Real Poetry Is A Haunted House Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

[to Edith Sitwell]

real poetry is a haunted house
said the princess. looking over her shoulder;
drenched in the fabled rains.

'who among all these ghosts, '
cried she (at the clavichord formerly)
in her last velvets, reverie

'could not help but be
numbered among the musical
I ask Thee'.

oh stand in the castle door;
that's all that's left
besides the wild grasses.

Time...passes

whispered the Princess
and none to hear.
'real poetry is the haunted house'

she murmured to leaf mold
and to the ancient spores;
the stars swung in

their windy chandeliers=
and none, and naught to fear-

'the saints must live in,
or else, turn, out of doors'.

mary angela douglas 13 october 2016