The Childhood Of Marcel Proust Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

'...on every morrow are we weaving
A flowery band to bind us to the earth.'
-Endymion, John Keats

'in the flood of remembrance
I weep like a child
for the past.'
-Piano, D.H. Lawrence


your teacup brims with starry light, rich
traceries of time - translucent as
fresh raspberries brought

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-
lamentations 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 medalions on their sleeves
like Christmas refractions
most intensely felt,

a silken step...
and mama comes
with a bunch of heliotrope

a rose-bud 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 keylight 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