O Crystal Heart Of France

[o Joan of Arc]

[o crystal heart of France

the heart is broken

but it cannot shatter]

your frayed lily banner in my dreams

still shines with its first snow of the

season's individual light

and I imagine you

freed from all strife in Heaven

standing stock still in

the gentian fields

your bright skirts swirling in

planetary breezes,

newly enchanted by the Fairy Tree-

your father's fleecy sheep just

over the green cloud of a hill

and your mother

gives you fresh baked

bread with butter and honey

remembering all the times you

ran away;

blessing the dual sunrise in your eyes.

yet.

no matter how many times

I've sightread your brief song

I cannot turn that page

so hard and bitter it seems to me:

you crowned the King

but doubting who he was

he let you die

a heart they could not burn. *

in my dream the words appeared:

oh crystal heart of France

the heart is broken

and will not shatter

but kings are made of glass-

mary angela douglas 19 october 2009

*it is a matter of historical fact reported by the executioner

that they could not reduce the heart of Joan of Arc to ashes even

though several attempts were made with pitch and sulphur after the fact:It was thrown into the river Seine.

ST. FRANCIS SOWED HIS BLUEBIRDS

ST. FRANCIS SOWED HIS BLUEBIRDS

St. Francis sowed his bluebirds

in the Sky

when the lemon wind was never

far away and all these fables

I have held to my heart

as flowers freshly gathered.

now the small doves coo

at Light's own window

and the lavender frescoed

moments all pass by

in every green-graced field

I once believed in-

but I am an hourglass in His hand

I am a bluebird in the Sky

St. Francis,

on the lemon wind-

mary angela douglas 6 october 2009

The Rose-Red Sealing Wax On The Letter's Dry Now

the rose-red sealing wax on the letter's dry now;

the rose red rose white story comes to rest*

like the see-saw on the frozen playground

like the rusted swings still floating in no wind at all.

frost-emulsed are the Christmas windows

and the glorious Holly and the Star

we looked through to see:

the golden bears delivered from their worst selves

on such a cinnamon-sequined day as this.

but I can't tell you the end of the story

or why my cloud-shaped jigsaw piece won't fit

(not even on Christmas morning)

in the thin sky above the little house

swept penny-bright and latched.

I went a long cold way in my scuffed shoes

to fling a milk quartz crackly word into

the moss green pools of

something not remembered but that shone.

don't tell your wishes ever or

they'll not come true

was whispered in my every dream

but I'll tell you the Christmas angels cried:

"Fear Not"-

though years of speaking only underwater

made it hard to see

their real words on the page.

I wished that God would take

the snow-bright word my Mother packed me

(along with her sandwiches of butter and sugar)

into a language angels speak-

mary angela douglas 5 october 2009

*reference to the Grimm's fairytale: "Red Rose White Rose"

To Every Poet Every Day

as many times as the spectrum shatters

and undeniable music is disbarred or

never brought to light in the first place

by those who stuff their ears with snow

or anything they find at hand -

only not to hear you-

that many times and more,

a hidden star retracts;

your misread nebula hangs fire-

and the broken poem spins backwards-

bone-china,

off the shelf.

you are left whispering

pure gemstone words

in the aftershock of so much withering.

very real nightingale*, hold on

while hemorrhaging light--

it may be that the Emperor will live

though signs are few and an army of

miscreant words is blocking

is blocking the one good road to the Palace.

God's state of mind and yours

can't be that far apart

whenever you are sifting through the rubble-

beyond all help and

cherishing every shard that

it may be

one piece still of the language

you have left.

oh living the jigsaw Anguish

in this way

are you still there?

mending the broken crockery of worlds:

again?

mary angela douglas 14 september 2009

*reference to Hans Christian Anderson's fairytale: The Emperor's Nightingale

mary angela douglas 14 september 2009

The Snow Sledge Drives Through Lacquered Lands

the snow sledge drives through lacquered lands

and I have lost my way again

biting in half for sustenance

the raspberry chill of former syllables.

Anna Akhmatova: you are in my heart

but the Snow Maid's pastel musings still

could vanish overnight in any country where

darkness singes, mimics light since

beauty is always melting here on earth.

and sometimes by decree.

Anna Akhmatova, you are in my heart

even though I am hardly Russian

and I don't know why your

white flocks have been driven to

my door as though seeking shelter-

in every weather your especial Firebird gleams

fiercely above these scenes of quite human

distress where with each fresh travesty you

do need air to breathe and poetry

to remember who you are

even when burned beyond recognition,

Anna Akhmatova or

standing in the ruins or in

the snow-clouded hands of God-

mary angela douglas 9 september 2009

My Lost Unicorn Wandered Far

[to poetry]
my lost unicorn wandered far
from the tattered tapestry, unseen
to graze in someone else's

dream
the one with the jeweled soul
the one who would eat

from my hand fresh amethysts
every day
poetry, too, is wandering from the world

no longer wanted
living on scraps in
faith-based precints (faith in what - can't they say?)

they're vivid as ice-cream colors
but they can't recall
the King of all bright words and stars.

but there was no vanishing point
in my picture
there was no heraldic distance ever

and I have looked so far to find you
and take you home
while scavengers remained behind

snipping at the last few
shining threads
since they know better

how the chanson should end
being themselves
such household names

but I know how the song begins
and this small glissando
I hid well in my last pocket

against the dread day of your disappearance
these golden threads I have
wept anew, dealing with so much straw:

remembering the promises made to thieves

entreating the King of Heaven
to make your broken music box -

turn again, this way:
let the storied creature
with the kind and crumpling horn

clomp on before your many-hued gaze
led past confetti corridors
and children's best birthday parties -

home.

where you are breathing the color of roses
where you are breathing the color of roses

mary angela douglas 31 august 2009

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