Rose Of Anonymity Rose

rose of anonymity rose

of my lost way

setting aside your

incomplete legends

I attribute to you

these few rose quotations

may you forgive my

sighs incarnadine; rose

of a depth so singular

burning tigers cannot

rend you but

if they should, your

martyred shadow still

will be

beyond the dimming

battle lines

unfolding my last heart.

the word most dazzling I

dedicate to you wherever

it is the poem that

flares on its own

matchless as your clear Artisan

in a swirl of lost calligraphy

my small bright universe enfolded

crimson beyond all crimsons

register every shade

addressing and enduring

every negligent age

mary angela douglas 17 november 2008

When Will The White Birds Rise

when will the white birds rise

from an alien music

when will the spell

burn off and their

widening cadence free

the radiance hardly missed-

the mute years ,

uncherished solace?

when will the white words rise

like snow lifted upwards

into a dome-like Heavenly requital

by winds so deeply

filled with stars?

bright as a bridal evanescence

a fragile opalescence, over-spun

suddenly to anyone appearing

through the sheer skies that have no need

no longer thrash with wings

your still-born air

everything there is to bear

already has been borne

and light is near:

let lamentation die

and swerve, swerve away

from the ancient coasts of sorrow

(and tears inlaid with tears)

when the white birds rise

mary angela douglas 28 october 2008

*refering to the Celtic myth "The Children of Lir"

Praising The Book People

["the faint whisper of a turned page"

-Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451]

would you sell your heart's desire

would you chop it up for

firewood in the bitter cold

or throw it over the bridge,

sparking futile distances,

to spare yourself?

how would you choose,

sensing the end was near,

from all these things so rare:

what to pawn

what to carry on your back,

kind refugees of this beleagured Word?

there is a library of the mind

where books like jewels shine

where we could surpass

the farthest runners to the edge of Light

leaning over the rim of its deep well

whenever a second universe appears.

not to betray this universe,

to shield it from inquisitional fire

or the permafrost of

brutal disregard

we choose this role, even to be lost,

tearing out the blank pages of ourselves

inscribing them with ink that

can't be traced

in love with cherry-scaped language

we'll memorize it all

warned in dreams to depart

another way,

bartering life for art

reading reading reading to

fuse the broken continents within

beauty and truth, once again,

our touchstone

through harsh midnights of sheer

inarticulation

we stand guard

refusing to stone the messengers

sheltering angels, unaware

weaving bright meaning

into our banished souls

as on the first day

mary angela douglas 13 october 2008

Throwing My Soul From

["just because I'm losing

doesn't mean I'm lost."

-Coldplay]

throwing my soul from

this semi-burning building

forgetting the luggage of

clouds as they pass by

I won't demand anything

talking underwater to those

still on dry land,

my voice is bent like

light and there are

arrows through every heart

like Valentine's day in grade-school

the crayon clouds stay,

unable to depart, while

everyone else flows away

but I'm hanging my water-logged valentines out to dry

and making each eviction

count for something

at least, on paper

even though I know

I will land too softly for anyone to cry

without breaking apart

without feigning anything

without wounding:

the shining lawns remaining_

mary angela douglas 26 october 2008

A Cherry Tree Wind Was Blowing

a cherry tree wind was blowing

Mary Poppins will not depart

the children will be good forever

even when the windows rattle

from wars that can't be helped

nothing falls from the shelf.

they will eat their cherry cobbler

sitting straight up in their chairs

when the cherry wind is blooming

and a beatific light sets the weather vanes on fire

with no harm done-

and everything is as charming as pink cakes

on blue plates and the story's not

adjourned-

the war is won.

I'm breaking off this barley sugar, eclaired poem for you

and the gilt stars are pasted back in Heaven

where they belong

mary angela douglas 17 august 2008/rev. 15 november 2009

El Vieno Soplaba Del Cerezo

 el viento soplaba del cerezo

Mary Poppins no se apartara(accent on last a)

los ninos van a ser buenos para siempre

aun cuando han tintineado las ventana-

de las guerras que no se puede evitar

nada cae el estante.

que van a comer su pastel de cereza

y sentado recta en sus sillas

cuando el viento es la cereza en flor

y una luz beatifica incendia a las veletas

sin dano.

y todo se ecanta como pasteles de rosa

en platos de azul.

a la historia no se levanto la sesion y

se gano la guerra.

estoy rompiendo este poema de

azucar de cebada para ti

y las estrellas doradas se pegan de nuevo

en el cielo

donde pertenecen.

mary angela douglas translation july 5, 2011 of original English poem 20 august 2008 (pub.)

That Is The Script They Hand You

that is the script they hand you

but this is the one you use

please keep in mind

this distinction whenever you are

gazing over yet another precipice-

watch whose words are streaming from your mouth

when your crenellated soul is

so in danger of being

ironed out permanently

that flag is the color of snow

raised in a milky sky

you can't salute

what you don't see:

be careful

mary angela douglas 20 august 2008

Elaborating This Kingdom Of Silence

elaborating this kingdom of silence

the dream-snow settles down

everywhere is a marvel

and the fragile song arises

with no witnesses

against the backdrop

of yesterday's distress

the burden of words is light

and fused with light,

beyond all sorrow, hushed-

your heart fills up with snow

mary angela douglas 9 august 2008

There Are Many Rooms

there are many rooms

but only one soul

there are many scenes

on your revolving stage

there is a curtain that

blows in and out

if you cross the room

and open the window

looking for

forgotten consolations like the scent of

spring air

dreams rush in with the wind

everytime and you couldn't explain

to anyone if you were asked:

"...the first dream or the last?"

it's not the sequence you care about

there is your

suspension of belief and then:

the many-tiered music begins again

mary angela douglas 9 august 2008

If I Carry No Dream Inside

if I carry no dream inside

how can I live through

the carrion day?

if I believe the news

of endless conflagration

how will I ever unfold

to you this

path of sheer moonlight,

or recite old poetry even with

my eyes closed and recite it

so well

new nightmares are dispelled

and you are calmed?

there are many reasons

to doubt the starry way

but how else could it ever be

that we continue breathing?

mary angela douglas 9 august 2008

I Kept Your Legend

I kept your legend

in a golden jar

behind the throne of God

even on days I was clearly

too familiar

with the briars emeshing the castle

and an ever-widening distance

rippling too far out....

anyway bright angel standing on the pier

there will be a moment

I will not evade like the ones in old paintings

when the first rose opens overhead

in such a coded sky

when Light streams down like a ladder

where angels ascend and descend

continually

and the unfraught world unfurls-

mary angela douglas 9 august 2008

We Are Stricken

we are stricken

and we don't know how

to heal ourselves

without invisible music-

listen to the coolness

of clouds

hold them against your

forehead when you're sick;

string them on your

brightest tree and you are

branching, too, like the sheer

snow branches and then

falls away through all the

fairytale woods...

but you

are ornamented beyond these finite fields.

you will go back the

amber way you came-

and shine-

mary angela douglas 9 august 2008

Lament Of The Jewel-Box Ballerina

help I'm stuck in here

not even turning on a

doll's thin dime

what's she going to spend

it on, anyway

I guess you haven't gone

anywhere lately

requiring jewels so no one's

letting any light in here;

you just can't wear them to

pick up pork chops

but try to understand

my predicament:

it's stifling standing still

all day even if

you're dressed in tulle

besides I might forget

how to twirl and

then where would we be; it's

really dark in here;

the pearls are scaring me

they're gargantuan!

and I can't ward them off

with that one tinny, tiny tune

I can barely remember

Please!

OPEN THE LID!!!

mary angela douglas 23 july 2008

There Needs To Be A Second Country

there needs to be a second country

where you can go when you're

more than half worn out from

this one

where no one follows orders

since none are given

where no one's existence

must be justified by

paying bills

where there is light

where there is air where

freedom does not disguise

a thousand petty tyrannies

where no one requires

center stage just to sing

you a song

where the grass is allowed to grow

without a neighborhood watch and also,

the soul

mary angela douglas 5 august 2008

Sleeping Where There Were

sleeping where there were

no stars, we all dreamed of them

anyway

and the light green rustling

overhead

was a music not

everyone could hear

in my dream I tread

on starlight by mistake

but light was never

wounded

or put out-

mary angela douglas 30 july 2008

Walking Straight Into The Fairytale Frame

walking straight into the fairytale frame

I collided with stars and

golden cobwebs

no one took me seriously

but I didn't care:

there was so much room there-

to breathe

mary angela douglas 8 july 2008

THE BEAUTY OF WHAT IS DIFFICULT

THE BEAUTY OF WHAT IS DIFFICULT

the beauty of what is difficult

flows far beyond our hands 

it bubbles in streams

where there are no fish

no container can contain it

you don't even wish for it

you wouldn't know what to call it

and wishes must have names

to be pinned like butterflies

in a landscape where even

the clouds can't move

oh but it's not on anyone's map

or payroll

but descends like some green dream

dead-center in midwinter

and you, you were so drear

or like snow when you

thought, "swelter"

swift and instantaneous

though you watched for it by

your sad windows long

centuries

unbidden by even

the quickest, dearest knowledge

eluding the heart to the point of

despair

then doubling back the

difficulty of what is beautiful,

the poem, among other things, unsaid.

walking backwards into your new

life you thought with trepidation brighter

and better than before than

any precarious, quicksilver, late-lamented

but do not lament or brace

yourself for really bad news

it's too diamond-flecked it's marigold undimmed

this, ever after forever will be

spliced on a reel

that we're not turning

just this beautiful

just this difficult

my friend

mary angela douglas 24 july 2008

On The Assassination Of Benazir Bhutto 12/27/07

here let us chronicle the

futile detonations

of the Rose

in every age, the same

who is standing guard

oh stand with me on this

bridge of air on the sharp blade

of a world-wide

intake of breath suspended

only don't look down-

take my hand

don't take my hand

it doesn't matter

in the country of Benazir

the heart of the Rose is

shattered again

the heart of the word

a golden script signed off on

mid-sentence

a math problem for the more astute;

how many armies would it take to defend her

and:

if such a heart could not be defended,

what are these garrisons for

let the stars collapse inward

to gather ebbing light

for the rose is broken

from the Stem we

occupied unbelievable space

as the shadows in your eyes darkened

prefiguring death

unbelievable space as

the heart of the Rose stood still

at close range

not at close range?

it doesn't matter when

even at a distance we

hear the ripped mantle of

weeping

as though it were in the next room

take my hand

do not take my hand

I would fall from this

bridge of air, alone

or lean into the wind from

the high tower of sorrow

to learn your radiance

let these frail

improvisations endure

the wide-world over

the soul is sovereign over

every terror

the soul that loves in the face

of death

blaze and blaze on

Benazir

mary angela douglas december 29-31, 2007 11:28 a.m. 12/31/07

I Stood Where There Was No Singing

I stood where there was no singing

breathing myself into the final

color of roses

I did not salute the emptiness

I lived where the first stroke of

the first letter of an alphabet

was only used to cut down

and I was cut down

but from that unfurnished crawl-space

I folded myself into

the unmired magnitude of stars-

mary angela douglas 16 july 2008

Me Quede Donde No Habia Canto

me quede donde no habia canto

respirando a mi mismo en el color

final de las rosas

y yo no salude al vacio

yo vivia en el primer golpe de

la primera letra de un alfabeto

solo se utilizo para reducir

y yo estaba cortado.

pero desde ese espacio de rastreo sin amueblar

yo me dobla en la magnitud de estrellas

no en el cieno.

mary angela douglas Spanish translation from original english july 16, 2011

Living An Exiled American Life

living an exiled American life

I carried gladly one spark

of the light of Heaven

tuning my remaindered harp

casting imperceptible music

into the void of all conversation

gaze in your own heart

Yeats said

the holy tree is growing there

and I say, softly

yet with resolution

even if they think your

ship in a bottle is going nowhere

one mere iridescence

floating from a quarter strand of

your unremaindered soul

matters more than an entire country

mary angela douglas 7 july 2008

I Built A Hedge

I built a hedge

between two countries

the one I had to live in,

the one I dreamed of

and then I found a way

to remain

in the second country

mary angela douglas 2 july 2008

My More Than Mothlike Heart Alights

my more than mothlike heart alights

dreading no candle

not even the sun's

light of very Light

you alone are

the touchstone

of all flight

we cannot guarantee anything

watching the floods take everything

except that we are Light's alone

even without second sight

even at sunset

mary angela douglas 16 july 2008

I Want a Poem Like A Faberge Egg

I want a poem like a faberge egg

crack open the mystical shell

to find

lilies emerging from pink enamel;

carriages with spiny

golden wheels

this fairyland of minutiae

jewel upon jewel, a dream enclosed-

under a heaven brought down to scale

infinite snow forever turning in

the mind's own music

and no assassinations

mary angela douglas 8 july 2008