to the very green memory of Edmund Spencer, John Keats, and Percy Bysshe Shelley.
let Poetry be crowned again with flowers
with twining leaves
with irrepressible roses
let the antique page appear
with the afternoon mail
Maypole ribbons wrapped around it
with curious insignias with God's own
diamond sealing wax and the stamp of it
on your heart, unmistakable.
let violet curtains on a ghost-ridden stage
part on a scene of filmy wonder
revisited like Christmas.
let the Fairy Queen glide in impearled
and the sparkle in the air be newly minted.
and the angels hoisted on
unseen wires
sing sing sing
mary angela douglas 21 december 2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful piece as to many of your other works thanks for writing
Thank you for your very kind comment. Many times I write from the feeling of just wanting to say how beautiful it is that poetry exists. I feel 'official poetry at least in my country and poets have forgotten just the happiness of it and I hope at least some of my poems can remind someone of that. We have forgotten how to be happy. To sing with no thought of reward like the birds, just for the joy of it. Like a gift from God. And we are singing too when we just read it and our soul is better for it and is comforted in this sometimes bitter world.