CARNATION, LILY, LILY, ROSE (FINAL VERSION REVISED AND REFORMATTED)

CARNATION, LILY, LILY, ROSE (FINAL VERSION)

[on the painting by John Singer Sargent]

we hold the lanterns in our gaze and they shall not go out

the lily, the rose, the lily rose shadows; their carnation

coolnesses, the children will not ravel

the edge of this twilight ever, softly they blossom

in the borders near the clumps of the flowers familiar to them

and the paper lanterns sway in the painting as if it

were a real garden

and only slightly it is, the winds of the carnation, the lily, 

the rosied lilies partake of Dream and dreaming

the light, the light diminishing only lightly

we hold within our hearts and

equidistant from firefly as from star

there is nothing

like coloured paper lanterns swaying in the

purple sky remembered this cannot fade the purple shadows by

the painting kept alive

the lights go out or

the lanterns stir in the evening breeze when we depart 

instead let 

the carnation breeze be remembered, the beautiful the beautiful

weaving of lily and rose all before and after

shining, the summer light seeping from long ago,

the childish laughter

glow worm gloss and

mysterious mosses, 

the self-same lanterns in our gaze wherever the painting goes

or in the galleries of our minds

the night that will never fade

the distant song forever distant

time and the flowers at a standstill

the children, murmuring

mary angela douglas 19 february 2015 rev.11 june 2015; 23 january 2018; 16 november 2023 ;20 may 2024;14 june 2024

POEM FOR SAM WELLER AN IMPRESARIO FOR SURE NOW (FINAL VERSION REVISED AND REFORMATTED)

 

POEM FOR SAM WELLER AN IMPRESARIO FOR SURE NOW (REVISED FINAL VERSION WITH FORMATTING)

it is never too late for something amazing to happen

for parrot colours to show up in the sunrise

for chinese puzzles from pieces of delicate ivory to fall apart

and become the fairy tale fields

and the snow drifts of the Christmas heart

for clouds edged in red violet crayon to float off

the colouring book page

for  outrage  to melt into cotton candy pinks and blues

for cartwheels to become once more the preferred way of 

escalating down rain

watercoloured

sidewalks in the cities, and with parasols

for stripes and polka dots to match with or without clown shoes

for families to linger in the morning light,

in the apricot light at their breakfast tables

indefinitely and olly olly oxen free

for the grass to taste deliciously of spearmint and wintergreen

for singed angels to emerge from the rescued books of Montag

to thank Ray Bradbury for this in person taking the bus to Mars

to thank your parents and teachers by sending them valentines

in the afterlife

for the old to grow young

for the young to grow old

for the green glades in your mind to become vaster.

and filled with emerald songs.

mary angela douglas 18 may 2023;13 june 2024

*Sam Weller, the highly acclaimed one and only official biographer of the great Ray Bradbury, (THE BRADBURY CHRONICLES: THE LIFE OF RAY BRADBURY) and brilliant author and benevolent teacher, in his own right and liberty.

BLUE, NOT THE BLUE SHADING INTO LILAC (FINAL VERSION REFORMATTED AND REVISED)

 

BLUE, NOT THE BLUE SHADING INTO LILAC (FINAL VERSION) 

blue not the blue shading into lilac
but Blue Itself, isolate crystal
I isolate you so faerily

clean precipitate
of the dreaming soul
without rejoinder

in my dream alone.

see I have spun from you
a few lacework kingdoms
from a single ribbon pale blue of

the raveling sky, or turquoise clouds

scuttling by 

one indigo eyelash from the lantern moon.
how out of favor you are in some regimes

blue not going anywhere at all

they hear you out of tune

a worn out colour for the Spring collection

I see you on the brink of tears, my blue taffeta
and glimpse you through the outworn years

ah blue of the world so weary
dipping through clouds and 

taking the bluebirds with you,

the stray honeysuckle for consolations
into the Far Sapphire piled up stratospheres

where the Winds are found 
dozing at the cove cave of infinite Summer.

and berry stained as Immortal Keats

mary angela douglas 12 august 2018;20 may 2024;13 june 2024

THE RETUIRN TO SINGING (REVISED FINAL VERSION, REFORMATTED)

 

THE RETURN TO SINGING (FINAL VERSION)

[to the poet, William Blake, to the Pearl Poet

to Time Itself...]

