Around The Fairytale's Gemstoned Page

[to my Grandmother, Lucy W. Young, my Grandfather Milton B. Young and to Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm, among others...thank you! and thanks are due to God since as a friend once said, "God gives us the fairytales to show us the way home... "(P.S. To my mother too, of course. Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas, who spoke in syllables of strawberry and utter cream all the time. really.), my charming sister too, daughter of music, Sharon)

around the fairytale's gem-stoned page are sun splattered leaves and berries softening the borders ferny angels lightly penciled in beyond the trees that shift like pedaled dreams 

on the dream piano of the pale blue country lined with gold I pray to someday rescue if I can- pure swans down drifts down these elaborate Capitals on every sunset's page the 

swans revert to children and are saved on the one rock left in the water coloured whirlpools of their sea- and I skip backwards to a small green house with spearmint strip-ed 

awnings or a pink- beige brick with picture windows and mimosa trees... you can't fade away along the borders flushed with glaced roses I won't let you- and every time 

i close my eyes the skies are pleated with your swans the ruby candlestick in Beauty's room drips very lime-green wax all over my small table with the circus scenes. maybe 

for childhood's jam-spooned days, alone, they gathered all those startling coronations, words of best green velvet, I don't know how else the carriage came to be cut from the 

creamy rind of citrus afternoons as if with the golden scissors of a King Hans Christian Andersen it's still me wavering in a pink embroidered dress and golden slippers, 

wobbling near the icy angels with their candle spun whispering as they say: rework the hidden brocades now of all lost feelings, places, courtiers, things- in snowy silence 

heaped with silver lilies...shine... I can't break faith with the fairytale task till vaster kingdoms come and my sister's perfect Chopin bubble clears the pink-white-red azaleaed 

fence while the clouds keep billowing out beneath their clothespins the milk makes butter islands in the oatmeal until- the last sweet early peas are sorted satisfactorily 

from the Milky Way and kept in the stoppered bottle on our etagere, the one the colour of ashes of roses... but will they turn to diamonds in the end or chicken pie you may well 

wonder when the curtains close... Grandmother's playing Liebestraum again in her rose taffeta on a rose taffeta staff she turned to diamond music in the end taking my 

Grandfather's arm and heading upward without her pearl opera glasses but with the Psalms all double scored in moonlight... the day winds down like antique toys in soft 

yellow chenille- the jeweled heart sifts in the furnace the tin soldier cannot reach the tabletop... someday I will learn to live expecting better swans and in your name I'll find the 

lemon latitudes so fine of the summers everywhere now- of the hidden mermaids with a sainted love dissolving into foam... 

mary angela douglas 5 april 2011

Memento Vivere

[in loving memory to my mother, Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas (1927-1993) and

to Sara Teasdale (1894-1933), with abiding respect]

pink marigold suns have slipped away

like the cameo cares of Sara Teasdale

but I am here

with the dove-lapsed valentine

folded up I always meant to

send her, across time-

and the air of St. Louis

crumples like rose parchment

kindling lost kingdomes:

are you there?

as I hold out one cream starched

dawn's particular corner

for you to catch- dim orchards washed-

green rains...

forget-me-nots at tea

I'm dreaming a cloud

like an envelope. sepia-dipped

twice over. filled

with your manifold

weeping harps your sunbursts

but it's delayed, misplaced,

and where

will I really be that

ringed with light again

sustaining when I can

the fleeting imprint of so many violet skies...

here at the orphaned window still

I trace your leaves and lilies through the mist

in tinctured starlight

scrapbook cherished

weighing in scales of pearl the clock face moon

but the afternoon grows older, after all

the tide of wishes turns...

above the noise of mere battlefields

every singed and salvaged word

I praise

and look past

the garnet consolations of the epic dead

to see

white wave on wave

of your delight

bright words

never blind, inlaid

like fires in opal

self-contained

the rainbowed startled reveries (of God)

inferred:

and on - at last-

the unclasped fairytale page unwavering

the heart stenciled postscript of the child

who cried for Beauty

and was heard-

mary angela douglas 13-14 march 2011

*"Latin, remember to live"

Sara Teasdale poet of starlight forgotten later in life was born in St. Louis where I also went to school. My mother loved her poetry as well.

