Nightingale Nightingale Nightingale Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

to the forgotten, or the unacknowledged, lyric poets of Earth; forgive us…

as many times as the spectrum shatters
and undeniable music is disbarred or
never brought to light in the first place

by those who stuff their ears with snow
or anything they find at hand-
only not to hear you

that many times and more,
a hidden star retracts;
your misread nebula hangs fire-

and the broken poem spins backwards-
bone-china,
off the shelf

you‘re left whispering
pure gemstone words
in the aftershock of so much withering.

very real nightingale, hold on
while hemorrhaging light…
it may be that the Emperor will live
though signs are few and an army of
miscreant words

is blocking the good road to the Palace…

[poem embroidered on the poem]:

running down the crystal staircase
with no crystal shoes
remembering the prince with a backward
glance

everything was not translated,
she cried at a tree overlooking her mother's grave
and her tears caused everything
that came after; her heart, that
crystal most isolate

began to break apart
like floes of a dream on waking.

new translators carted,
never saying a word,

the golden coach and the sparkles away…

[under a Book of Hours by the Brothers Grimm
her embroidery is set aside, then taken up again as the wind draws the
curtains lightly over the gold edged figures in the distance and she sings-]

like hummingbird wings
minute pulsations floating over the flowers
that always disappeared
time and times, again transcend
the lines in antique
books with hand-coloured
pictures for the fairytales

beyond historical disregard
these near-glosses in the margins
of God oh cherished God
are like brushstrokes of snow-
like the braille of my heart in His

century after century
I will embroider swiftly
with thread of cherry silk,
while I remember
or violet, on grenadine-
the things the children said when they were small.

mary angela douglas august 2012