Mary Angela Douglas
The Poets War Against Poetry While The Amateurs Are Comforted - Poem by Mary Angela Douglas
to Valerie Macon, poet laureate of North Carolina for just six days who resigned on July 17,2014 because other, former poet laureates and many others in the literary community ganged up on her because she was only a 'self-published' poet (at least, that's how I and many other people see it) -
and who said in her resignation letter to everyone. don't forget to love poetry even if you haven't collected accolades...
and, we won't. As for those whose scorn for the self-published seems unbounded, if you want to drive the Muse from your own door, attacking a fellow poet, (no matter how lacking in credentials you think they are) like a pack of wild dogs - in broad daylight - should suffice.
who will He send, the angels of saffron?
this time, the ones of sheer starlight small children
see straight through?
the ones of green linen
soothing the wounds. the wounded.
once again on earth, cried the violet
shadows, poets fight poetry with their inverted shields
their plumes upside down backwards on their horses
running down the unqualified.
plaintive on a lute in a far away time someone strummed
a few notes under the moonlight. thank God no one heard.
or just a few friends. and song flowed under the doors, through
the chinks of the windows and was welcomed.
sit down at the table, here is dark bread, our last slice
and spring-cooled butter. jam of the summer strawberries we kept
just for you and you recited for no money at all
the beauty of the day gone by and how the angels tread
on clouds of rose and gold above our worst hour and children folded up their
tiny griefs and grasped with both hands the moonlight appearing at the door that never wanted to leave again.
and neither, neither did we.
mary angela douglas 18 july 2014
Comments about The Poets War Against Poetry While The Amateurs Are Comforted by Mary Angela Douglas
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe