Mary Angela Douglas Poems

your nose is always in a book they sneer
in every language on earth; at you:
who, long since have fled from them
...

for Piper Laurie-
in the alternate gardens of no cinema yet revealed-
on her irreplaceable voice and its musicality-
her incarnations spun of glass, substantially appearing,
...

in the after winds of her, Maria Stella,
he sees the small ships rise,
the silver and the rubied and the dimming
...

to Trilby, the ruby-eyed: long may you ride!
my pearl bright stick horse, across the grasslands
where the myths abide; the good ones with
...

it's the colour of ice cream on the curb
our summer moonlight we've grown fond of
half in and out of a vanilla dream dreamed
...

to Sharon

papier mache, how lovely was the world
when you were small: hand-painted in
...

'I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.'
...

to Mr. and Mrs. Milton B. Young

an orangeade sunset cools behind the trees
of viridian green so thickly laid on
...

(my sweet doves, leave the cults in droves)

{after Dante]
...

to Sidney Lanier, the American Keats (1842-1881)

is it too late to let you know
the green shade in your marshes
...