'...into something rich and strange...'
Shakespeare
then poetry was the angel that troubled the water
a skein of lemon drops over the cloudless picture
and the ship moves sailing on pictured waters no longer
stationary, rife with waves
the ship of healing, the Muse holding rose bouquets like a Saint
it all diffuses in the words the words melting on the page
not even now called quaint
the words that capture something other than days that
plod on in which you are told to keep your vagaries to yourself
poetry was the song chiming out at midnight then
green leaves that faded not, and the leaves of books turning in
the wind
when there was no end, the ghost of belles-lettres
the whistle down the wind so ornamented my friend in all the
lanes, the mystical coach in which we rode
we could have spoken in diamonds and gold for a moment
leaving the glittering air in our wake
it was
that kind of world.
mary angela douglas 14 november 2021
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem