Losing The Song With The High Ceiling

losing the song with the high ceiling

it seems I wept in gold

where living among the roses

turned to thorns as

swindlers drained all colors from the sky

and called it better

when bees left the honey sun,

crumbling behind them.

how could the clouds so commandeered

be born at sunset anymore

splashed to a free-born rose

tuned to a flaking ember?

no one knows where to live now.

or who could anchor the flowers,

then

that could not sing; dominions where people

stared at the mire as my quartz pockets,

rainbow-filled turn inside-out to snow

and disappear-

I'm counting the rings on the Tree of Heaven

and not expecting anyone to pity

the least of my sistine tears.

but you won't ever find me

far

from the mauve mauve music so impugned-

I'm holed up in the bailed out of sanctuaries

clutching the eiderdown dream that barely fits:

the tiniest nesting doll in God's pearl-perfect

thumb:

under the rose windows, contemplating

humming little tunes that might seep through

if I knew how.

oh sky.

from all the shadows left to you

and all your frozen chandeliers-

find the one small weeping star

homesick for Light-

and I will follow it-

mary angela douglas 30 june 2011

Monograph For Juliet in Rose

the rose-red sash at sunset

at your window

is glazing now with rain

that will not be remembered

by the leaves that rush

from summer's trees in

this bright wind

that will not be remembered by

the birds that fly

enspiralled in the clouds

that will not be remembered

by the moon

that fades so softly in and out

reweaving each pearl drop of light

into the event or its reflection-

into a long-lost caligraphy that

you can't read

into the dream that you will dream

that's not the color you'll intend

when you lean out too far

from any stage devised or

set-piece memorized

for anyone to take hold-

but, for the moment,

glad to be

by every fresh wind blown

and hearing a voice, almost your

own and longing to declaim it-

unscripted as the high rose mind of God-

until small tears begin to show

on the paper lilies held by your bent hands

you want to disappear in the sainted word

you can't pronounce you find

there's nothing you can say when

looking upwards at the stars;

you're reinserted in the slots of

the toy paper balcony next to

the cake with pink roses on it

for the cardboard matinee-

the one where the dolls just sit there-

mary angela douglas 22 june 2011

Contest Awards And Guidelines All Explained

the henchmen came for Poetry in the end

to nab it in a cherry-colored dishcloth

but Poetry was non-compliant, a capella

laughing from the silver rafters;

 Firebird-flowing into every quadrant left

by the builders, frightened from the site

by the same old bullies who

showed up yesterday

the ones to decide, from year to year, the same,

if birds may sing

the songs they would sing anyway...

on a partyless planet,
imagine that.

and here's their process and the

cutting room floor and

here's the closeup of them:

stomping to glittering mica-smithereens

behind the doors of faux deliberation:

the cherry colored mandolin-

that kept on chirping.

ah, Poetry fluffed its sparkling feathers

far above the Zdhanov reborn guidelines of the

world-wide raffles:

unmindful of the spaghetti dinners, garlic bread

butter-soaked and the Bingo callers calling everywhere

the pre-arranged numbers by the coffee can

Christmas confetti candles you always wanted to buy

for the whole Family...

oh tell me why you have it in your grasp to grasp

the poem by the throat and shake out its diamonds

and then slit its throat in copy machine 
triplicate, triplicate triplicate...

after asking God to leave the room.

"Beauty, Truth and Goodness, still" an unawarded someone

whispered from the wings unto a final radiance
 still unpublished...

