Cherry Coated Angels*

outside the schools of everywhere

I cried:

God opened the book of stars

and I looked up

he opened the book of roses

and I wept, the book of snows

and each, in turn, to me, disclosed

where quarter notes drifted at the

edge of the seas and washed away in

music I breathed in

fond colors stay

like rainbows, melting in a spinning top

on my Grandmother's carpet

just before dinner.

it's the earthenware emblems I know now

and the near-blaze still on spring-fed alphabets

greening the glade where hidden

tigers came to drink

the topaz ripples off the everyday

and my Grandfather sharpened pencils fresh

for the appled school day as if he were

carving marble

oh you who must

in every age deny

the clouded and dreaming child as one deluded

who must be changed or die

with his or her petaled forehead pressed

against cool windowpanes of frost-tinged

faery-novas or cherry coated angels-

I won't tell you why

God opened the buttercup

clavier of the sun

and let me play-

mary angela douglas 22-24 august 2010

*my image is meant to be angels wearing cherry coloured jackets, not cherry coated as in candy.  It was hard if not impossible to make this clear in English without a footnote.  I would like to find a language where it would be easy to say this, it must have other wonderful things in it, as well.

The Princess Cried Real Sequins

the princess cried real sequins

in the play:

I saw her

from a mauve-lit distance

fall away into sudden

nearness there

where the violet curtain,

tied-back, slightly

swayed

and a small hand

made of moments

cast an ivory

obliviousness, or a

spell

somewhere else

where it was snowing

and children laughed whole coins

of silver-

bent on her deliverance-

mary angela douglas 21 august 2010

Here's The Vivid Crayon Of The Sun

here's the vivid crayon of the sun

the one that's not broken

the very one you could peel

instead of oranges

if the fairytale required it-

to survive

and the gold foil

chocolate coins in

nets of confetti-stars

fall out of the cupboards

of old houses

whenever you yank the

little glass knobs too hard-

it's

just in time for supper

in your new thrift-store

dress with a second-best

stiff-starch magenta petticoat;

it's fine as Christmas wrapping,

pleated like a star

only God could summon

even as another interview falls through

or simply melts away...

there's still the lemon-waxy streetlight where

the last bus waits for you only

slightly transformed

mary angela douglas 21 august 2010

Copious Weeping

["those were pearls that were his eyes..."]

- William Shakespeare

[to Isak Dinesen-
and especially to Mrs. Alma Harris, my speech teacher...]

the rubies falling down your face

were pearls

and now

they're emeralds

past flood-stage

drowned and

drowning the

remains of the

possible

dredging up the

every color of

the rose, of tigers

flecked beyond expected

topaz seen and

unseen

I see

-oh vast encyclical-

the veritable amethyst Beyond and

the lies told about those

discredited by lies further and further into doom

the formidable arras the kingdom of weeping

the quirks of the free in tragic situations

your arresting angels waiting for the next story

mary angela douglas 21 august 2010

Lost At The Altar Of

lost at the altar of

your clouds

as in a dream

far gone I stray

above the rooftops of

late changing leaves;

it leans on the heart

with a trace of sadness

almost monumental-

but I'm at play

under the staircase

in your opal storehouse.

you're too roseate in

your dilemmas-

odd-coloured, shifting

caravan my song

I'm leaving your

violet shadows

on the sands

I'm leaving

hoping that you won't

see the

glare from my lost

mirrors scattered

everywhere

mary angela douglas 13 august 2010

A Silver Branch Is Broken From

[to the Russian Poets: past, present and future with deep hope and gratitude-and, most directly to the poets of the Silver Age]

a silver branch is broken from

a golden tree.

in the upper atmosphere

are many angels

and clouds of shimmering

radiant symbols

if it were colder it would be

snowing angels

and Christmas could come early

but you lose your way in

the fairytale forest

forgetting to be

on your guard-

plucking a rose in the

fatal hour-

turning to stone.

