HERE.

and skyrockets launch at his command

and bluebirds stream

on every reel, in every Land.

ooooh, for the taffied children.

the jelly bean raffles,guessed

the well made plans. ah, yes.

there's nothing nothing to conceal

it's all just sleight of hand.

he hopes you'll understand.


mary angela douglas 31, 30 may 2019

Transposed. Why Can't I Keep It Straight

I tried to learn the Chinese of boundaries
and inner snows.
the landscapes where the peach skies

recede.
it makes your fingers bleed to weave the nettles
Elise was told in that dream about the swans

the harder side of once upons

someone who knows better interposd
that's the song in another key.
his daughter, for a rose.

the ships wrecked;coming home.

transposed,why can't I keep it straight
when I'm up studying late
the way the lamplight drains

the meteors from the skies.
too hard to analyze
the myth that flies with

the wind
each time that I pretend
I know

how the story goes.

mary angela douglas 24 january 2019

Perhaps She Was Born To Illumine Small Corners (FINAL VERSION)

PERHAPS SHE WAS BORN TO ILLUMINE SMALL CORNERS

(to the fairy godmother in all her guises)

perhaps she was born to illumine small corners
to sow sparkles amongst the cobwebs 

conjure bridal finery for the dolls

on afternoons  after all, when she could hardly lift the clouds

managing the lights in majolica, instead; to lighter duties wed:
Shakespearian carriages drawn by moths-
awaiting, a shade melancholy, the will o' the wisp commands;

the sewing trials and the close knotted stitchery, stitches:
between them, no moonlight, her mother said
dark tea, no clotted cream, no princess gaunt

certainly, no spindled dream,.la belle au bois dormant....

for cameo appearances she was well suited
in peach velvet with the magic fishbone
occasional sorties into the hall closet

rummaging sweet ballgowns of a distant age;
turn the page of visions and the songbird flees the cage,
the jewelry of a moment;

memorize Forever,

put away, with the crystal recessionals.
put away from you the garnet inconsistencies
her voices chided

renewing like Yeats
the wands.
the reticent swans

the pale blue legends
of the Easter silk days.

mary angela douglas 20 december 2018lrev, 17 january 2019

Music In Heaven

is this what music is like in Heaven was asked
in a dream where we telegraphed things
with no Telegraph

who can explain a language where
thoughts through the air spun like crystal
intent understood not vocalized the Pearl of

music and weeping mingled
the weeping magnified
Beethoven presiding

still alive it's quieter than a pin
in the world we guard within
we said on earth we shadow said

nothing could match the stillness there

elaborations of the heart, Chopin
gazing out on the vast blue rains, the infinite refrains

is it art lost cities muse, the Muse apart

to each one listening imparts Faure, Debussy
the melting of clouds into cities, Satie
and Mercy. and Pity and Arvo Part, perhaps

starpoint by starpoint, merry go round,
the children's voices like bells, carillions of the Sun
the ladders from the ground and Time is overcome

and Ives is Ives

this is music in heaven no metronome
only the soaring, wind through the pines
evenings, no more

the jay startled, the sifting of swans

say only begin and not become
to begin like snow, and never to end.
who would return from that country, again

mary angela douglas 18 december 2018;rev. 18 january 2019

Drif(ting Into God

to Matthew Arnold

to Alfred Lord Tennyson

parrot gaudy, carnival emblematic the stream of human events
we watched over Avalon, Camelot
the faring Fair and thought of this: the hidden life

as on the other side of a mirror recessive, recessional
the nightingale furled music killed despair
the saints and fools for God achieved finally

their very own silence.

which to choose the candled gloom or the rainbow riot
each must choose beyond the news, the collective summing up.that signifies, nothing, really.

swans as they vanish leave a trace
as Jesus did on the Loving Cup
of what has been and of the Return.

we seized our chance for a furtive glance perhaps
and were doomed to litter the knight bled trail.
but saints, they know whose they should be

still seek the Grail,

and where to go even to obscurity or further into woe
it still, it will always come up Gold.
and where far from the madding crowd

as the expression goes
oblivious as snows they are
drifting into God.

mary angela douglas 29 september 2018

What To Pack In An Emergency

three acorns full of sudden illumination
three dresses to match
a match

and a thousand candles
the Gospel of John
a rug to fly upon

rose seed, the King's own sealing wax
the golden stamped insignia to go with
a child in need of fairy tales

the fairy tales themselves
the Book of Kells and gingerbread

a rain cloud's wishing well, a featherbed
with multicoloured quilts innumerable
and a pda

the spell of human kindness.
green leaves

in case the new planet doesn't have any
a Christmas toy train that runs at all speeds
through a welcoming village

the radio from Cocteau's film
that only telegraphs poetry
silver songs, indifferent swans slightly rumpled

a cherry orchard
that cannot be felled.