ah then I am not 

that paper boat floating in a green tributary about to be

choked off and clouded over, was muttered at the afternoon mail

what does Poetry itself need

with the long-stemmed roses and the

name in lights; it's

the Phoenix-Light-Itself, so stand-alone-

no matter how many contests strangle it-

mary angela douglas 17 june 2011;11 december 2014

Touring Angels

[to my Grandmother, Lucy]

fairy tale bread was scattered the
birds did not eat;
the knights of the small hills

were locked in battle-
but here the shire's wind sighs
the songs my mother taught me through

an open screen door-
cornbread and strawberries are whipped creamed and
the diamond spindles cut, as in former days,

the naive princess-
in odd etchings,
beautiful,

as still-

whole kingdoms shine entire...
yet all my towers face the other way
on leafmeal, cooler afternoons

when a gaggle of stars

drifts by and the goose girl
(with her jewels sewn into her seams for
safekeeping)

follows after them in tears...
these are the things I tell myself
when God may be listening for

the shimmering years recounted,

in rosepetaled spelling blown
and every wish as sunbright, honeysuckle clear
as bacon and eggs at home, grape

jelly scraped on toast that
later will seem so
high meringued-miraculous indeed

or blue jay sapphire strung
from tree to tree

exquisitely hinged as a raspberry summer could be
suddenly frozen ruby solid
overnight-

oh guard with your eyes the scarlet
poinsettia on the piano from unstoried vandals-
the scarlet music

wrap it in golden foil
like a color you can use again
if you need to.

you will need to
you will need your
dream cottonwool wadded

in a silver keepsake box
in the back of the third
dresser drawer-

the crystal perfume stopper
and the opal-inlaid screen
of your best mind

on the day that touring angels
just drop by
unscrolling the fairy tale screed

you can't ignore.
oh step from the doorstep looking back
at what you cannot find

anymore-

you who knew daily how the best
of stories must begin,
will know it then,

forever

mary angela douglas 17 june 2011;rev. 20 june 2017

Recorriendo Los Angeles

el pan de cuento de hadas se dispenso

que los aves no comen

los caballeros de las colinas pequenos

se encuentra atrepado en luchas

pero aqui canta el viento del condado-

las canciones que mi madre me ensena

a traves de una pantalla abierta-

pan de maiz y fresas

con crema batida son...y

cortan los ejes de diamente

como en dias pasados

la princesa ingenua en aguafuertes impares,

hermosa como sigue.

reinos enteros brillan...

pero todos mis torres hacen frente

a la otra manera

en las tardes mas frescas de

"leafmeal"

cuando se aleje un monton de estrellas

cerca de mi

y la dama de ganso (con sus joyas

cosido en ella para mayor seguridad)-

sigue despues de ellos, en lagrimas-

estas son las cosas que me digo a mi mismo-

cuando Dios podria estar escuchando

para los anos reluciantes relatado.

en petalos de rosa otografia saltado

y cada deseo como sol brillante,

madreselva claro

como bacon y huevos en casa-

jalea de uva raspado en pan tostado

que mas tarde le parecera tanto

de hecho milagroso como alta merengue

de verdad-

exquisitamente articulado como

un verano de frambuesa-

repentinamente congelado rubi solido

durante la noche por razon de los angeles

de invierno.

asi es.

o guarde con los ojos el Poinsetta

escarlata en el piano de los

vandoles, sin historias-

la musica escarlata

lo envuelve en papel de oro como

un color que puede utilizar de nuevo

si necesita.

se necesita.

Usted necesitara su algodon

hidofilo sueno

arrugada en una caja de recuerdos

de plata-

en el fondo del cajon tercero del aparador-

el tapon de cristal

de su perfume

y las incrustaciones opalinas

de su mente mayor-

en el dia que recorre los angeles-

acabo de entrar

desenrollados el cuento de hadas

que no puede ignorar...

o pasa Ud. de la puerta-

mirando hacia atras

a lo que usted no puede encontrar-

Ud. que siempre supiste

la mejor de las historias

como deben comenzar

ahora sabrala para siempre-

mary angela douglas 3 august 2011

( Spanish translation of original in English)

To Be Sung In White Tulle, Silver-Sequined

the king mislaid his

blueprint for the stars

and cries at night

into his golden shadow

lost courtiers kneel

before the showcase cakes

little children may not eat

no matter how long they say

they are sorry

that the toeshoe thistledown moon

is slipping farther everyday

down the rimed rose campion

windows of the castle.

but they will keep their

diamond latchkeys safe

at this rhapsodic distance from the sun-

from the sparklers' fizzy dreaming at the end-

from that last summer-

and bless - and bless-

eternal lily snows on the fleeting ground

mary angela douglas 25 may 2011

Miniatures(You Must Live Within Your Means)

you must live within your means

they said to the artist who was breaking off

little pieces from the sun

when he ran out of cadmium yellow:

"I don't know what you mean," he sighed

and dreamed

that he was eating clouds

while they remained perturbed...

