You Had A Locket And An Antique Smile

you had a locket and an antique smile

a way of turning your head in the shade

fading into the green

you had a ring of milky jade

a doorbell chime like a carillon

it seemed to me then

a smile like crushed pink

seashells.

I remember.

no one will say that what I

remember is true.

no one will come to the wedding

after all this time:

looping the ribbons of pearl

to good effect

under the one rose window remaining.

but you had a locket and an

antique smile.

what did they have

mary angela douglas 31 august 2012

The Latest Dulac Illustrations

[to Edmund Dulac ]

spooning out the ambrosia of late afternoon

for the stepsisters’ snack, so

unexpectedly

Cinderella spilled the sunlight on

the floor and was reprimanded.

later, in moonlight, after they’d gone,

fluttering their rococo fans

way off in a lavendered distance-

while sweeping up the crumbs

of a frilled disdain that lingered…

she heard enchantment’s music rise

turning her blue gown roseate on the instant.

spun out on  a dewdrop’s galaxy alone-

alone-

pure gladness danced on a bird note-call

(bright pomegranate, after all)

from the mystically star-showered gardens

perfectly rendered

mary angela douglas 27 august 2012

• 
  

Mermaid Pearled On The Parquet Prismed Sea Floor

could unaccustomed radiance be returning?

you asked yourself

at the intersection

of so much green in the tidal pools

with your reverie of

the strawberry moon.

maybe it’s not that far away

murmured the captain so

near the golden iceburg,

veering off-course.

a child just waking up too fast half

saw the laddered moonlight

reaching into far angels;

Rilke, at his ease, and freed from the

nervous tea party with Edith Wharton

in her new rose rapture of a hat Henry James

failed to notice at dinner. 

among far rosebuds, nectar bright,

when will we be home I

wondered, not for the first time ever

rinsing the frothy whitecaps out

of a Sunday night’s kitchen sink-

mary angela douglas 26 august 2012

And If God Drops Us Down A Golden

and if God drops us down a golden

well, still He is the one retrieving

us and

we will shine

I sang to the golden air so late it seemed

in blooming on the Tree of Years-

and if the seams of the stars split

open just as you begin to see

so that you no longer find

your violet footing in the dark

still it is you in the Perseid showers or something else

illumined-

and no one else

and you will shine even

lost amid bright disasters unfolding you

unfortunate fortunate one

where He is making more

more light more

light

mary angela douglas 25 august 2012

Note From Home, Years Later, In Reply To A Note From School

[to my mother and my grandmother,  for perfect understanding]

we were the ones who look for faery gold

for the sheen on the petals that’s scarcely there

but breathtaking when you find it.

there is the maiden on her way

to draw bright waters from the springs,

glad to be out of the house for a day,

(though gladder, still, within it)

on a summer’s day with a breeze-

with the lilting trees leafing over

a something lovelier, greener,

than any green you may have seen

over a lifetime’s cawing, dissatisfied-

with an enchantment that won’t wear thin for you…

there is the maiden returning home

with pailfuls of stars and rich with berries

and kept inside and home from school

well past these many

Septembers scudding violets through

the lavish clouds-upon-clouds:

so that no one in the unanimous classrooms’ ever-after

or on the job, red-pencil ready-

slamming the tea-kettle down a little too hard on the trivet-

could be offended again or call to complain  

the sweet next day and the next, even sweeter

about the faery symphonies pouring

heedlessly, heart-first-

indelible beauty from our blind windows…

then, caught in a may basket, excitedly pinned with Grandmother’s

pearly hat pins (only two of them, Grandmother)  and

pinkly offered up last Monday for Show-and-Tell…

and the exquisite secret my mother kept for me

my whole life long that I learned from that given hour

not yet to tell

(translated for this latter-day song),

I fold and fling to you now-

adown!  a paper airplane current’s turquoise

so that you may have it, too, a little tardily:

speak in diamonds, never toads

speak in diamonds, never toads

speak.

in diamonds. so that God may hear you…

mary angela douglas 6 august 2012

White Jade

[translated from assorted baby languages…]

to P.L. Travers for her chapter  “John and Barbera”

in Mary Poppins… (I did not forget)

he said I have a pearl-handled stillness

to sell you, clocks with vanilla moons and

suns inlaid.

curious bubble-gum emerald

no, amethyst rings in just your size;

broken glass from the gumball machine.

a Cracker Jack prize.

a few chess pieces under a valentine sky

on tracing paper;

an eggbeater churning the colours in the clouds.

the maps where silvered ships slipped through

and no one drowned.

striped candy.

a rhymed song merrily sung. and cherrily.

peachly. plum.

the wind through wild grasses; gift-wrapped,

the jeweled meridians…choose.

I said I’m in a painting by Currier and Ives;

the sky’s forever lemon, streaked with violet jam

when what I really want is the Impressionists-

and to live in a thatched house

arranging the lilacs forever in a pale blue vase

that doesn’t tip over.

but already the hour glass is breaking apart-

so that I’m the one and only

sifting these pink sands-

hauling this jar of peach bright pennies home  

and shaking the glass globe

twice on Sundays

so that snowfall

swirls, still-somewhere, in the world.

and this is for the last ones in the Park

who forgot to wave as I

rounded their corner-

too sequined-charming or bundled up

to know that some choice diamonds

leaves and flowers go

never snagging at all

the glint of lilac  

in the snow child’s snood…

where are they? did they break my heart?

or are they wreathed forever in an enchanted wood.

there God is. He won’t topple over.

soon you may want nothing but melting, too.

moire endpapers rose-threaded through-

for the white jade fairytales

you can’t read yet

(whispered my Mother filtering

sunlight through the trees…)

mary angela douglas 15, 19, 21, 24 june 2012

Particoloured Tears Are Falling Through The Evening, Blind (Elegy for Ray Bradbury)

Particoloured Tears Are Falling Through The Evening Blind

[small prelude on the pianoforte, for Ray Bradbury, gone:
August 22, 1920 - June 5, 2012]

oh all the rainbows have fallen into the earth, headfirst-
and "snow without Christmas" as he cried
has stunned his sometimed midnight’s
sunned chorales.

but even now-
when the first curled hand bell of grief is chimed, at times, 
magnolia creamery of the long before,

you’re still in business
on the ivory keys of snow-coned
pages turning in the lock

or filtering round pure
apricot sparkles down
oh God knows how-

my shuttered April mind.
it’s wondering I dream to find
no new poet laureate of the homesick, but

distraught cloud horses whinnying on their own in
folds of cerulean, coral, forestalled-
with storied apples offered: oh wrought of a banished gold

(as they are now)-
to keep them home.

the day wears on. we won’t know clearly now
when dark ferrised earth kept turning into...
blossom ladened trees renew their snow

and petal the sweetheart mourning: morning
minstrelsy is dead throughout the vacant orchards but is she
pale pink surprised into carmine

by valentines received
in the afternoon mail
from one thought dead…?

while we as we behold through a looking glass
pinhole in the constellations:
his ice-cream coloured trollies

hauling back and forth
new circuses of sighs and working prisms-
(dewdrop, listen, he whispered so we

wouldn’t forget you ever-
or children would just let go and all at the same time,
their last balloons losing everything then:

(it felt that way, to them)

It’s got to be now on Opal Rails
somewhere else, going on.
couch this in bluebirds and hydrangeas
and cool cups of lilied moonlight on the grass
of other planets looking just like home

held higher above our heads than these dreams
have ever been before: long
past the vast pinwheeled parades of
the strolling musicians,

musicless on earth;

but not where motley is torn-
its falling its falling through the evening blind
and near our particoloured tears, unending
for the something unsurpassed

and all, all-in-all at last-
caught by a weeping God in a ruby red bottle-
the best firefly of the whole Summer-

mary angela douglas 14 june 2012 1:49 p.m.

Even Late In the Day It Was Comforting To Think

[for Ray Bradbury in memorium (August 22, 1920 – June 5, 2012)]

Even late in the day it was comforting to think

You were still out there in California

Holed up in your toyshop basement

Writing another sheaf of them

Golden, amber, green or blue

Radiant royal blue or violet

Scarlet rarer than rare.

Oh send me down a dandelion wind

I don’t want to think that this has ended.

Surely some mistake was made.

He died quietly last night his publisher said.

Why didn’t we wake up and stop him?

Don’t go Ray, we’d plead holding his

Lovely shadow back as if he were Peter Pan.

Don’t go yet.

Tell us another story

Like children cranky before bedtime;

That’s why it happened when we were asleep.

Besides, the angels have story-times, too.

They needed him longer.

I’m sure they brought him ice cream.

That did it. I’ll bet it was cherry-vanilla…

Venus in transit was seen from Tahiti

The radio said linking it in the next breath to

Bradbury’s gone.

(Is he on Venus? In Tahiti? I thought like

One of his stories unfolding…

Myself. By myself. Oh, gone…)

At 11:02 I was at home

Drinking coffee peaceful and dreamy

Halfway listening to radio news.

The author Ray Bradbury has died at 91

I heard at 11:03 a.m., it’s Wednesday, June 6^th.

I couldn’t believe it. D-Day for all the writers now

Left still on earth and the dear readers too.

Why couldn’t we hear the trumpets?

Oh I would like to break off my sprig of lilac

For you like Whitman for Lincoln

But I am only I and can’t stop crying

And I don’t want to say goodbye.

How will the Summer survive?

Having lost the one who loved her most sincerely.

If only we had those magical tennis shoes to follow

You, where you are now…

But we must wait like you, for Appointed Times…

Or stories…for the wings of clouded poems

To arrive, oh are you listening?

Did you arrive yet. Why are the skies so grey.

Here is my sprig of lilac anyway.

Is that you passing by?

Did you come back for your files?

The ones you kept for years bursting open at the seams and

perpetually sprung-open with ideas

For stories to come.

For the stories to come…

We are bereaved.

Green trees in the rain touch over the antique streets

Green trees in the rain can’t stop weeping

And Venus in transit stops for a moment, overcome-

And the simple stars – sing-

mary angela douglas 6 june 2012 8:03 p.m.

Music Box Refrain On The Day Doc Watson Died

maybe the moon will rise in full gold foil

behind a tissue paper page

and we will sigh

and it will be the wind not turning

maybe in dreams to green laments                                                                             

that can’t come home to stay and breaking off a sprig

I will awake with only mint for sweetest tea

and sweet gum things to say to the fire fly littered dark

proving again that I was there, still happy-

when the moon rose full in golden foil

behind the tissue paper page and

the small key dropped on a summer day

dripping strawberry coned cream into the grass

is found and fits the lock of

the golden moon foiled perfectly

behind the tissue paper page I’m holding down and

cannot bear to turn…sweet music, stay-

all mountain-bred and livelier as the day

wears on…now I hear everywhere and

all alone on some far stage

blue diamond notes cut sharp, distinct and

scattered everywhere like stars…

and the wild brooks berried by are rushing on

and cannot be contained on earth…but only in that music

till all my tired-out pinafores are

pegged and snapping on the breeze

and the whole picnic’s thrown overboard

tear dropped spilling suddenly  

into dusk blue grass and the perfumed wailing

of the gnats; oh, don't you mind

I guess though it’s

not rounded off at the corners yet,

or cherrystone riddle unraveléd:

here’s my sour green apple, candied, shining

fizzled goodbye…

at the tip of what's not

possible to say.

I’m not that rock candy hard but this is

…like the last wind licked and tucked away beyond too soon

because the page is still strumming light

when angels on fresh apricot mandolins join in

and the song’s refrain

that we can’t hum is intricate as Kingdom Come

it’s:

maybe the music will not end

maybe the music will not end…

mary angela douglas 30 may 2012

At the Academy of Golden Birds Or When You're Older You'll Learn The Alphabet

at first I heard them singing

in my dreams: the golden birds.

when you’re older Grandmother said

you'll know what it means;

you’ll go to school

to learn about the golden birds.

I went.

with my plaid satchel.

the walls were bare.

chalk letters over and over

on the black board almost fluttered

but the stories were always about

something else.

day after day I waited sorting apples from oranges
cuttng out paper leavestill waiting wasn’t a thing I could do

not even with waxed paper,

pressing the flowers.

when will we learn
about the golden birds I asked?
coming in one day from recess

from dust-clouded running like the

gold horse of the plains I reigned so slightly in.

the teacher grew red faced
though she hadn’t been running.

not explaining anything

that’s what we’re doing.

sit – down.

I never saw them there, my golden birds

not even kept in cages by the pencil sharpener

or  beside the aqua water fountains

where I would have gone to feed them gladly, pineapple cake.

upside-down at least on Wednesdays.

oh they should have arisen like their four and twenty
brethren from the King’s own pie…

but they couldn’t live at school.

in combination lockers.

maybe I should have stayed at home

where they came so easily

before I even learned to spell them

flock after flock to my Grandmother’s rose bush

without even being asked, nicely
…

mary angela douglas 29 may 2012

Recently, This Letter To Shalott...