I saw the milk white pearl dissolve

that shone like gold in the mouth of God

the hidden Word of the year to come

the glory of the foreign tongue in translation: 

for Beauty has become foreign here.

the letter that you wrote to God

on both sides of the paper.

the midnight nation tried to sleep.

without the dream of God, 

and sighed, in rusting armor.

the seraph sleeved departed.

old tears have latched onto the winds, 

and it hurts most of all what

the green glide of the Holy Ghost surmises.

that we could have lost our only friend

Jesu, in you.

the Word beads jeweled in the dark

the one He pressed into your heart

the one that sparkles before speaking.

oh speak me into Light I cried

that I may trace the bride of language coronated

through a thousand May times, 

the milk white Pearl instead of sin, 

the new made Heaven, cherubim, 

the haunting of the world

made sane.

the solace of the sweeping rains

that herald exorbitant Spring.

the page torn out of a child's notebook, 

like an angel's wing, snow-breathed into existence: 

lily of the valley sheen

hand print in plaster, and rosied thing, 

the return to singing.

mary angela douglas 9 january 2017;13 june 2024

BLUE CELLOS (FINAL VERSION, REFORMATTED)

 

BLUE CELLOS

Blue cellos in the rain

I dream of Chagall

And imagine blue cellos

A light rain

It is a summer evening

The crickets refrain draws a heart through the mists

You can hear them from the rooftops

And Bella and he are flying

As if it’s the most natural thing

Above the blue music

When the rain comes down

Suddenly turned to flowers

And a pink parasol.

the moon popping up, a bouquet of orange blossoms.

mary angela douglas 25 april 2024;18 may 2024;12 june 2024

 

WHEN THERE ISN'T A CHRISTMAS WELCOME

 

WHEN THERE ISN’T A CHRISTMAS WELCOME

When there isnt a Christmas welcome

When the sleet drives hard

When the porch lights are all off

There are still the stars

There are the wisps of clouds

The moon illuminates

To keep you company

Sojourner, whoever you are

Draw up to your own inner hearth

Close your eyes and memorize

The passages where God says

Truly, He will never leave you.

mary angela douglas 12 june 2024

GREEN VIOLINS A POEM IN WHICH I IMAGINE A LOST PAINTING BY MARC CHAGALL

 

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;12 june 2024

SHED NO TEARS, FOND UNICORN (REVISED, FINAL VERSION)

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 butter 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;12 june 2024

THE LOST LANGUAGE OF DOLLS (FINAL VERSION, REVISED)

 

THE LOST LANGUAGE OF DOLLS

especially when I see them a little crowded on the shelves

in doll museum vignettes perhaps

I catch a glint of frozen history in their gaze

their taffeta belies;

some half attempted gesture that crumbles in the light

as if it were made of snow and then faltering.

nor rising to the occasion

the something they would tell if they knew how

of what befell, of what may befall us yet

beribboned or in vague straw hats with silk roses

in their Victorian poses or

in gowns of tulle with parasols intact in the breeze

they cannot feel oh I don't know...

stiffly beside the dolly steamer trunks

in gauze of blue and French rosettes

innocent of ruse and yet and yet

fixing your gaze in sorrowful surprise

with their sapphire glass and penetrating eyes

spoked with a wild and mysterious light

as if you had the key or knew the clue

to what they forgot to regret

tears cannot reach their eyes nor comprehension;

missing from their summer profiles,

left at the dock;dry handkerchief of lace

for years and years upraised, upheld without a trace

of tears for no remembered departure;they cannot summon tears

though they might wish to in bright array,

stitch of the marigold display for some belle epoch

out of sight and past curing.

in a while I will pack them all away

past all conjecture and enduring

or maybe in a dream one day

they'll start to speak

slowly at first, warming to the sun

of being paid attention to at last, soul to Soul

and everlastingly 

and then I will understand everything.

mary angela douglas 13 january 2022;22 march 2023;11 june 2024

WE LIVED IN A BLIZZARD OF ANGELS (REVISED)

  

WE LIVED IN A BLIZZARD OF ANGELS

We lived in a blizzard of angels

All winter long

Thinking we were on our own

Suspecting nothing

Finding the oranges on sale

And simple bread with honey

It was all miracle and tea at dawn

Clouds massing over the seven coloured seas

Visited us in dreams

peacock scarlet or emerald or many splendored

In a resonance closer to music

Than music itself ever was

Cloud weather alone

Revealed to us Heaven and breathing

Tree music greening the wilderness

Hidden from view

We lived in a blizzard of angels

God knows how many derelict bridges we crossed

Stepping into the vacant air.

Our hearts suspended over Chaos

Lit like the clouds by impossible Grace

held in place just floating there

in the wisteria twilights

Beautiful beyond Being.

mary angela douglas 19 may 2024;11 june 2024

THE VIVID ROSE ENSOLEIL IN THE OUTER SNOWS (REPOSTING DUE TO TITLE CHANGE)

 

THE VIVID ROSE ENSOLEIL IN THE OUTER SNOWS

[in memory of my grandmother, Lucy White Young ]

these peripheral fairy stories

I still wind

on a reel of gold

even if the pictures are flickering

in this Celluloid mirror

and the glass slipper slips to the stones

and shatters

before it can be found.

