The Horn's To The Hunt In This My Living Day Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

(for Professor Louis A. Markos, HBU)

(and to the Immortal Beauty of Poetry)


we speak in husks that the wind drives; how can poetry live
except that it abide in every small veined leaf and in the green groves.the green groves are dead the modern poets said tricking the ghosts

but I looked too and I knew, I knew you lied.
green does abide and every pulsing star
it's you that have gone numb, blind and words with you

dear is the earth and after cleanest rains the air is fresh
the pale bud thrives again
and I can breathe through much of new disdain and the dust dowered

winds and call back the old, the sere my friends my friends
the burnished annals of the years
the penants from the battlements of gold

flung in the breezes still
acute the will for beauty and the clarion filled
the rose from the Heart of Rose distilled and far dimensional

the horn's to the hunt in this my living day
the thirst for it undiminished though all else fade to grey.
we lift the latch where none of it passed away..

mary angela douglas 13 april 2020