[that he was...]

out in the fields reciting,

biting off the wind so late in the day;

and in the green midnights

(fresh out of rain barrels),

he wept his rainbow tears, quite carefully:

catching them on his

frescoed fingertips,

one by one-

so that later

in 200 years they were widely prized

by the great collectors everywhere

for their unusual sheen-

mary angela douglas 8 may 2011

Azul

[to Juan Ramon Jimenez (1881-1958)]

Juan Ramon standing amid blue flowers

did not hear me calling

small birds flew on every side

through chinks in a chain-link cloud and over

the scuttled rainbows of your sighs I picked up on the ground

to far-away laughter

oh but "not-it" I cried out from

the space left by your shadow

on the grass

like a child in a game of tag,

the last one left in the

blonde and feathered fields still

unashamed

of starlight by the railroad tracks

and hotel rolls with real pats of butter-

at home in the pink stucco of "play-like" afternoons...

Sr. Jiminez bluer than the bluest

shadows could be,

could it be the earth is disenchanted?

will we grow apart?

stand still, I said, with a mouthful of pins

I will sew your shadow to the sky

and line it with pale green stars

it's strange while

I'm still trying to speak

in lilies and small roses

in blue diamonds secretly

distinctly...

oh why do you keep on

haunting your own poems

it hurts so much

even in my minted sleep or

is it, dream?

to be crumpling up the violet

of mimeographed vocabulary lists

again-

and practicing

balletic leaps by the

persimmon trees

it's not that I'm that far

from all those merry dialogues

about butter about arroz con

pollo about beaten chocolate-

regarding time I find it hard to keep

the tenses straight:

do I keep breaking the heart of moonlight

without knowing why-

or is all that hushed?

and can I pray to God in

pure hibiscus, too?

entenderás...

a hundred years from home

no one recognized my speech

but the blue wind and God

and the tire-swing swung

in glittering silence by the

small girl dressed in

blue porous happiness...

mary angela douglas april 26-april 28, 2011

The Rose-Red Sealing Wax On The Letter's Dry Now

the rose-red sealing wax on the letter's dry now;

the rose-red rose-white story comes to rest

like the see-saw on the frozen playground

like the rusted swings still floating in no wind at all.

frost-emulsed are the Christmas windows

and the glorious Holly and the Star we looked through to see:

the golden bears delivered from their worst selves

on such a cinnamon-sequined day as this.

but I can't tell you the end of the story

or why my cloud-shaped jigsaw piece won't fit

(not even on Christmas morning)

in the thin sky above the little house

swept penny-bright and latched.

I went a long cold way in my scuffed shoes

to fling a milk quartz crackly word into

the moss green pools of

something not remembered, but that shone.

don't tell your wishes ever or:

they'll not come true

was whispered in my every dream

but I'll tell you the Christmas angels cried:

"FEAR NOT"-

though years of speaking only underwater

made it hard to see

their real words on the page.