I sought the courtly world but it had vanished.

behind the curtains of uncertain dawns

I stood, the unappointed lookout, looking on:

gone were the purple banners and the gold

banishing of the small fears

held aloft at the parades

and decked in flowers.

I stood amazed and soundless then for hours;

the battles I thought over, veering

back, shone illimitably:

 in the Pageant of everything unwon.

fresh rains have washed the back roads in the sun

while I scoop rainbows from the clouds...

they’re falling away like leaves in the last

horrific winds before the calm,

but not taking me with them:

the years that no mirage sustained.

and through no haze I contemplate again

the  debut in the perfect white dress

the embroidered handkerchief bestowed

the golden task importunate

only you would recognize at all.

I am seeking my lost King, the corner of a last word-

tranquil, folded down;

and reverence linked with song oh, long ago

left for dead.

knowing that I may find instead

ruined cornices dripping icicles before spring…

and these few winter roses for a crown;

more than enough to live.

my mute processions I have gathered tenderly

in the emerald shade of God.

oh let the lights shine down on Camelot renewed,

confessed in these late dreams without regret.

let knights be true.

and constancy my only jewel

though held aloft in the final verse

by fingers this absurdly frail still weeping snow

above the apparent waters of the town.

mary angela douglas 19, 21 may 2012

With Eyes Deeper Than That

                                                                                              

(revising the story of the shallow princess (Grimm’s fairytale) who dropped her golden plaything down a well, pouted about it, and was rewarded when she flung a frog into a wall)

[to Elizabeth Orton-Jones, children’s author of the lovely book, “Twig”]

…with eyes deeper than that                                                                                        

there’s a princess at the edge

of cooling waters

in my backyard-

looking for just a hint

of something lost and golden.

is it golden only because it’s lost?

or maybe, just partly-clouded

I mean, like a tiny cloud suspended in a pale blue marble

no one can get at.

will the

sky part, revealing a recollected sun

in purely sequined waters

cause diffuse false hope, momentarily…?

so that she dances in cerise dazzlement

on sea-green glass in the alee

and then, is hurt- suddenly…

and filled with common sense?

then this task is never done in daylight.

what will we do?

there’s the princess, stirring the water

with her see-through,jeweled hands, of course, and chiming to herself

“all is not lost”:

a song both lost and golden in the

flattening world I’ve glimpsed on sepia maps…

the ones indicating no treasure, no treasure

at all

that’s me at the window very small

filled with polished apple measures-

and late porridge on a Saturday;

only half-dusting the what-not in my

Grandmother’s living room-

using too much Lemon Pledge in just one spot

I’m so entranced

by the princess kneeling in taffeta sunlight

right by the crabgrass-

in her pale green ermine;

her budding crown.

is it time past  or something close at hand

moving fair and fast

that slipped from slender majesty sometime

as  cream poured from an earlier pitcher

might affect this year’s strawberry tartness?

or, like silk spooling with no sound into

an orchid stillness never found

because she did not turn around

in one instant only-

to catch the Goldeness

and was deemed negligent ever after

among other things-

and by only passing strangers

filled with common sense.

marigold petals sifted by far angels are

drifting now adown this amber

I can’t understand-

but then, I’m caught in it, too;

which is the greater miracle

or pavane?

I will put something shimmering on

from a dance-class closet, thin as lawn.

I will learn the steps and not be banished

running to meet her in the sky’s closing jewels.

I’ll bring her cinnamon buns from breakfast

pineapple-upside-down cake from school

-if I may, and in a light pink paper napkin, folded-

and orange tea-

and then I’ll find that

she is me only slightly faded and

later in the day

in peach-bright slippers and a pomegranate gown…

collecting postcards in sunset sudden hues.

oh may I be found a little golden and not lost,

to peer at last into Infinite waters

with a jeweled periscope my very own and a key under the mat

grown up in a veiled hat like my Grandmother’s

with its single velvet rose

and negligent, negligent in the flattening world

I will stare into the deep and cooling waters, too

some of us call, “music”-

with eyes even deeper than that.

mary angela douglas 12 may 2012