mary angela douglas 25 september 2018

Be At Rest. The Ark Has Landed

I dreamed we were going home
not the last one. but the first
the one with the pale blue walls

the glass swans sailing
on the toy river
the lost thimble found

the thimble of gold
the locket of silver
the baby locks of hair

she must have kept somewhere,
our fond Grandmother.with the musical flair
there was the magnolia

floating in the silver bowl
the way she placed it, always just so
the theme from Paliacci...

the pine needles all over the

lavender rug
the Christmas tree still resplendent
and autumn's apples

summers nursery rhymes.
how far we have gone to lose you
every time beyond the bright mirrors

in the strange encryptions of the world
it was hardly the fairy tale road
and yet, there was gold.

that never disappeared
let us be launching now
caught out with our nets of dream

our natal stars
knowing where we are now
that it was Heaven

and will be, again.

mary angela douglas 18 september 2018

Like A Diamond Theme

gliding on swan waves back to shores
you'd never seen before. the water smoothed
into sudden gleams: white honey, worn,

reflective of the spun dawns
opening into small rooms of dew
where roses thrum too secretly,

half rung, the canticles of the clouded sun or moon
the way it felt when you would come
to a standstill on a hill taking in the winds

as though they were waters into the boat
taking the wind that way into your soul
floating always floating between

heaven and earth
your soul in the disstole of the swan
the fairytale one always

longing to be,
but not yet;
so it was in the once upons or

was it a crystal swan on a crystal pond
in front of the castle where the
tin soldier still looked on

the dancer in a whir of tulle
festooned with a small pink pearl
in the stage struck world of

a paper theatre's possibilities.
is this swan avenue he thought
caught as he was in the intricacy

the toys still gleaming just
that Christmas instant hardly unwrapped
and now that swan snows drifted in

through the window chinks
he said I think it's time
I should be getting back

or I am lost at sea and off the track
of wandering
and turned a tinge of pink

dreaming that he had
said it all aloud
in a Christmas clotted with dreams

that was the story told to me the white dawn
one I wanted to dance upon and balance
the clear and the crystal note repeated

like a diamond theme
but time has stolen all such swans
from me and I cast out to sea

a little unwillingly
on the boat that I remember in the park
when I was three.

soon it will be dark
and will they come for me?
and I am looking still

for the swans going, having gone over
who recognize me
who know I was meant to be

white pearl gliding over the marsh
so free in
that heedless music wavering

in the looking glass way
I knew would last
and music box wound

in the beautiful past.

mary angela douglas 12 march 2018

I Cast My Poems Into The Air, Wild Swans

I cast my poems into the air, wild swans
will they wander endlessly
combing the skies of pearl

bereft of home
what theft is this
the moon will say now I am left alone

finding their wings, seared in silver
but they are their own and infinitely
it is my heart and the muffled bells

the updrafts and the excruciating wait
that is their labour and the spell
they cannot break

before the dawn and then
they beat their wings against the sun
and shine o shine in the day undone

wholly gold.
while I their mere messenger weep
and cannot sleep wondering

what will become of them,
my songs

mary angela douglas 26 february 2018

Swan On Swan The Bitter Tide

swan on swan the bitter tide
who will defend the children of Lir
waging no war 300 years

merely enduring.
beating the thin air into pure silver.
I have come this way too

in the interminable snows only to hear:
now you are crows said the Queen
from lie to lie exposed

but they remained swans
Elise remained Elise
weaving the thorns into

the Beautiful
telling no one.

mary angela douglas 26 january 2018

No More The Languid Ballets

no more the languid ballets of the waltz length days
in pale arrangements consistent with my dreams
but now the frenetic order makes its overrated entrance

conquering the scenes which must be shortened, if at all.
tolerated;and the technocratic insistence
on cutting things down to size, prevailing.

goodbye I sigh and sigh again that music to prolong
goodbye to lovely song and music elongated to the
soul's great charm displayed that now must certainly retire

entirely from the stage and o! the banished kingdoms
doomed to go with it into oblivion. good riddance,
they say

who deem not even now its shadows visible

in the corp de ballet to remain
where it was uniformly mysteriously surveyed
in the last stages of life oh fleeting.

goodbye to the swans to the immortal pose
and the last roses.
summer is upon us or it was

the crickets chirring under dim orchid skies
the sweet once cherished lands of just because.
disappearing.

all the pale legendary...

mary angela douglas 21 january 2018