I wished that God would turn

the snow-bright word my Mother packed

(along with her sandwiches of butter and sugar)

into a language only angel's hear.

mary angela douglas 5 october 2009 -

*references to the Brothers' Grimm fairy story: Rose Red, Rose White

The Childhood Of Marcel Proust

your teacup brims with starry light, rich

traceries of time - translucent as

fresh raspberries bought

on a day by M. Swann

heaped on fairytale plates that chime

when the scenes shine through

somewhat berry-stained.

bright doves float through your

stained glass hands through

opaline rosaries of the rain and

tuned to a strange cessation

in a dream we almost see

the glint of (home):

taking the madeline

dipped in snow

and a nectared universe...

your linden angels pause, mid-air

cognizant of a pale green rustling

but no one's there

just once to say:

Good night, dream's child,

you'll sleep the steeple

out of the sky's

late roses at Combray

and wonder how

it all turned into

stalactite colors overnight

dripping down winter walls

sweet candle-wax and pure

resurgences of rain.

but the 13th guest arrives

mid-scene to no

gold place setting

set with rubies

and who can still the lime-leafed - unrestrained-

lamentation of the rain...

your hawthorn branches

in the dusk

its storied snowy paths more dear

to lead you out of houses here-

this suddenly - no longer home.

but you're still writing when the angels come

the rose-torn chanson of the rain

scratched out, then blooming once again;

they wait for you to finish up

fanning themselves with their crystal haloes

distracted by your clouds of sheer Limoges...

mixing the pink or is it blue

tinctures of remaining skies

you turn to ask them

just to stall:

the peacock or mimosa?

but God turns down the flaring wick

color by color almost

regretfully.

the angels turn:

fiery medallions on their sleeves

like Christmas refractions

most intensely felt,

a silken step...

and mama comes

with a bunch of heliotrope

a fugitive smile then

"Marcel!"

blue violet banks off creamy distances.

prevail in Heaven now

when childhood fears are hushed

and the holy candles lit forever

from hawthorn petals in your hands

you clutched at the last moment

afraid to let go.

how would you ever leave them here-

all your white orchards,

where Beauty's often not revered

along the via dolorosa

and breaks the thin importunate glaze

on a lake of half-way frozen

lies.

and lost and lost

where mirrors on the

other side

can't give the key-light back

of cherished nacre

anymore.

but the phrase in rainbow clarity appears

through veils and veils of summer rain

and this gardenia darkness knows that

every time the music's played.

it rushes on...

mary angela douglas 29-31 may; 1 june 2010

VAN GOGH TO HIS BROTHER, UNDATED LETTER, SUMMER, 1891

VAN GOGH TO HIS BROTHER, UNDATED LETTER, SUMMER 1891

[to my brother, Alan Leslie Douglas, in memorium)

the yellow leaves were falling

I could not catch them with my hands

the yellow stars and the pastel haloes

round them, ringing like colored glass

and every shade, a sound:

I was painting them mid-flight-

rosettes, like medals pinned against

the night, my

Legion of Honor-

you know, we always knew the

time of orchards was so brief, remember?

the pink and the mauve - the

apricot light - the moment's lightening.

I have a new studio; the walls are iris,

touched with snow.

I'm painting in colors we never

dreamed existed - without haste.

Dear Theo.

nothing is wasted.

mary angela douglas 23 april 2009

Note on the poem: I do know that Van Gogh died in 1890. I wrote this poem imagining what might have happened if he had lived for another year as it often happens in life that unexpected good happens after tremendous difficulty. 

Or the poem can be understood as a message to Theo from Van Gogh in the afterlife where he understands his art completely and is allowed to continue in it.

Shed No Tears, Fond Unicorn

(with ref.  to the "a mon seul desir" Lady with The Unicorn medieval tapestry at the Cluny Museum in Paris i only saw in a book, but nevertheless, cherish)

 shed no tears, fond Unicorn

golden are the tapestries, still,

I leave you to inhabit, shyly on these

museum walls,

in rooms with gilded conversations

guided tours-

beyond burgundy ropes of velvet

graze on, continually - with good will.

your hoof in my hand:

I hope you'll be discreet

munching the shadows of

departing guests

only a little

and the pastel mints at party's end.

Be brave, always.

I'm braiding my primrose stories

just for You

and the farther fields of honour.

mary angela douglas 30 may; 1 june 2010