I Am Certain That Jesus Was Not That

I am certain that Jesus was not that
person walking down a dusty road
in an immaculate robe, in Cinemascope

that he was not could never be
whatever it is that you think he was
while worshipping before altars

ornamented in gold.
he was a quieter gold.
he cherished the heart of people,

things. small flowers on the hillside.
the olive groves.
I know he has been depicted otherwise

but Jesus in my heart
never wears this disguise.
he is all candlelit within, his own

secret Christmas.
this I thought as a little girl.
when I felt his presence on

every wind.
and in my Easter frame of mind
when the air is heavy with springtime

I think of him as I knew him then:
King of the beautiful,
and my friend.

mary angela douglas 15 april 2017

Note on the Poem: Although the poem in some way critcizes the depiction of Jesus in the movies I do want to add that I admire every effort made whether in film, literature or song to depict Jesus. And there is something valuable in every depiction. My favorite movie of all those made in the 1950s and early 1960s is the film Barrabus. Fantastic in every aspect, a fictionalized account of the life of the thief whose life was spared instead of Jesus according to the Gospels and the custom of the time. There is a moment in that film where Barrabus on his way out the prison door comes across Jesus who has his back to the camera and is in sorry shape just beginning to shoulder the cross. Jesus catches his eye and you can infer in an incredible way the expression of Jesus face as he looks at Barrabus by the reflected glory in the actor Anthony Quinn's face. An incredible moment in the history of depictions on Jesus on film and in the annals of acting. In this one scene where we only "see" Jesus by the response of Barrabus and his emotional response mirrored in his face we have, I believe, the truest depiction of the character and personality and magnaminity of Christ. It is simply astonishing.

Before The Voyage

maybe you packed the wrong things:
the sequined shoes, the lamp that can't go out
the diary of Moroccan leather

the dress for any weather
figured in stars
the map of who you are

not were, witch hazel
for the bruises of time
assorted rhymes and candies.

the three wishes folded
into a plain handkerchief
an opal ring and patchworked things

for patchy occasions.


it's late now anyway it's Spring
the gang plank's down
the sun

and all you thought you'd won
shines in a mist like a dream
that recently fled

before you woke.
before you wake again
mid liquid after notes of birds

you'll remember the lillied verse
your Grandmother pressed into your hand,
the silver edged Testament:the worsted

purse with the little pansies.
everything is dandy Grandfather says

the flower fades but not the Word.
despite the rest of all you've heard or will hear
oh my dear

under His handmade firmaments.

mary angela douglas 15 april 2017

You In Your White Dresss Crying

you in your white dress crying
will you later appear in a painting by the
Impressionists, a cloud in the poet's

sky will you be transformed
you at the Graduation with your gardenia flare
or pausing for a moment on the stair

your hair braided with the gold
of a vagrant Light.
you will take flight in your white dress

at best from all life's indignities
however you are remembered.
clear to your own fingertips

in that elaborate anguish you possess,
possessed, from the Beginning.
and disappear and disappear

time and again through the grottos
where you have laid your lilies down
in the fitful grasses for one instant only

quicker than lightning how it all passess...

so that only the fictive fragment
remains for the general audience.

mary angela douglas 15 april 2017

Castle Keep

when you're the only one awake in the castle
it's you that's got to keep the clocks running
the winds from winding down

the sun in its corner just behind the moon.
change places everyone you'll call out
just before the salmon tinted dawn

and you know you're the one to do it.
how late the courtiers sleep
but you don't falter

never earning your keep
because really they don't pay you
except in shepherd pies

the occasional apricot compote.
what is the life beyond the trees
the seas and the seas of the trees

so green is this April
and you would like to know
but you are the keeper of the snows.

mary angela douglas 14 april 2017

Another Poem To Sylvia

to the poet Silvia Plath, wishing it had been otherwise
and the great Greek scholar, Edith Hamilton...

impeccably lyrical they may say in the current day
and I say too having read you a few years later
after your demise and I say now:

a lightning bolt among the tepid confessionals
of the day your poetry

a charge that illuminates the Heavens
on its way to extinction
sylvia what's in a name

that could so confound
your verses were already this way
what was the rationale

that they could not say so
while you were still among us
and why did you struggle so

to be more widely in print
imprinted as you were with diamond alacrity.
I wonder if

you might have lived
had they not in envy?
barred the way to your daemonic instancy

until at last you become
this self immolating machine
where the Muse and the mask were done

and done
in a poetry that blazed
and fused The Greek Way

with your vivid anguish to a seamless seem
the mask becomes your face
in a display never equaled 

this was no longer comparable
with anything anyone anywhere
in the slick magazines

the sleek coteries

beyond Grace
a furious pace and you pace around the Sun
half burned already

and the chariots of the sun
plunge down

and thus 
in the London flat
with the gas light on you become a legend

where you already might have been one
had things been different

and all that you could sing or say ever after
is a grave
your grave

the victory of the insipid
over the Beautiful.

mary angela douglas 12 april 2017

Note On The Poem: Certainly as a poet AND a human being, most definitely as a person who is unashamedly a believer in God and in Jesus Christ as my saviour I am not nor have I ever been a person who wanted to take my own life. Not even in the slightest.

Nor am I a fan AT ALL of poems that would seem to encourage this.
Or of the current trend for decades now of Sylvia Plath imitators.
Whatever I write about in a poem I believe in leaving the light on in the poem and in providing the very valid escape hatch of beauty even in perhaps depicting a difficult situation or frame of mind.

However, I do personally believe that if the strong poetic gift of Sylvia Plath had been appropriately acknowledged in the U.S. as it was in Britain she herself would have turned more to the light in her own poetry, given time.

And I also believe that poetry in the U.S. suffered at that time from an overemphasis on distancing itself from emotional, lyrical epxression on ANY subject and is still suffering from that. I believe on a positive level both within herself and in her poetry Sylvia was trying to breach that wall and we all needed that wall to come down and for the pure lyric voice in poetry to once again fountain and flow in all its colours. Instead through a false sense of modernity, a faux scientific objectivity, poetry became quite stagnant and the lyric tradition in American poetry was virtually abandoned.

I DO NOT want my poem on Sylvia to be read in any other way. Because it is not intended in any other way. I believe in the end she would have been a life affirming person, that she loved poetry, she loved being a poet and she loved her children. Poets of much lesser talent were elevated in the literary magazines of the time where her talent was not and this was for her a final blow. Much in the same way John Keats suffered.

Of course each person is responsible in the end for fighting through whatever there is to fight in order to make their contribution. But something needs to be corrected in the American arts where the cream truly is allowed to rise to the top. And this is ongoing...

We Build On A Flood (But Not Forever)

life is strange.

we build on a flood,

thinking ourselves snug

and the whole time, washed away.

time is stranger

meeting ourselves at some beginnings again

or seeming to, all ribbons maypole waving

and there the bridge gives way,

the little sticks.

but we will build again one day;

there where the planets wash gold to green,

to reds and blues like gummed stars

over our pianoforte pieces used to, Shine!

when we played well.

who can tell when?

we'll sigh like the roses

in the flower beds again

when the warmer winds come through;

exult with the backyard larks that

winter's gone forever now, away

while we spy on every hand

each familiar gleam beckoning us,

pretend it’s already here

through our tears fast fading

and learn to say

there in the peachbright morning,

ah, there's Land again, and free.

mary angela douglas 1 september 2016 rev. 12 april 2017

The Boat Of Dream

your shadows loom on the wall
but you yourself are small
and the moon is cool

through the silvery trees
the sun is not
except the winter sun

that you forgot
can be silver high in the sky
and inside look as warm as June

from your old room
but in the snows
it's cold you know

the sun you used to
call by amber names all last summer
and carnivaled candy appled

carameled
you don't feel well
as if you suddenly outgrew

the crystal shoes
the quests in fairy tales
the crimson sails

of the boat of Dream.

mary angela douglas 11 april 2017

From The Book Of What Will Become Of Us

birds will fall out of the sky

not the birds of fable

the earth will become unstable

also the stars

so that you won't know 

where you are anymore

unless you're still at work

dirt will become fine gold

so that no household

should be dusted anymore

leaving the children time to play

with the falling stars all Saturday

to bury the birds

with small ceremonies

and flowers.

to breathe wreaths of conversation

into the air for hours

before a new Ice Age descends.

to bicycle everywhere or pretend

to eat raspberry ice

in between meals on a dare.

to know how it feels

to live unanchored and not to care

except I adore you, oh Lord

to gaze at the three scoops of ice cream

in the children's magazine

always mint, pink, and chocolate

on the page opposite the puzzle

you will not get to solve

before your parents come for you

so that you will always wonder

how would it have all turned out?

let it all resolve into the dream of what we were then

before calamities set in

and the world was still sequined

mary angela douglas 10 january 2017 rev. 10 april 2017

On The Lily Pond Centuries Later

how indigenous these rocks, that clay
perhaps they say in a half baked dream I had
one day and I laugh at my mud pied dreaming

indigenous lovely word indigenous
yes we all are
native to this place

these rocks these waves
these summer days
and I glide off like Alice

on the lily pond
trailing my hand in the waters in
a frock just made for the occasion

light as light itself
and embroidered.
how will I learn to say

I wonder when I am small
such great good things
in a golden way

except by listening to each word
carefully tasting it like a cherry
lozenge making it last

all day, for years,
even centuries...

mary angela douglas 10 april 2017

How Should The Sand In The Oyster On Dislay

how should the sand in the oyster on display
garner the rainbows and the pearl intaglios
how

should the orange cream dripping of the sun
down the kindergarten page not be
praised

the brushtrokes of the moon
on velvet waters
I have seen the gladioli recitals

shine the dress circle carnations won
entwined with little rosebuds
and the petticoats layered

and this is dancing said the little ones
litlte ladies in their gloves
cast out adrift

later on later on
who will depress the pedal in the right measure
in the precise measures of beauty

the piano is sold the silver the onyx ring
with its one diamond star
is far afield

and the National Geographics garish with Coke ads
the cola spilled the glass rings on the coffee table
none to scold

I am old
I have looked in the glass
at last I have seen the end

of old familiar things
the antiques sent into space
and Grace has fled

ah no the Christmas angels said
you have the stars

mary angela douglas 10 april 2017

Panoply for Lucy

"the grass withers, the flower fades.
but the word of our God will stand forever.'

Isaiah 40:8


to my Grandmother, Lucy W. Young

are we tourists or do we seem
to want to be more in the
accident of dreams

in the full fledged formulas revealed
or does the incidence of roses gauge
the gardens green

the rainbows furled over violet vast
oceans, tbe courtyard fans fluttering.
the grey doved sonnets shirred.

basting the words on the hemline

of the sheen
of suns of stars of anything
grandmother was a girl in silver

once upon in her light shoes amused
at the glint of rain on pavements

in old paintings
film left in the cameras too long
and lightning struck

or peach starred on a blueberry background,
dusk that must come to the children in the yard
will she think hard and be acclaimed

or merely fade away an ornament of Time
and the near distances not on the concert stage
Chime! and the clocks come out to play

in a nursery way in the pink light nightlight
and the fluff of ancient feathers down the hall down draft
in the sunlight beams

as if from the Firebird.
my ballets.
my visions of tulle and the amethyst tiaras

the bows taken FROM the last gardenia stage
and the old South chastened going North to heaven
the East met West displays

in the firecracker dark the grass.must fade, fade, fade

mary angela douglas 9 april 2017;1 july 2019

Not To Be Driven Back Again

I stepped over the milk white paling
and the song rounded as cherry o and through
the emerald refraction of the leaves

in the waters of a dream
then I was free.
there with no words to be understood

no shields to be secured
nor causes left.
there must surely be

that place
a little way away
from where we used to gaze

small children through the
panes of frost.
are you lost

someone failing to understand
will ask us there
on the cusp

and we'll say nothing that we must
of cherry round
nor sing but stray

and know that we've found it
and must haste away
not to be driven back again.

mary angela douglas 7 april 2017

Strawberry Quartz, Home For A Day

oh mama come back I just found out today
there's a stone called strawberry quartz
and we'll eat strawberries and cream to celebrate

or watch the creeks turn the colour of moonstone
listen to the creak of the green porch swing in the breeze
or stay inside and read

old magazines, chivalric novels

while the rains pour
into the gardens we could have owned
if flowers could be.

flowers could be this instant
floating down like their own parachutes
from the mimosa trees in the front yard

and we too without trying too hard
could be dressed in similar pinks and greens
admiring the strawberry quartz mise en scene

or cutting out valentine schemes with pearlized scissors
from left over construction paper of a rose rose red,
paper lace doilies.

I have said
a lot in the intervening years.
just for your seashell ears

and questions too semi sparkling
I've saved up...with the bone china
and vending machine cakes, delectable!

just for this afternoon

for instance, I'd like to know
if it's not too soon,

is Heaven built with semi precious stones
on lesser avenues?
here's strawberry quartz for you.

take it back in your transparent pockets

and dessert too.
I'll go to the store
for pink divinity...

the courts of Heaven will wait for you.

mary angela douglas april 7 2017

The Return To Singing

[to the poet, William Blake to the Pearl Poet

to Time itself...]

