The Poet Grieves The Loss of Logos, the Green And Living Word And Is Then Made Glad

for George Herbert, Henry Vaughn, Dylan Thomas, Gerard Manley Hopkins,

Francis Thompson, John Donne and all, all the others

I had heard a grievous thing

the Word was mocked in everything

but they just kept on speaking

and those who would not crown Him King

who suffered every, everything for their

dim sakes and for so long

I would not crown them in my song

so cast aside, I was then, too

but little had I to do with rue

to be in such sweet Company

as he who sought to die for me.

mary angela douglas 17 july 2021

You Think You May Have

on the side that opposes light you think you may have allies

some of them are not so bad you think

they can be reasoned with

you dont yet understand

the risk you take in even thinking that;

only light is light

only God is God

there are no allies on the other side

there is no reasoning with evil

none at all

trust God alone.

the Commandments, carved in stone

and in the heart:

from Me thou art,

and from no other.

mary angela douglas 17 july 2021

The Language of Birds

to Percy Bysshe Shelley

it isn't the wish to be heard, predominantly

but the long documented wish

to translate the language of birds

that impelled those dreaming poets

never heard from on this plane or barely now

so that the fragments appear in partial eclipse on

this plain of plainspoken words

which leveled the playing field to such

a degree it became a sinkhole,

thus we have drowned the Icarian mode in our times

and on some days, I fear, for all time

except that I  know the soaring flights are 

preordained that some had gained

and those who seek to trample out that fire

in fits of misplaced rage on every stage

well may recollect Ozymandius

and think better of it.

mary angela douglas 14 july 2021

The Poets of Exile

(for Osip and Nadezhda Mandelstam, for Anna Akhmatova and to the Living God)

midpoint between the angels of what is merely lost

and what is irretrievable they had launched their small skiffs

upon the immense waters of dream of doom or

lifted their paper lanterns in the breezes of  neglect

amid the flowering plum or cherry

or adown, adorning the fields of ancient ice slipped into a crevasse

so vast as to be midpoint between the angels of one life

and another with all connections broken after tumultuous,

unforgiving storms;

their hearts. were torn. on the coast near Trieste or farther away

Oh Tristia, Lamentations...

fires sparking fitfully into space from disused wires...burned

across the bays across a single filament 

so that there is another set of cablegrams now

all saying the same thing (I love you who

have forgotten My Name)

unknown to the former inmates or future mechanistic

biographers comfortably sorting through what was

typed out in solitary never;yet

wafted through the clouds the homing clouds by their intensity

until it disappeared in rainfall never reaching

the destination intended nevertheless so silverly

seeding the wilderness beyond the power to say

I loved you as I loved freedom since both were illusory

on earth inconceivably far from home

incalculable immaculate wanderers, century

flowers they bloomed for a radiant hour

that now are gone.the orchids of their aftermirage

making me weep from fortressed shore to shore

these tears, once more,

Cassandra-like, from the long before.

mary angela douglas 14 july 2021

The Sendoff To The Pale Blue Galaxy 500

 I hope that  when  I die my grandfather comes to pick me up

in his pale blue Galaxy 500 Ford with Grandmother by his side

in her rose taffeta with the velveteen jacket and the rhinestone buttons

Mama in the back seat in her lilac Easter dress is working on poems in

an Eagle tablet with the two dogs, Fearless and Poochum Woochum

Tak a tak a Toochum getting along famously hanging out the window

and my sister just around the bend emerging from Carnegie Hall

in Heaven to massive applause and bouquets thrown from here and there

and huzzahs and hurrahs

and she climbs in too, there's plenty of room even for the bouquets

and we pull up to Hamburger Heaven a roadside stand

across the way as plain as day the Heavenly Arkansas Gazette

where my father has just put the galactic issue to bed in the white night that is Heaven

now the stars being visible in daylight

we are singing Pickin on A Harp with a Golden String

and our harmonies are Grand.

even Grandiloquent.

with Hershey Bars, the silver foil peeled back

in abundance;    Wheaties, the Breakfast of Champions.

