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

Requiem

[in memory of my grandparents, Lucy and Milton B. Young]

watching your bright ship sail away

I cried

and diamond on diamond was the

wake of the waters behind you even as music ever was:

washed in starlight, surely and the

competing flutes of small, cherished birds

fluttering near the rose brick house

with the picture windows.

I won't wake again

to any more glittering sight

or sadness

than watching your bright ship slipping

from me-

bending my lyre into the ground

where the oak leaves whirl up

under the last Arkansas sky

before Heaven's light breaking.

mary angela douglas 26 september 2010

Deuteronomy 31:12-14, KJV

It is not in heaven, that thou shouldst say, who shall go up for us to heaven and bring it unto to us, that we may hear it and do it?

Neither is it beyond the sea, that thou shouldst say, who shall go over the sea for us and bring it unto us, that we may hear it and do it?

But the word is very nigh unto thee,

in thy mouth and in thy heart...

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).