On Vladimir Bukovsky Final Draft Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

perhaps there were embattled angels in his features
some saw from the corners of their eyes at that first press conference telling no lies
the angel delivered from a hell more furious than Dante's
I dont know at only 34
a suprahuman messenger or a bent wing with a searing eye
unaccountable humor; a cat. forget all that.
basically at 76 called home wherever people like that go
when the trump sounds.
the one that comes for all as Donne noted.
emperor and king.
our best men.
our best men
do with Thee go.
obituaries said so little.
of the man seeking judgement in Moscow
the man some said who loved rose trees
friends. what he meant by friendship some know.
Jesus of Nazareth...better love than this...
building castles in all that spare time.
spare time.in between tortures and reports.
multiple inanities. East and West alike.
how far the human heart can drag itself
the lips slaked from no thirst still speaking across hemispheres
when everyone else in the room has fallen silent
to the snow blind tone deaf carnival deities and elites
so little time to understand what is in man. bitter and sweet
love and fear
to be defamed deformed as a saint. incorrigible broken remended remanded
never commanded how we will miss your intransigence denoting
how to fling yourself in the fire again when you have no limbs left
to speak of; psychologically, emotionally speaking
how a being like that ever got here in the first place. crossing all the zones;
was sent here.
survived. beyond survival itself. with topaz focus from a fixed station
bore witness. prevailed. kept hammering the nail. on the Catherine wheel of his own making
you explain if you can all those prating of the Russian dissident movement. this unusual orphan of moral rectitude the Idée fixe
how an avenging angel fell to earth whimsical; quizzical, unequivocally human. puncturing the Wound
a continual crystalline self willed falling on the sword of Truth
an anguish, awkwardness of gold and incorruptible weeping, a hemorrhaging as of ancient icons or
of everything seen and Unseen sorting the messages from the
Isle of the Dead even as he bled tears and did what he did irrevocably.
with nothing left unsaid.

mary angela douglas 17 november 2020; rev.23 november 2020