I still preserve like

muscadine jam the

soul's gilt gingerbread;

it's peppermint and gemstone gumdrop

crenellations;

all sugar plum, pastel expectations;

a panoramic view at Easter

of violet-trimmed hats

against a primrose sky;

the key to the heart's most

singular libretto, a

treble clef of stars:

music unfolding like this fugue of far dimensions.

my mother's singing in a green plaid dress:

butter and sugar on enchanted bread,

the faraway Land of Green Ginger,

tomato soup, grilled cheese

fruit cocktail.

ever-closer I gather my anomalies,

secured for a glittering denouement:

twelve fairies with their gifts,

a summer piano's

"Rustle of Spring",

a bird's chilled singing in the holy rain

the spinning wheel unspun

the last sleeve sewn.

the princess clouding capture

with a milky quartz

(tucked into a secret pocket

before the school bell);

treading the springtide scriptures of a dream

coping with wrapped enigmas,

her tears of pearl recondite-

like everything else.

prayers with no transliteration, heard

even from such dim towers.

all you know.

mysteriously without the wind

the green tree tops begin to bend;

taken up at the hem

the cherry-glazed day arrives:

the vivid rose ensoleil in the outer snows.

mary angela douglas 18 may 2009,title change: 10 june 2024

*ensoleil: with the sun's rays around it as in heraldic pictures. (Fr.)

ON THE MUSIC OF MAIRE BRENNAN FROM HER ALBUM PERFECT TIME (homage to the life of St. Patrick)

ON THE MUSIC OF MAIRE BRENNAN FROM HER ALBUM PERFECT TIME (homage to the life of St. Patrick)

Beauty beyond reckoning surges 

Through and beyond the sea walls

Of our indifference

Was there ever any light that flooded you

That was random you are queried

And how can you answer that

With what should you answer

The moonlight stricken from your pathway

In small white roses appearing

Miracles flow in and around lost islets of

Song

How shall I call my soul to account

Before such music turns into

The everlasting foam

Where the singer becomes the sea surge the

Hidden ear of the wind

The timelessness the pearl dissolving

In which all tears are stilled.

mary angela douglas 10 june 2024

ON PERHAPS THE DAY THAT WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS PASSED ON

 

ON PERHAPS THE DAY THAT WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS PASSED ON

Language is leaving the cloudy shores

The waves of Innisfree

The poet Yeats lies dying 

In my dream the dream of Poetry is

Weeping inside of weeping

The streams of Sligo mourn.

Is singing still possible in the world 

Is the lilt that lifts the skies

Will ruthless prose reclaim the Romantics

Could we visit the scene, not having been born then

But aftercomers to his reveries would we have known

What kind of king was departing

Such terrible beauty carries us along 

Even mere echos of it though

Now we make do

With our patchwork songs.

But then, his music was for us had we been there

Would have seemed would have seemed

A scroll of stars forgotten, found and stashed

Brought to Light , the enigmas.

mary angela douglas 10 june 2024

A SILVER BRANCH IS BROKEN FROM (REPOSTED FOR REFORMATTING)

 

A SILVER BRANCH IS BROKEN FROM

[to the Russian Poets: past, present and future with deep hope and gratitude-and, most emphatically, 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 sherbet 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

EVERY SENTENCE IS A TRAIN OF PEARL (REPOSTING, REFORMATTING)

 

EVERY SENTENCE IS A TRAIN OF PEARL

every sentence is a train of pearl

gliding into whiter distances-

where you will whisper in the

cloud-filled air

remonstrances of silver

there will never be another snow

like this covering even

the beginning of silence with

softer and softer tracklessness

and no one needs to come to

your assistance under a sky

this vast-

mary angela douglas march 2005

SETTING THINGS TO RIGHT ABOUT HENNY PENNY

 

SETTING THINGS TO RIGHT ABOUT HENNY PENNY

Henny penny was right

I thought as a child

That hardworking chicken.

Now I think so even more

She sowed the grain herself

She harvested it

She baked the bread

And she ate it

And all her friendly woodland creature neighbors

Who wouldn’t even bring a pot of honey to the feast

They invited themselves to and wrote their own invitations for

Deserved to have the chicken coop door slammed on them. the chicken coop

Which she had singlehandedly fashioned into an elegant parlour

For herself with braided rugs, a little organ and ruffled curtains at the windows.

