The Novel Is A Dollhouse

[dedicated to my sister, Sharon, a great pianist and:the English teachers who rationed my adjectives]

the novel is a dollhouse

in which characters can be

rearranged

they have bendable joints

whether they are in the parlour

with the mauve carpet

or positioned happily by the rose-

sprigged taffeta curtains

in the grandmother's sitting room with its

rose leaf-green

tinted walls its

tiny hatboxes on the topmost shelf

its delicate tea service polished on Saturdays

and the petit-fours on display

that somehow never get eaten

(they're for Company)

the novel is a dollhouse

especially on holidays

you can see:

the minuscule bubble-lit

Christmas tree

and forever the fairy lights

at the frosted front-window

right between the caramel armchair

and the table-top fleur-de-lis lamp

with its circle of butter-cream light illumininating

just as it begins to snow.

(will they ever open their presents?)

in the kitchen off the

dining room stand

the children with their

heaped up plates

of pink divinity candy

on a pattern of

old country roses

(they got straight A's)

they are bewitched

by the poems of Walter De La Mare...

the rest of the dolls

are downstairs watching TV

probably "The Wonderful

World of Color" in black

and white or "Brambly Hedges",

getting banana splits and finger paints all

over the rag rugs, playing

with matches as best they

can, waving the butter-knife and

taking turns

running with the pinking shears

slamming doors.

helping themselves to

the last of the spumoni-

they cheat at Candyland.

and the floppy dog runs

in fired-up curlicued circles

with a chicken-pie je ne sa quois

that Raggedy Ann can't

understand, so she just keeps

smiling, smiling, smoothing her white

pinafore under the shade tree

by the lemonade springs.

and the furry dog flies through the

fenced-in yard with the gate left wide open

past the green metal garden chair

the neon nasturtiums

and the bean stalks...

there's the charming sister in cherry-violet velvet-

Belgian-Irish lace-

still seated at the music-box tiny gold piano

polishing off her maple-red Scarlatti,

"An American in Paris," and.

"Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" simultaneously-

forever changing music history;.

the glittering sounds are far-reaching-

lifted over the candy-striped swing-set

and the circus tent-

wafting over the mimosas

straight into the Giant's castle

(how very brave)-

while the Lily Pons doll

-in fresh pink organza-

thinks in arias, quickly,

how to save the stage-

and offers her pink-ice earrings for ransom...

but it's too late

the adjective egg timer on the teacher's desk

boils over, (not a bicycle bell)...

and means it

mary angela douglas rev. 11 october 2011 from version of 18 august 2009

Heaven's Words Flowed Downward

heaven's words flowed downward

I saw the crumbling of an

ancien régime

this was my heart.

heaven's words flowed sideways

like the raindrops' beading on the

car windows.

I saw the green-ribboned

the tree-lined highways

pass away

and the roadside attractions

comprising a nation.

somehow-

invisible kingdoms kept

appearing

and words of fresh-wrought flame

though so many will say

shaking their heads like

Job's best friends at my

inscrutable path at the

shining holes in my shoes

"this is dark dark dark"

(you know how it is)

I saw the phoenix in every fire:

this was also my heart

this was also my heart

mary angela douglas 23 july 2009

First Dedication

you are the ground under my feet

if the ground trembles

you are my ravine

if the ravine crumbles

you are my sea

if the sea dissolves

you are my sky

if the sky falters

you are my star

if the star bursts

you are my Heaven.

these are the words

exactly in their places.

there are no other versions;

the poem cannot write itself:

You are

mary angela douglas 8 july 2009

You Should Have Been Painted In A Lilac Mist

[for Anna Akhmatova]

you should have been painted in a lilac mist

looking out to sea yet-

holding the sea within.

you would have stood apart

by an open window, breathing-

immemorial-

the scent of pine trees where

another poet walked-

hearing the sound of the sea

holding the sea within,

its dove-grey caesuras

meted out so carefully

like the steps to the fairytale

castle and the end of the story;

your raspberry syllables spilling over

where there could be no decrees;

with your friend who loved Africa

and drew giraffes on your school

slate, possibly, who hated raspberry

jam even then;

with your small son playing

learning to walk in the

pine-needled shade;

with your other friend, who loved life

and pure delight, praising its syllables

of true delight and small feasts managed

in distress: a tin of sardines, Armenian grapes,

a miracle;

banished like a real prince:

by his side, his starling wife

hid all his poems in crummy saucepans -

and in her heart ever after

o darkened wing - o muse

o hidden stars half-turning into fire,

Cassandra, who is listening

like snow it all disappeared

shining into a farther sea

inside you

after nothing like a Golden Age

no one in any language

can explain.

I sit at my kitchen table in America

as white as you were at the

height of Terror,

Anna Akhmatova, getting paler by

the minute, in public housing

with other golden refugees of a

free nation

the kitchen radio proclaims:

"A Great Nation deserves Great Art"

I think sometimes

great art deserves a great nation;

I'm

selling my books off, one-by-one, to live;

when I get to the last book I'll go

live under a pine tree and make

books out of pine bark

but this morning

you shine on my momentary wall

the color of buttermilk

looking for Russia, still-

looking for an open window

for the sound of the sea

for an undeniable clarity

that can't be bought or sold...