Dim As The Bride

dim as the bride

on the last horizon-

all of my snows were home

they have floated now

like light through veiled prisms breaking;

I'm not called away to their collapse.

the offices on the moon are clouded.

there's no line left to stand in here on earth

all of my snows were true

but now, they freeze into

these pale trajectories of flights dismantled

where green grass doesn't stain

where blue is no longer sky yet-

"bends not with the remover to remove"*

love is not love that bruises

the least snowflake fading

though the windlass fails.

now the pollen of my farthest star

is weeping

and someone's yanked the chain

on the light-bulb moon

lily shadows lily

but all my snows

in soft, bright encore reappear

as I am gathering still

these small waxen words revealed

over a roiling sea...

oh icarus

o Christ.

remember me

mary angela douglas 22-23 february 2011

*Shakespeare sonnet

I Looked Up And All The Stars Were Jasmine

"The call to action last Saturday draw less attention to the Chinese people. However, in Beijing, a man named Liu Xiaobai 25 years old was ambushed by the police when putting jasmine flowers in front of fast food restaurants, especially, McDonald's, which was mentioned as the location of a planned protest, and took some photos there.


"I was very scared when the police took my cell phone. I just put some white flowers. What's wrong with that," said Liu. "I'm an ordinary citizen who love peace."


Security forces intended to arrest Liu previously, but the crowd of journalists initially prevented the arrest. Two other men were also arrested. Not yet clear whether the actions were related to 'Revolution Jasmine'. The arrest took place in Shanghai.


On Sunday, the government went further, reaching the virtual world. Search for the keyword 'jasmine' is blocked in similar micro-blogging site Twitter in China, Renren.com. Not only that, short messaging service via mobile phones are also disturbed."


AP Article found on VIVA newspost Internet Sunday February 20, 2011 after initially hearing about this on BBC Radio
====================================================================================
I looked up and all the stars were jasmine
the moon was veiled in jasmine
the crickets in the dark
sang "jasmine", "jasmine"


in my heart a small white
flower so perfumed
in my heart a small
white flower, delicate, in freedom


bloomed and bloomed.


I looked out and all
the earth was jasmine
folded into Space save in


one place, only-
a poet with one last word to spend
spread a trail of jasmine


and was led away to who
knows where by those afraid
of only flowers.


now the lines on God's own weeping palm
are crossed and crossed again,
but they spell "Jasmine"


and all my tears-
and all my tears-
are jasmine. jasmine.


mary angela douglas 20 february 2011

Many Beautiful Things Are Lost

many beautiful things are lost

in the sea of forgetfulness

and the clipped birds

from fairytale regions

cannot rise

oh bring to me

as of old

the laden ships

and the gold of words spoken

for beauty alone and for no other reason

so that I am not lost

so that I am not lost-

with them-

mary angela douglas 20 february 2011

Unwrapping The Paper Theatre Of The Mind

unwrapping the paper theatre of the mind

see the gold of stardust sifting past

the foiled huntsmen in the distance...

the backyard roses heaped up on the stage

let you know the end of something shines-

but you are too entranced to move

when no wind stirs the whirring pinwheels

and the dolls can't tear their marbly eyes away

from the cardboard angel flittering

in a tiny pink spotlight.

let the colored filters turn their

candied cellophane light,

rickety, on a

single crystal slipper-

though the paper candelabrum blaze

in medias res...

the razzle-dazzled mouse runs down

the semblance of a chime-

it's time to go.

and you can feel

faery music from the battlements

begin, this time, for real-

mary angela douglas 3 february 2011

Experts

[to Emily Dickinson]

teaching the wind to speak

they make a name: the blue jay

feather's forced to float down

clouds like jewels - the rose

to scatter petals pinkly

on the crystal pavement

credited to who knows who;

they're sure to get the world's best prize-

they mine the gold out of the sun

and they will feed

on light forever after

so it seems they have to tell

the bird on the stark unboughten bough

what singing is for-

all things arrive to their own orbit

anyway, bearing a coded music-

bending no rainbowed

showy piano strings just

to prove a point at the concert

having no need of expertise the diamond worlds move on-

mary angela douglas 18 december 2010

Shadows Of Swans, Snow Tears Magisterial

shadows of swans, snow tears magisterial

in this white valentine enfolded are

framed at the window from

which I cannot turn

there are silver apples in the air

will I ever understand

your pure spectacles so soundless

re-enactments of lost stars as they are losing

light

oh what in your mind makes it begin again...

how your heart breaks off

little pieces from a distant

sky to say something, anything

filtered through lace and lace and

mystifying - so that I cannot hear-

but only feel it-

shred your clear crystal flowers from on High

for softest reasons known only to You-

and hush the shadows of swans in me

that want to sing only the ends of the stories, oh-

there are silver apples on the air

this winter in Shalott let the wind through the

syllables of trees

stand still-

mary angela douglas 7 december, 4 december 2010

Letter To St. Catherine (Of Sienna)

sienna's stars look down on me.

St. Catherine-

from pitch-true tiles of pink and green

on crumbling walls in a picture book

I trace-

camelia faces of the early martyrs

torn from very light

though leaning into a wind I cannot see-

they're still - still - shining...

like a crystal that can't quite dissolve-

lean out of a crackling anguish

I cannot explain-

fix on a vision barely

out of view in

this mosaic's span

with faces kind

like home, as you remember it-

the distance widens and

I'm by myself, rehearsing no

brief candle's exit

but praying sotto voce at the

temp agencies God please get

me out of here from so

many office windows vistaless;

bring the ladder of prismatic light

and lead me out in my

robin's egg blue dress

a thin disguise but you will understand

I'm in the color of your sky-

reading the clockface wrong

and in disgrace-

but gold slips through the interstices

of cracked venetian blinds though everything

else excoriates-

and whispers that I'm not in trouble-

and there's a word I want to say

if only I knew how-

to crack the

strange veneer of this captivity:

that it's the moon washed gold to silver

through clouds good angels hold in place

for such a little while

and poppy red is a

dress for Christmas Eve that crackles like

a new bought star you can't put on yet: you're

hiding your old paint-box under "P"

and clutching the rose-threaded book of

hours they must - not - see...

I'll see again

through white enameled rain

the rainbowed sequenced eyelash

I cannot explain

the radiance on the wall of my lost islands.

let steps on the pavement fade

and history's parchments

matter less and less than

purloined arrows bouncing off the sun-

there's nothing in the mail

when you get off the bus and run

toward a beryl glory richly rung

where once the noise of shadows

swallowed prayer

and lied: "The King is Dead".

let lesser kings brush by to your dismay

the rose eclat of your

lost teardrop's

coda smudged...

and the unopened envelope

stranded on the table

like a lost country.

Castaway, they're leaving

their last scar

said His decree,

on purple unruled paper-

I'll be the child

of white cathedral rains

released from school

and pearl-drenched in the end

and on the very page

a snowy word waits for me

in a poppy colored light

a nosegay,

valentine set in bloom

paper-airplane blown from God's own

curio hand and spiraling past the

campanile in the picture

at the right place in the music

so that childish classroom voices

chime out "o-oh...!"

and doubled up in velvet of

the Princess' train and still

in love with God you're finding

all you can't explain leaning

out of the window set with jewels

who could replace-

and off to the side and smiling

barely out of view

with raspberry shrub fresh-made

on the Christmas porch

with golden chicken salad golden apple laced

on haloed toast points, lightly buttered

with wax paper greetings - marbled cake

with a scrolled and silver music still unwinding

sprung from an anguish I cannot explain,

the cherished faces wreathed in pink and green

you missed from home-

mary angela douglas 6-7, 10 november 2010

Green Violins

GREEN VIOLINS

green violins are drifting near the sun

I think of clouds as Marc Chagall

tipping his thick fingerpaint colors

over.

it runs together in my mind

with oil-spun opals on the concrete

or mirrored puddles I walk by-

concocting always other skies.

and Bella, with hidden lilies in her eyes

composed and bridal as before

and the confetti roses raining.

and rising over rooftops after rain

is a corsage of lilac...

her last tear.

it's living through these shifting rainbows here

springing up again - I know that

I'll survive:

holding my pitcher's terra cotta

up to the fountaining sky-

reading the holograph upside down while

hoping to catch one green violin

with spiraling music rose rose red

or the flowing parachute moon

as it sails down

the clockface of the clotted

clouds and citadel,

dissolving;

the sequined-velvet pear just ripe

from ever and ever the

tree of night

and sewn like a charm

at riddle's end unraveling,

shaken out of a dream you

won't remember

you'll be reminded

by a torn-out scrap

so evident to you then

as the tear-stained apple-green scrawl

of the Pirate's best hand with

one tiny diadem's cornered clue remaining:

for the almost perfect fingering of the blue viola-

or a single fretted silver day-

mary angela douglas 28 october 2010;20 may 2024

STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

I am fully commited to the beauty of the English language: both to the lyrical tradition in English and American poetry and to the English-speaking world, in all its mythical and infinite variations, as well as to the beauty of translation into English of the world-wide lyric from other languages: from the beginning of poetic and literary history through the present age.

For inspiration, in terms of setting the bar for the model of perseverance and spiritual courage, I cannot find anything higher than the Russian Poets of the Silver Age of Russian poetry: specifically, Anna Akhmatova, Boris Pasternak, and Osip Mandelstam (as well as countless others, known and unknown) who continued writing under the horrors of Stalin despite public humiliation, scorn and never-ending shame- only for writing non-political, singing, anguished and lovely poems; proving beyond any shadow of a doubt that what threatens dictators the most is the simple, individual soul and voice of the artist - something that may be overlooked in a highly technical age -

and should - not - be-

I dedicated my poetry blogsite to them as a way of promulgating this understanding - but I am continually looking for other examples of this in all other cultures and time frames as near or far as the motif of the rose in Persian poetry...

In an age that often skewers (unknowingly, I believe) and obscures this, I want to remind myself of the value of Seeking unashamedly, and with no apologies - the values of Beauty, Truth and Goodness-

In this most positive sense, the ideal of the poet-warrior must not be abandoned in any generation. No matter what happens, it must transmitted and carried forward.

I know that this is the truth and I will never believe anything but this to be true. People have died for this. They must not be allowed to die for nothing.

I stake my life on this, frail and imperfect as it is-

Mary Angela Douglas
in the Year of Our Lord 2010

in the United States of America, forever - under God and with
the freedom to say this and for those whose works perished with them to be published in Eternity.
copyright 2011

To A Young Artist Anywhere

to a young artist, anywhere and to the poet, George Herbert fill the sky with stars, your very own: rose arias, soft green galaxies- a periwinkle moon no matter what they say inlaid with a mango music always on beneath the surface of your matchless dreams believe the dark green stains of the moon on so much dewy grass you must walk barefoot in! any weather- any distance- I tip my rose-tipped hat to you! through roads not strewn with moonlight read psalms, not tea leaves- don't despair- pray in every color all the time survive all disrespect- tending the stark bright lilies of your mind as Christ when all alone did- flame on towards the true-hearted bier of your last words on the subject- working out the inward scarlet drumming of your soul, fight your fear as others did, before you- God willing may you rise on your own Easter day with brand new things to say- in Gold- mary angela douglas 26 october 2010

A Un Artista En Cualquier Lugar

llena el cielo con las estrellas

sus propias-

arias rosas, galaxias suaves y verdes

la luna vincaperivinca

digan lo que digan

incrustada con una musica de mango

siempre playando

debajo de la superficie de sus suenos sin igual

creen a las manchas de color verde oscuro

de la luna

sobre la hierba humeda de rocio tanto

hay que andar descalzado-

cualquier tiempo-

cualquier distancia-

me quito el sombrero de rosa adornado

a ti-

a traves de las carreteras no sembrado de luz de la luna

lee a los salmos y no las hojas de te

no te desesperes-

ora - en todos los colores todo el tiempo

hay que sobrevivir a todos la falta de respeto

como Cristo lo hizo cuando solo-

queda usted llamando

hasta la andes del verdadero corazon?

de tus palabras ultimas al sujeto,

hacia el interior escarlata de tu alma

de tambor

lucha contra su miedo

como lo hiciero otros antes de usted.

si Dios lo quiere, puede resucitar

en su propio dia de Pascua-

con cosas nuevas que decir en oro.

mary a. douglas translation 28 june 2011

THE KITCHEN MAID REMEMBERS THE EMPEROR'S NIGHTINGALE

THE KITCHEN MAID REMEMBERS THE EMPEROR'S NIGHTINGALE

once more I stand

before the palace wall

my chores half-finished

to hear the nightingale singing

as if it were

the last time at the dim window

and all the little griefs compounded

and the storm clouds

above the Emperor's chamber

turn into fields of

white violets before my eyes.

and there is somehow a liquid

ladder of jewels near the veranda

I could climb to anywhere and

no one could call me back;

then I look down at my

embroidered apron in surprise.

the Emperor hangs onto life,

his every tear worth half-a-kingdom,

and the hidden trill is everywhere now:

it settles slightly in my heart

as if it mattered that a

twig could break.

color washes back into the scene

well-played - down and down the cherry sought

orchards on towards the riverbank of lost delights

beyond-

the fine-edged iridescence

of a small departure only I noticed.

I never heard music like that again

though I lived on:

sifting the snapdragon shadows

on gold-dimmed afternoons;

calling to God when the willow-ware dusk

poured into porcelain skies-

bidding the firefly angels all, goodbye-

mary angela douglas 22 october 2010

Ivory

standing before the space where

poems may come

you dodge the thrift of

ravens overhead the blue ribboned kind

of wounding competitions

seen and unseen

the withered branches

branching

it is

held in the heart like snow

almost appearing-

very near

in the shade of ghosted apples

they can't pick

in the frost-

tipped syllables backstage

or in the hold of a ship

they'll never sail the

blue crystal distances

you understand-

without being told

and the next gold radiance you

hear will slip, alas! from view

down down and down the dead words

told to much applause by vague

passersby who live to silence

who can say what as long as they're ahead:

the jeweled watch unjeweled

the sentries astonished-

the gnashing instant the

rose is tipping so ivoire into

ceaseless light

you catch in your weeping hands-

mary angela douglas 26 october 2009