Pour yourself a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade Henny Penny

And turn on the electric fan too

Let the moochy neighbors depart

who wouldn’t lift a paw or a dusty yellow beak to help you in the last blizzard.

mary angela douglas 8 june 2024

NOTE ON THE POEM

This poem was so fun to write. I never liked Foxy Loxy, Goosey Gander and the rest. I thought henny penny deserved better friends, lol. And I always love to embroider new details on old folk tales. Really in the actual story I dont think she slammed the door. I think she bolted it, lol. Thank you, Helen Losse.🙂I seem to remember an illustration from the first or second grade reader that shows henny penny with an apron tied around her SWEEPING THE FLOOR in a neat as a pin buttercup yellow kitchen with copper saucepans. I had fun imagining her parlour in my version of the story. Heck. If she could bake bread, and sweep the floor I saw no problem with her playing the organ. Now I am really curious how the artist could depict a chicken wielding that broom with with her chicken wings.

HAMELIN (REPOSTED FOR REFORMATTING OF STANZAS)

 

HAMELIN

["whither shall I flee from Thy Spirit? " from the Psalms...]

I saw crown molding tip the walls

of an unbelievable stage-set, real, at the time-

set the table

they will tell you everything

you're entitled to know 

while sipping their rubicund tea

on a lush and leafy afternoon you dream

is still your very own-

with your whole life ahead of you

as the saying goes

and still so near your own real

childhood home you could walk back there and be done with this 

Why didn't you

before they trained you not to love

or even be, as if they could…

and to fill their hands with your own heirloom pearls

meant just for them….

but I learned slow and never

to believe 

all their lost lovely angels far from home and

to fight the battles only

I could see -to know what's mine 

alone

not underwritten by game theorists

or Pavlov's pirates, looting my bright way…

as from the beginning of clowns-

and mesalliance

oh all my faceless springs in the name of God, 

my God, unused and lilac-

I'd teach the children not to ride

that monochromatic ferris standing by

the carnival children modified to sell: 

flowers waxen friendship-

and world peace...

I'll sing you the song my mother lent me

as she died: 

I saw the cream of God

brim at the top

and those who skimmed and skimmed

rich bubbles from my only Soul and from my rainbowed

hallowed, haloed home

I saw their skinflint empires rise

and the parties they threw each other

at each eclipse 

who could explain 

the vacancies of cranes

on the tilting horizons that they owned

and all the summers subcontracted out and

sparkleless I now disown forever! 

 

what made me turn around

to find

the trapdoor in the Night and

it was God up late, still

counting the tears of those waylaid 

as if they never stopped being: 

His own embroidery forever-

"Here's your doll finery, " He whispered.

in the voice of all rosepetals-

"I've hidden it here."

You are -pure life - I cried - I'll never give away- 

as if I could…

reward the kidnappers

oh my King where wishes turn to palms if we endure; 

I'll buy fresh groceries, pay the rent and

find the playground where they're waiting still: 

all my tin soldiers whirring in the dust-

I'm caught in

the lace of the day

and cannot leave You-

mary angela douglas 1-2 october 2011; 6 october 2023

THE CHILDHOOD OF MARCEL PROUST (REPOSTED DUE TO REFORMATTING, FINAL VERSION)

 

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

MEMENTO VIVERE (REPOSTING DUE TO REFORMATTING)

 

MEMENTO VIVERE

[in loving memory to my mother, Mary Adalyn Young-Douglas (1927-1993) and

to Sara Teasdale (1894-1933), with abiding respect]

pink marigold suns have slipped away

like the cameo cares of Sara Teasdale

but I am here

with the dove-lapsed valentine

folded up I always meant to

send her, across time-

and the air of St. Louis

crumples like rose parchment

kindling lost kingdomes:

are you there?

as I hold out one cream starched

dawn's particular corner

for you to catch- dim orchards washed-

green rains...

forget-me-nots at tea

I'm dreaming a cloud

like an envelope. sepia-dipped

twice over. filled

with your manifold

weeping harps your sunbursts

but it's delayed, misplaced,

and where

will I really be that

ringed with light again

sustaining when I can

the fleeting imprint of so many violet skies...

here at the orphaned window still

I trace your leaves and lilies through the mist

in tinctured starlight

scrapbook cherished

weighing in scales of pearl the clock face moon.

but the afternoon grows older, after all

the tide of wishes turns...

above the noise of mere battlefields

every singed and salvaged word

I praise

and look past

the garnet consolations of the epic dead

to see

white wave on wave

of your delight

bright words

never blind, inlaid

like fires in opal

self-contained

the rainbowed startled reveries (of God)

inferred:

and on - at last-

the unclasped fairytale page unwavering

the heart stenciled postscript of the child

who cried for Beauty

and was heard-

mary angela douglas 13-14 march 2011

NOTE ON THE POEM: *"Latin, remember to live"

Sara Teasdale poet of starlight forgotten later in life was born in St. Louis where I also went to school. My mother loved her poetry as well.