mary angela douglas 13 july 2021

Post Modern Poetry: A Conjecture

 Pegasus drifts above the clouds

no longer wanted on earth.

mary angela douglas 13 july 2021

SOMETIMES I DREAM OF THE MOON OVER CALAIS

in homage to Peter Weir for his haunting beautiful film THE LAST WAVE...

sometimes I dream of the moon over Calais

the sea, the darkest shade of ink

or in waves of dreams I contemplate at random

any secluded bay and the sea is jade

the moon I think rosee

each cream tipped ripple in abeyance

as on an ancient scroll where all seems calm.

and whole.

but then from an antique vault of pearl

another scroll surfaces, an almost shattered world  and 

  one wave is tipped

up to the opal heights of the ancient constellations poised

and presciently I weep

for the villagers still asleep.

in their own dreams, self enclosed and oblivious.

mary angela douglas 13 july 2021

GO I KNOW NOT WHERE;FETCH I KNEW NOT WHAT (FINAL DRAFT)

  to the poet, John Keats

go I know not where find I know not what my favorite title for

a story anywhere is from an ancient Russian tale

and I have sought at least in dreams to follow that directive

so that my hands bled from the nettles weaving the shirts

to set the captives free and waiting for in blind prayers

the downrush of delivering wings my life is spent

I seem to have wandered in vain along each frost glazed

rose drenched lane

for that which was not found nor sought in me

but in my seeking oh what treasure there

in the purpling darkness close to despair to see Orion's band

or in a single shaft of sunlight half awake between hard lessons

see the Jacobean ladder through September's mist and the traffic

of angels

this is to live for poetry as it once was

the rose and the briar

to sing beyond the resonance of earth half caught in the mists

and the rains never inured to disdain but

becoming lost to Time itself or, by design

not found not lost either, and yet akin to the in between

curve of the music where the ghosts are seen

the loved ghosts, the disappearing few that loved you

or seemed to...always, perpetually leaving you

like the heart rending echoing bar in the music repeated

to weep into the thorns to be forlorn in the world at large

yet inwardly rich that even in a ditch

you dream the years away and climb into the boat at last

that rows you to the Blessed Isles or are to be helped in

by those who guarded every tear

unknown to you, in your disgrace

though now you see them face to face.

The Holy blazing Trinity.

mary angela douglas 12, 13 july 2021

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TO THE BEAUTIFUL STANDING STILL

 things at a beautiful standstill cannot stay

though you with your hat full of strawberries perhaps may

seem to say, to seem otherwise

soon all berries will go

all trace of them from the dish

and we will spoon the snowy air

for provender if we are careful

even treating the flowers with utmost fragility

they will leave us too, broken stem

wayward sudden flight of petals

as if broken free into their long understated 

wish to be birds if only for a little while.

only a little while and the golden moments flee

nor all our armies can bring them back

nor all our former birthday wishes track them

to their lair

we are disappearing too Rilke said

even while lamenting the faded print of

old photographs the minted day at its rosiest

the open window we must close

though music comes through it , still.

still let it be

the beautiful standstill emblematic of Heaven

that we may say in the coming days

there once I stood with the fair clouds ruffling

and the wind winding through its river of air

it was early then

and everyone was young.

mary anegela douglas 12 july 2021

Her White Armour

to Joan of Arc

how will she know if any of them

are who they say they are

all she has is God and the white armour

of her certainty that it is He alone she serves

she finds the path difficult but the angels of her courage

do not swerve and

mark it well and so she comes to find the Dauphin in his

disguise and calls him King who couldn't command a cell

and her voice rings like her white armour into the seventh heaven

of all that she believes although they shake their heads and

entertain their doubts as later they will entertain treachery

and betray her, Joan of Arc, the simple Jeanne

for an illicit song

and Realpolitik and Christ knew how these

matters resolve themselves over the last garment

and the gamblers.

Yet, oh Heavens dove  she gambled on Love. And won.

mary angela douglas 13 july 2021

GO I KNOW NOT WHERE;FETCH I KNEW NOT WHAT

go I know not where find I know not what my favorite title for

a story anywhere is from an ancient Russian tale

and I have sought at least in dreams to follow that directive

so that my hands bled from the nettles weaving the shirts

to set the captives free and waiting for in blind prayers

the downrush of delivering wings my life is spent

I seem to have wandered in vain along each snow covered primrose lane

for that which was not found or sought in me

but in the seeking oh what treasure there

in the lavender darkness close to despair to see Orion's band

or in a single shaft of sunlight half awake between hard lessons

see the Jacobean ladder in the mist and the traffic of angels

this is to live for poetry as it once was

the rose and the briar 

to sing beyond the resonance of earth half caught in the mists

and the rains never inured to disdain but

becoming lost in Time yourself

not found not lost either the in between

curve of the music where the ghosts are seen

the loved ghosts, the disappearing few that loved you

or seemed to...

to weep into the thorns to be forlorn in the world at large

yet inwardly rich that even in a ditch

you dream the years away and climb into the boat at last

that rows you to the Blessed Isles or are helped in

by those who guarded every tear

unknown to you, in your disgrace

though now you see them face to face.

The Holy Trinity.

mary angela douglas 12 july 2021

God Of All These Paths Outworn

God of all these paths outworn

keep us all from unknown harm

hold us in your eyes today

we are children in the way

of each least thing that mows us down

and every cruel or unwitting frown

and though we long to be with You

we know that we have much to do

much to mend and much to salve

of all the wounds on earth that crowd

the living air with such distress

oh God be ever present Rest.

that we may find by close of day

we helped the grieving on their way

and found our home in You.

mary angela douglas july 9 2021

SWEET UNSECRETED LIGHT TERRESTRIAL CELESTIAL FLOODING MY EYES

 SWEET UNSECRETED LIGHT TERRESTRIAL CELESTIAL FLOODING MY EYES

sweet, unsecreted light terrestrial celestial flooding my eyes

the eyes of my eyes the heart of the heart and glancing off

small rain printed puddles as easily as you may from

ocean swells and the cream curve of the wave called devastation

the tremulous tremendous Ark of what is left to us

you do not hide from us the glory of God yet men will say so

and dart like bats into the lower depths

pretending the lid of the coffin is the sky

I will not deny, deny, deny

your dazzling enterpriseless enterprise

your emerald gleam in the shade

of all my days made and unmade your fugues;

infinitude I send this valentine to you

this white gold valentine seeped in clouds

the rainbow dissolve and the slow fade

in the rain weeping over the barren fields

where men have forgotten to sing to you to Him who made

you

shine

to yield to you forsaking instead the paradiso for the inferno

and where in golden fortitude at times

you break down,

emblematic, witness of God.

mary angela douglas 9 july 2021

To The Unknown Poets, In Their Anguish

if they do not say your poem is beautiful

how do you know that wounded birds

do not come to the quiet pools and drink

that what you think indifferent silence is the breathing of comets

forgotten winds gathering speed and that those winds

will lift the sail of everyone that grieves

it is a flower opening in a desert, your poem

and at its heart the last known drop of dew

think this.

whenever they grieve you. whenever they are remiss

so that the golden ball falls down the fairy tale well

and seems irretrievable when

they say nothing, nothing at all.

mary angela douglas 8 july 2021

Till Thistledown, I Blow Away

I'm not in tune with the spirit of the age

however you may construe it

be that as it may Im not dismayed

I love immortal poetry.