Anna Akhmatova.

ask God for me

if you don't know yourself,

is it anywhere in the world

or only in

the next poem

that we live-

mary angela douglas 18 june 2009

THE ROSE BOOKS OF ANATOLY KONENKO

THE ROSE BOOKS OF ANATOLY KONENKO

[to the artist Anatoly Konenko and his rose books]*

waiting for the beautiful ship to come

we stood on sinking continents

our eyes flooded with meteor showers

in a compact room

an artist sat

making books out of dried

rosepetals

children in their sleep

waiting for the beautiful ship to come

might never know

the roseleaves he was turning

at precisely the midnight

of the world

bird shadows over the blue

green melting poles could understand;

sensing the end of all auroras

they sang only for him

the artist arranging rose pages

binding with flowers the ...

with fine mauve stitching that

would not come undone

rose inscriptions

rose inscriptions

rose inscriptions

was all that God could read

mary angela douglas 13 june 2009

*a contemporary Russian artist from Omsk who makes tiny books out of dried rosepetals and other things in amazing miniture. He made a book for his wife out of rosepetals inscribed with Pushkin's poems about roses.

I Lost The Colors Of Giotto

[to my grandparents who raised me, in memorium]

I lost the colors of Giotto:

the steady pouring of

earnest angels; the

forerunning fuchsia

of generations of light

and fountaining ardor.

I lost the sorrowless

carmine quiet, the

rectitude of stars lapped

in lapis lazuli

the indigo stairwell of clouds.

I lost the olive branching, the

sweet cerulean days; the small

birds gathered in the lemon wind;

I lost my place at the shell pink window

and grieved for the shimmering ladder,

misplaced;

through the vacant castle I sought so many things

but the way was fused I lost

the sunset aureoles

the unchastening wing

then it seemed that I lost Earth

and all my tears flowed upwards

in the Space where you were not: I lost

the sundial in the shade

of Your last rose

mary angela douglas 5 june 2009

I Gathered Fresh Gardenias: You Were Missing

[for Virginia Woolf]

I gathered fresh gardenias: you were missing

and zinnia periled summers waved me by.

I followed down the path of your demise,

my own breath caught in trees

above the Flood

and pressed my fingertips into

your orchid-backed mirror's

perfect pearl-on-pearl

turning through each

dream-curled edge

into the whorl of

contravening years

and sallow interpreters.

o willow willow war was near

but the kindness of your mind

does not contract; the crisp

carnation rooms are still

your own:

a crystal condensation's flame

on the flung-open window; the

inlaid diaries of quartz

and rain-

all chatelained gestures foregone-

for these moonlit cloud-inscriptions

of uncalibrated grace are written

on the evening sky.

sensing your angel's churning wing,

I cried.

o rose geranium stillness

violet sky

against which lemon lovely sounds were

splashing...

your apricot excursion's standing down

oh why

no second snow on snow's appearing,

starred like winter's cotillions,

only warmer...

your garnet constellations

break apart and my heart

falters

losing this kaleidoscope

forever

with no continuance:

the semi-precious laws remain in force.

mere sleeves of her egress remain:

sheer-beaded brocade caught

as the moment, strand by strand

too visibly dissolves.

desert me now, sotto voce,

as your angels melt in music,

gone

then I saw

brightness brightness

every shining phrase unshunned

and drowned in Light

mary angela douglas 30-may-2 june 2009

For Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770)

["Il pleure dans mon coeur..."

-Paul Verlaine (after Rimbaud)]

Thomas Chatterton the rain

runs in rivulets off the roof

and down the colors of dreams

so obliquely

this distilled

you might remember

Thomas Chatterton

youngest brother to amending music,

so unmended

is it always raining

at the back of every poem

and just for you?

with your antique pen brand-new

your last loaf hard

as brickbats-

steeped in documents

of moon-drenched moment;

rosebud, salient madrigal

these small strawberries

in the grass

I've picked for you

your eyes pooled with treasure

only you could name.

forgive all lack of feeling:

the forgeries of the cold;

all those who meant to read you

whole-heartedly.

bless from your starry attic

those who followed you, too late

the rain in this poem

and all others

mary angela douglas 1 june 2009

VIVID

VIVID

[in memory of my grandmother, Lucy White Young ]

these peripheral fairy stories

I still wind

on a reel of gold

even if the pictures are flickering

in this Celluloid mirror

and the glass slipper slips to the stones

and shatters

before it can be found.

I still preserve like

muscadine jam the

soul's gilt gingerbread;

it's peppermint and gemstone gumdrop

crenellations;

all sugar plum, pastel expectations;

a panoramic view at Easter

of violet-trimmed hats

against a primrose sky;

the key to the heart's most

singular libretto, a

treble clef of stars:

music unfolding like this fugue of far dimensions.

my mother's singing in a green plaid dress:

butter and sugar on enchanted bread,

the faraway Land of Green Ginger,

tomato soup, grilled cheese

fruit cocktail.

ever-closer I gather my anamalies,

secured for a glittering denouement:

twelve fairies with their gifts,

a summer piano's

"Rustle of Spring",

a bird's chilled singing in the holy rain

the spinning wheel unspun

the last sleeve sewn.

the princess clouding capture

with a milky quartz

(tucked into a secret pocket

before the school bell);

treading the springtide scriptures of a dream

coping with wrapped enigmas,

her tears of pearl recondite-

like everything else.

prayers with no transliteration, heard

even from such dim towers.

all you know.

mysteriously without the wind

the green tree tops begin to bend;

taken up at the hem

the cherry-glazed day arrives:

the vivid rose ensoleil in the outer snows.

mary angela douglas 18 may 2009

*ensoleil: with the sun's rays around it as in heraldic pictures. (Fr.)

Here Is The Harbor Where The Rubied Ship

[Fugue for Amanda Sullivan on a beautiful photograph she composed]

here is the harbor where the rubied ship

docks with its curios long-forgotten

with its bolts of

hidden brocade, its doll finery

and tangerines

its rose of attar* and

its ambergris; its bears of little or

no trepidation

its dolls with eyes that close

and open

on the fairytale reprised

in waves smoothed beneath us

like spun glass.

here are the peppermint towers

of former graces, bracing the river

and its silk-screened sky-

the hold where the jeweled

nightingale is free:

the soul's music-box in tune

and every reflection is reflecting

a happiness vivid and undisguised

and buildings white as cream arise

and non-industrial uses of the day.

and everything is a surprise

but perfectly pictured as in the heart

where no one loved

need ever depart

mary angela douglas 2 may 2009

*rose of attar is attar of roses reversed to indicate the photograph's mirroring waters.

Shone

we are leaving behind

books that are unwritten

children who won't be born.

we are leaving

the unweeded gardens the

high pavillions of

peerless starlight

and much that is unleavened.

you may be asked in Heaven

why you abandoned in

bright midsummer the

cream colored cottage and the

strawberry vine

leaving the teacups

scattered,

taking

not even your books that opened at

the same page always

when the dormer winds blew...

was it war or famine

or unmentionable distress-

was it the witch with

the poisoned apple with her combs

of pale green diamonds like no other April...

my unregarded words?

or were you just filling time

with music only angels heard

when the sad, unaccountable distance-

 Shone?

mary angela douglas 29 August 2011/1 may 2009

Would You Die For The Song That You Are Singing

(dedicated to Susan Boyle because she sings just this way)

would you die for the song that you are singing

would you go down with the ship

to set it on dry land-

critics are always on hand

true audiences are few

but you can go on only

at one price:

even if the stage is bare

speaking your life into

more than just the wind

beyond the approval of

yesterday's friends-

even with nothing with no one

to show for it - belonging - nowhere-

weeping, weeping into only the brightening air

with no one left to forgive,

if you die for the song you are singing,

you will live

mary angela douglas 24 april 2009

Who Will Take The Song And Lead It Home

[in memory of my grandfather, Milton B. Young]

who will take the song

and lead it home

like a lost child

on paths overgrown too long

to trace

or will this music fade

with no one left

who remembers

we were sitting on

a summer's curb

and the ice cream truck

went the other way

the balloon man went

north as many poets have explained before me:

the snow cones

melted after a death

in the family the storybooks

in the attic were

no longer stored

who will take the child

and lead her home

like a lost song

past a screen door slammed

past fireflies scattered

in the dark:

holding hands as we cross

a street far wider than

before

we were orphans

on the curb of the universe

incapable of choosing

left or right

hoping to be found by nightfall

by angels or by someone else

hearing the dogs bark into their

bluest twilight

the children at ghostly games;

sensing the chicken pie for

dinner, the frosted cakes

the important birthdays

and the pink-bowed presents;

the Easter eggs forgotten in the grass

where dew fell last

waiting, again-

just to be called inside

mary angela douglas 24 february 2009

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

It is Night In The Emerald City

it is night in the Emerald City

I don't know why I am writing you

this letter

the green stars sparkle up ahead

but is this cause for celebration?

there are multitudes onstage

but no one in the audience

and we were standing

so magically by

in April's dappled shade:

waiting for the cue to go on.

yet birds still trill

and in the stillness

golden poems are launched.

who will christen them,

will you?

at night in the Emerald City

it's so hard to sleep:

they are codifying everything.

I'm burning down the corner

of another unknown page:

here's fuel for a winter's instant!

last evening from my window

I heard the starry sonnets muted

and

bright visions so indicted

that I wept tears of emerald.

I don't know when they'll

banish this

it could be soon

but I'll love still

from universal distances

in God's own grace and conversation-

we're not locked inside this maze.

I'm certain you'll remember

performances are overbooked

at night in the Emerald City

you have to call ahead

all iridescence is forbidden

I can't weep tears of emerald

I just watch the stars,

not the regime

down to the last bright ember--

mary angela douglas 7 february 2009/rev. 11 february 2010