I am the stranger at my own gates-
less than rationed
they have torn the wings
off the angels of my countries,
rivers, suns-
and the dogs with their eyes
like saucers in a tinderbox story*
are staring me down:
guarding a treasure sifting into dust;
as I'm turned back from
appalling interviews
and the false floor falls through falls through
falls through
but I remember the rose windows
of the great cathedrals
and whisper the cadence of roses, themselves
like the names of Russian poets.
Mandelstam. Akhmatova. Pasternak.
let me cling like a saint to their iconostatic wind...
through an ageless winter the red berries
shown above the snow-shrouds
and the poems were bleeding-
in full view of everyone
this precisely crimson shade
mary angela douglas 24 september 2010
*ref. to Hans Christian Anderson's fairytale: 'The Tinderbox'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You are a wonderful poet darling, may i in time find my voice half as beautifull, blessed be!