Immortal poetry doesnt need much

a mockingbird, a simple thrush

a fleet of clouds

the age old stars

a hymn perhaps from rubied Mars

immortal poetry lives in me

though not on any stellar page

that you will find is all the rage

it hums in me a lemon sun

and shines in me when nightfall comes

the way it did when I was small

with puppet shadows on the wall

and fairy tales that grow more real

with each repeated ancient peal

I am the bell of long ago

faded a little, amber and gold

I do not need the current scene

the yellow brick road or common greed

to sing until I sing no more

is all from God that I implored

to sing so happy in the day

till, thistledown, I blow away.

mary angela douglas 7 july 2021

PAPER DOLL NEWSPRINT PROJECT NOT EVEN PAPIER MACHE AND YOU CAN DO IT TOO

some days I want to make paper dolls out of all the news stories

and industriously, merrily paint over all the articles newly clipped

and school glue pasted down as

the happy families paperdom

in neon glo colors that scare the cat at night

and then stage musicals with them.

perhaps tap dancing might be a little awkward since they'll have poster board

bases to help them stand upright.

yes. alright. lets do it. first big little project of the summer what's left of it.

cut it all out and paste it all up and poster paint it till the sun don't shine

and all the dialog in all their plays will be anything but

what was in the news today

so that when the asteroid hits they will all still be paper doll smiling.

and indefatigable.

mary angela douglas 6 july 2021

The Drifting Petals Set At Naught, The Clement Wave

if you are petulant in a time of grace

impatient with the petals drifting at your feet

and ignorant of who painted them peach or plum

I don't really have one thing to say to you except

what will you do when the real wars come

how will you handle it or will you just go deeper into gloom

as into your only room and slam the door a door since to you

apparently that's all a door is for

when it could be a portal into truth, or Christ the door and an end to

rue and ruthelessness on your part you who make grousing such an art

oh petulant generations what have you to do with petals, the stars,

the vagrant clouds the name of beauty cried outloud

or courage or fortitude

you will yourself to be sulky

and so you are

who are you I wring my soul out in starshine to ask of you

why have you made from your apriled life

this irascible tomb

mary angela douglas 6 july 2021

TO CERTAIN POETS ON THE MISUSE OF THE POETIC IMPULSE

 TO CERTAIN POETS ON THE MISUSE OF THE POETIC IMPULSE

you use your gift and it is extravagant

to throw brickbats at the effulgence of the Light

Light, like a Rose out of Dante out of the Paradiso,

not the Inferno

because it spoils the wished for dominance of your view

that everything is an eclipse and then the pit

and the pit is earth you say and oh! poor you

in your not so beautiful astuteness, crabbed rendering of the dazzling

and you would forge curtains of steel to steal and conceal

the least crack of light in your dismal and constant earthquake

there is no light, no cherishing God your circular bandit reasoning goes and you shake your fist

because the least music of the smallest bird every child knows

near the last metro station on earth

defeats your argument completely.

mary angela douglas 6 july 2021

The Last Late And The Lingering Clouds

 I used to love the pink carnation skies

and stand transfixed in the early evening breeze

and feel a carnation freshness come to me

as if I had alone of all the people in the great blue dusk to come

the secret of that faint pink

when standing on the brink

of whatever it was that came to me in dreams,

in music, in the impressionists mode

at odd moments when I couldnt focus on the near at hand

for the feeling that something was calling me and fleeting, as it called

like the colour of pink carnations

tinting swiftly the last late and the lingering clouds.

mary angela douglas 5 july 2021

Let Now No Glistening Word Depart

let now no glistening word depart

I said to my nostalgic heart

when reading poems from long ago

and dreaming of the words they snowed

so sheerly from the softest sounds

made by the creaking of the wind

around the darkened house

let in as if by some celestial hand

and in that long lost story land

remember then:

how I in half lights learned to feel

myself not here but there,

as real.

mary angela douglas 5 july 2021

If I Lose The White Sun

if I lose the white sun

as it appeared to me in dreams

amid blue icicles and near the holly bushes

of home if I lose the white sun

as it felt upon my tongue and at the precipice of

certain words

known only to the Holy Ghost

if I lose the white sun

the endless firs,unfettered, the lacework factories of clouds

the sound of water far from the realm of speech

I will break down in grief

as if were a child

barred from Fairyland

a saint, from a long envisioned Heaven.