I saw the milk white pearl dissolve

that shone like gold in the mouth of God

the hidden Word of the year to come

the glory of the foreign tongue in translation:

for Beauty has become foreign here.

the letter that you wrote to God

on both sides of the paper.

the midnight nation tried to sleep.

without the dream of God,

we sighed, in rusting armor.

the seraph sleeved departed.

old tears have latched onto the winds,

and it hurts most of all what

the green glide of the Holy Ghost surmises.

that we could have lost our only friend

Jesu, in you.

the Word beads jeweled in the dark

the one He pressed into your heart

the one that sparkles before speaking.

oh speak me into Light I cried

that I may trace the bride of language coronated

through a thousand May times,

the milk white Pearl instead of sin,

the new made Heaven, cherubim,

the haunting of the world

made sane.

the solace of the sweeping rains

that herald exorbitant Spring.

the page torn out of a child's notebook,

like an angel's wing, snow-breathed into existence:

lily of the valley sheen

hand print in plaster, and rosied thing,

the return to singing.

mary angela douglas 9 january 2017

History

we felt history a mere turning of the leaves
the red and gold of the beads unstrung
of the necklacing around us come undone

and the copper 

sun's crying into the silver cloth of clouds
for what could not be found
for the shadows of the flights

going over us in the turquoise air
and the doll finery coming apart
and I have the key to the jewelry box heart

and I will turn it in a plaid cotton dress
and the sash untied on the way home from school
and the golden rules unbroken.

or carry the milk tokens into a careful land
with one hand practicing the scales of opal
while the other hand weeps musicless

for the rainbow starred page
the acute brightness of the afternoons
and the strewn gold the cold of apples

in the fairy tale
with the inset moons
in the ebony dark

where we depart
in the summer grass
on the appliqued day

called suddenly away...

mary angela douglas 3 april 2017

The End Of Measuring, Being Measured Is The Beginning Of Learning

I saw old test scores shredded and what we yearned to know
descend like a diamond dust or like a Christmas snow
and the school tomb measured for someone else's life

departed

because from your heart you learned by heart
and not to promulgate the Dark Ages
and not to tune yourself for wages,

strange lyre that you were then
to the Master Musician and his friends or hers,
or was it, colleagues, generally speaking.

how I wish that what we were measured then
could disappear from off the charts
of oddly diagnosed ills

and may they swallow their own pills
as though it had never been.

I wish the stars falling all around us then
in our best dreams
could suffice

for all we hoped for
opening the books each autumn, winter, spring
that were ours alone to find, to go within

to know in a golden hour, alone.

mary angela douglas 2 april 2017

We Are All the Petals To Come

the instant will come, and has it already
said the child in blue tugging at my skirt
when no one will withstand the tide of Beauty

flower falling upon flower out of  the skies
of the tree boughs arching high
where we walk slowly, you and I entranced

let the children climb and live among the bowers

of the flowers, amid the pink and peach
the pearl and the plum, violet violet
let the children run fresh petaled

then will the ships come home
and the seas churn violets themselves
mirroring the skies

where cloud flowers mirror the earth
and the angels sigh
that we speak in flowers

there being no dearth of poetry

each word a flower, a bud, and trellising forever
and this is the flower world
and all the aprils and the mays together

and the wedding of the world
the banquet savored
the pink and gold cakes and the festooned

and oh said the child in blue

all the pastel moons through the trees
all once upon!

mary angela douglas 2 april 2017

The Backyard Of The Iris

the backyard of the iris,
all the stars
the rakes the green

garden chairs
are they still there
we wondered moving on

no longer fitting into
the pink seersucker dress
or the lemon striped

the velvet nights at home.

was it a dream that I saw violets
in the woods near school
or stood entranced

in an April sun
conscious of nothing, and no one
only the breeze through the open screen.

have I wept the years away undreamed
so that the colours of these fade
or watercolored, wash away

worn thin?

still I recall the fingerpaint instants when:
thumbprints of blue and red and green

on glossy paper glowed

more vivid than stained glass or Rose

and distinct angels in all the music drifting
from my Grandmother's pianos

past all beauty that is possible...

oh earth, earth, you turned too soon...leaving leaving
the rose beige divan in the living room
the aqua glaze on the lamp

the apricot sash
and the afterschool wanded

afternoon.


mary angela douglas 1 april 2017

Where The Rose Is No Longer Found

where the rose is no longer found
nor the green trees in the wind
I have been bidden to go.

and I have packed the snows
and the vials of the sun
that when they come

I will have melted away.
from gazing at the clock on the wall
I have been freed

to dreaming there is nothing at all
to be heeded any longer
from those who command me to leave

though the rose petal scatter of my heart my heart
would seem to indicate otherwise.

thus I will take up my treasure
of the grey sky
turning imperceptibly to opals,

of the musical complaint of the rain.
and they will think me poor and lost or lame.

and though I seem to tilt my head
to the letter of their law and acquiesce
and have no rest from their harrying

laughing where they can't hear me
I am, at your behest
oh Lord of the jeweled ferrying.


mary angela douglas 1 april 2017