all blazing kingdoms

corroborate:

the same victory on the same day

and there is world-wide entertainment

and sherbert in 10,000 flavors

but the milk-white sky pours out

pitchers of sorrow

the sun on its own bakes

bitter loaves

and like children unjustly punished

we can't stop weeping for

the silver branch

cut from the golden tree-

mary angela douglas 13 june 2005/30 august 2005/copyright 2006

Painted Ephemera Of The Rose

we'll drive our cloud-sheep

forward

into mists of the rose:

the one of legend

the one you can't dismiss

out-of-hand

over a city of trees

let it rain down jewels

anyway, on my flowered hat

if the neighbors don't mind

and downtown artists

sip black coffee

and dreamy cream so

out of the long-ago

on a summer day

in Winston-Salem

a little girl

in the Library

painted a swirl of rose

like the rose itself

and was happy...

mary angela douglas 2 august 2010

[on the visuallibraries.com seminar ("Leave Your Mark") in Winston-Salem, North Carolina presented by

Dr. Marueen O'Neill and Claire Sambrook

July 2010 at the Forsyth County Central Library.]

Fra Angelico, It's The Rose And Gold

["some works are for the earth, some for heaven."

-Fra Angelico]

Fra Angelico, it's the rose and gold

I want to say

rude shadows chide me,

"don't say" - but I

find words the colors of

your angels' sleeves

and hold in my hand the

quartz of your music that won't fall apart.

I lose the way and chandelier branches

in quiet rain

mislaid in some other poem.

procure the fairytale brocades you

must have left in a Florentine summer

and never got around to using

for

my impoverished reverence

made rich again-

mary angela douglas 2 august 2010

Waving From The Dock This Time

[to Emily Dickinson]

waving from the dock this time

where no ships ever come

I fold my handkerchief into

a sudden snowflake

or a single tear mislaid-

forbidding winter's music...

sew poems like stars.

then let the darkness come.

can you hear

the ghost ships surging

in an apple wind?

I can

see clouds like lapidary ships descending

through a

fifth-floor window descant

mary angela douglas 2 august 2010

CAN A WORD BE MAPPED?

CAN A WORD BE MAPPED?

["can a word be mapped"

-Dr. Maureen O'Neill, from her website "map passion"]

testing the acoustics in my last cathedral

I folded up the petal of a song

into my best pocket

like a map only clouds configure-

not to scale

I wander and

I wonder why

the sun is leaking light and

I'm afraid-

already the wounded images are

in hiding and "nowhere" is written

large across the sky

though not in script of gold

can a word be mapped?

or will it fly like a color wheel

falling off a sunset sky

or like a ghost ship sailing

on no water

it's the marbled music I

can't find anymore

no matter how I try

since moving from an old neighborhood

though I

cast my Mercator net

so wide so wide

from the mark

that distance cannot measure

can a word be mapped

or must we live

blind and deaf to music

in the end

wondering where the poets went?

ceding their diamond letters

one by one-

mary angela douglas 29 july 2010

Sight-reading The Rose

sight-reading the rose

I look for the garden

but it isn't there

sight-reading the star

I think I am shining

but it isn't here

sight-reading the wind

I turn to go

I turn to go

but I don't know where

mary angela douglas 28 july 2010

My Swans Wheel Away

[after the manner of Hans Christian*]

my swans wheel away

in disbelief:

could I be theirs?

I mourn in the mirror of the

skies, perfecting my reflection

in dismay

quaking in the clear pearl shadows

of their going

my swans turn away

from my frank, happy question:

"is it you?"

incapable of reply

so lofty, made of snow,

but hard;

even in blue-bell decked

midsommer, never melting-

pleased with one another

preening the crystal feathers

out of reach like stars-

they shine and blur

or is it only water that's

so dazzling

and can't be called back.

it's only I-

am sobbing "clouds on clouds"

drifting further than could be expected -

(all-in-all)

and won't be comforted

by any tribes now-

mary angela douglas 22 july 2010

*poems references are of course to Hans Christian Anderson's The Ugly Duckling and represent a kind of alternative ending, or maybe it's a case of the false swans before the true (appearing).

In The Palace Of Incredible Roses

IN THE PALACE OF INCREDIBLE ROSES

in the palace of incredible roses

we were breathing only the rose-filled air

and music fell in fountains freshly tuned

to so much jasmine.

in other rooms

in castles of the sun

I wandered freely-

turning, as in a dream,

the Light-bound books

of neglected poets...

while an Alhambran stillness grew

into vast magnolias tended by the Lord;

the air flamed out in little pink sighs and sang

"oh my extraordinary

crystal cancion"...

"remember me,

remember - me."

I gathered rose dust everywhere

to build their house anew

but then

oh broken, broken

in a mistranslated instant:

the splendid clocks

in the bell-towers

of a thousand ill-timed regimes

faltered and fell

so that we kept counting

without numbers-

new fractures in the poetry

of an old endurance

mary angela douglas 17 july 2010

En El Palacio de Las Rosas Increibles

en el palacio de las rosas increibles

es que estaban respirando solo

el aire lleno de rosas

y cae la musica en

las fuentes frescas

afinada

a tanto jazmin.

en otros cuartos

en castillos del sol

descaminando-

libremente-

pasano los libros encuadernados

con La Luz

de los poetas olvidados

mientras que crece un quietud

como la de La Alhamra

hasta magnolias inmensos

cuidado por El Senor

quemado el aire

en suspiros pequenos

de color rosa

y cantan:

ay mi cancion extraordinario

de cristal:

acuerdate de mi

acuerdate de mi

y se reunieron

el polvo de las rosas

para construir de nuevo

sus hogares

pero entonces-

quebrantado-quebrantado

en un instante

mal traducido

los relojes esplendidos

en los torres de

las campanas

de mil regimenes

inoportunos

deshacerse

y se caen

de manera que

nosotros quedaban

contando

sin numeros

grietas nuevas

en un resistencia

antigua-

mary angela douglas (spanish translation-variation) april 12, 2011

(poem in English, 17 july 2010)

Drowning Happy

DROWNING HAPPY

I dreamed of colours

falling through my hands of

signs and symbols

beauteous beyond description

and fruit sailed to the ground in

clear profusion

in a wind of sparkles

puffed out by the angels
in four-cornered maps.

where are the gatherers gathering

I cried

outside the fate of the sports arena or

the charming cafe with its pale pastries,

light as angel's breath beyond frosted glass-

doing brisk business

I couldn't afford.

Beauty's trapped like the princess

in the tower

I remarked to no one caring-

-where?

in the tower of the

perishing imaginations

-So?

then who'll be there

to take the last stitch under

so the ruby strawberry

stands out against its

field of matchless snow

in Desdemona's handkerchief?

the painter deprived of light

the poet without music

carried on anyway-

in every camp in every secret cell

in every annex under the vari-coloured

stumping boots of history's trolls

and landlords-

or under the nose of nosy neighbors

taking notes

jabbing their heirloom pin-cushions full

with the sharp-pin question, "Why?"

and stirring their coffee klatch sugared coffee

a little harder

than was necessary.

but theirs was not my question -

mine was "how?"

and I died happy

on a lilliputian sword

run through with the rainbow riddle

of it all:

they built their ships of unearthly gold

for others to sail-

even while going downfor the third time-

mary angela douglas 12 july 2010

In The Blankness Of Space A Blanker Star Shone Over

in the blankness of space a blanker star shone over

the red rose ruins of gardens uncomprehended

lilac and mint nasturtium tiger lily

shadows are plucked by fitful children

and the drone of State Words could

drown the sea but not

the sound of the sea-

remember the sound of the sea the silver

wash of non-propaganda on a diamond shore

this free

it's the sound of blue it's crystal

shed as from the beginning of

stars - taking a deep breath I say

American words will return

words will return fresh and daisy-chained unchained

to children no longer useful to

political machines

to the children in their own sweet clover

in the playhouses

with their speckled china

in the fields of Queen Anne's Lace

of Black-Eyed Susans

just being

or barefoot with their superpowered dogs

cavorting by summer-green rivers

sequined in the sun;

spelling the days in berry brambled

unstinted unsilent prayer like

quicksilver birdsong for just being

filtering through

the hackneyed stone-dead phrases

we won't ever grow used to or

ever call our own

disown disown

anything less than the pewter stars

still shining over the colonies

and the rapture of chosing as long as you live

the handcrafted words of honor the words as good as deeds

fight on from the rose red riotous arbors

the drones don't know to quell

rejoice

mary angela douglas 10 july 2010