mary angela douglas 5 july 2021

It Is Still Day

when you've been in mourning so long without even knowing it

suddenly the clouds call to you in far away colours

put us on they say, dress yourself in radiance

it is still day

and you are the child again

and you reset the pearl dial of your days

the wheel turning at the mill of wonders

where the waterfall splashes you even from a postcard

of wish you were here

but I am you say

I am everywhere my soul may be sent

and I am filled with roses 

and to the very brim.

mary angela douglas 5 july 2021

Phantasm

turn away from the window

where the moon almost remains

the distant pearl, mirage it seemed

when the children tripped on the merry green

in love with the light fantastic in the sweet blue hour

when the dusk has lost its power

and the sleepy flowers nod

and time was an ocean we would cross

in such a little while.

mary angela douglas 1 july 2021

Pastorale

one by one I lead my word-sheep on

it's almost always april here

the small lambs bleat about the place

I call my poem and they are happy to be poem sheep here

because, touched by Grace

whether or not you may like the poem - or not-

my sheep know

that over the silver hills in the moonlight glow

I will lead them safely, softly home

and home shines like a pearl

near at hand as much as it does

a land at great distance from us now.

mary angela douglas 27 june 2021

Beautiful Cosmos, Amid Our Anguish

beautiful cosmos how is it even amid our anguish

we still feel you there

and wonder if the gold flaking of your gold leaf everywhere

is evidence of tears

Divine tears

if the sudden dropping of the moon from view

indicates you too must find a way

to grieve alone;

absent the snows what would winter be

nothing for light to reflect off of

only the heart its winter branches bare

beautiful cosmos everywhere

even driven to my knees

by fear of the great disease of apathy

renunciation of the incarnation

I worship the One who made you so

that not one torment here below

can alter what you are.

mary angela douglas 26 june 2021

Oh Bid The Sweet Dove Back

and who will ravel back the fringed endings of  the lines

now and then a gleaming fitful line

breaks from the pack and would itself define

in Light but that you hold it captive there

and This is almost everywhere:

in the fissioning Poem without God

as with the blind in certain cases, cadences,

cadenzas

we see the progression the light telescoping

closing itself down, slight radiance then in the shadows till

not even in peripheries can it be found now

of what remains and so, to darkness bound had poetry

become in the world no world at all to lift us from the slough

and from a numbing pain that renders all music dead.

oh bid the sweet dove back alack alack

the vintage heart cries out in me

such liberty they have now

to spurn the light of God

to write about it all

from the outside looking in.

mary angela douglas 26 june 2021

Return, Translucent Ship Of Words, Return I Cried Into the Open Mic Denied

like straws in a confettied wind

the last words heard

from the triple cloud decked galleon, ghost ship

of all I ever learned Poetry should be:

goodbye to the rose emblazoned Word

and all its ancient heraldry, goodbye,

I cried in a drifting, waking dream discomfited;

stay me not with apples of gold with comfits

from the cabin hold-I read the telegram outloud:

beyond all comforting now.

mary angela douglas 25 june 2021

REPOSTED: TO POETRY. FOREVER.

 TO POETRY. FOREVER.

if I could have written on an endless sky

the beginning and ending of your fraught and mysterious syllables

and only in clouds that I knew would fade

Poetry, still I would have tried.

or gone up in flame like the least, scarlet leaf to find one gold

remaining song from you

in pieces, weeping on the ground-

one singing fragment from the ancient past of you still singed.

I traded in beauty the poet Sara Teasdale said

who left your words to prove long after her evening star

had vanished that she lived and suffered here;

so had she anchored so many goodbyes.

even in a banished Kingdom, in a mere and clouded handful of sighs

we still will whisper your name:even in the Kingdom of lies,

still shine with your truth:down to the last and ragged shore of our

breath

form of music;

form of the quenchless tremulous soul eluding death

lyre unquenchable through all ages:

burnished, anguished, raging ineffable heart

streaming with all the Maypole ribbons of your art

world without end do not leave us orphaned

at the core of all speech

forever beautiful and just beyond our reach.

touchstone, high watermark of God Himself may you prevail.

mary angela douglas 16 april 2021