OUTSIDE

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The design of outside—

The lake perfectly flat

And the sky—how does it create distance like that?—

Diminishes my poems’ pride.

The tiny houses, with breakfast inside,

And the morning news, these houses

Belong to the world outside—

Which eats away at my poems’ pride.

I know you pretty well—

I don’t think you would deride

My poems. But the truth is, I can already tell

By the pride inside, I’m going to hell.

 

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4 Comments

  1. maryangeladouglas said,

    December 10, 2015 at 11:22 pm

    I know this is not at all a comment on your poem but when I got to the line “the tiny houses with breakfast inside” I really couldn’t pay attention to the rest of the poem especially once I realized hell was at the bottom of it. Quickly traversing up the poem again to the felicitous line about the tiny houses with their breakfast I wrote the following poem true to my basic motto that on the off chance you might have to live in your poem(s) one day its good to build them in a pleasant way. Just my theory I know; not everyone’s thimble of tea.

    THERE IS A DOLLHOUSE IN MY HEAD

    there is a dollhouse in my head
    where I can go and just be fed
    on tiny plates with cherry tarts

    in shapes of hearts
    and it not even
    Valentine’s day.

    and only I can have the key
    into my dollhouse mystery
    and close the door

    and go inside
    where books of endless joys
    abide

    a tiny cat that has no need
    but just to purr upon my knee
    a chimney brave that has no smoke

    but looks so real to dollish folk
    that santa claus on miniature sleigh
    is sure to come on Christmas day

    and fill my tiny cottage full
    with baby oranges, golden hulls
    till penny bright I’ll say goodnight

    and draw the dollhouse curtains all
    and sleep my sleep and dream my dream
    until the tiny tiny Spring.

    mary angela douglas 10 december 2015

    • thomasbrady said,

      December 11, 2015 at 11:41 am

      Mary Angela Douglas. You are on fire.

      “But looks so real to dollish folk”

      “until the tiny tiny Spring”

      There is a dollhouse in my head.

      Yup. I think heaven would be to live inside your poetry.

      • maryangeladouglas said,

        January 9, 2016 at 11:16 pm

        I DREAM OF A LARGE STUDIO

        [after the essay by the artist Miro dreamed, not read]

        I dream of a large studio,
        forest greens, the sun folded like a rose into gleams
        and I will send

        the petals of pink phrases down
        each tea rose afternoon
        like St. Therese

        or compose the ivory sainted clouds.

        the clouds sing: space to breathe, fortes
        and change colours as if they
        were Easter eggs severally tinted

        and isn’t it tangerine splendid that
        whatever you tell, turns into lime stucco poems
        where anyone could dwell, really,

        if they wanted to,with verve-

        happy in light, in the simmering of delight
        in whatever is sent and in the glint of
        fairy tale laughter, after: the

        dreamed of the

        dreamed of
        the widest windows drinking in the cream or
        where, when the jeweled bird of night flows in

        sweet everywhere, to stare at you
        through an open screen
        with a golden, concerted eye,and somewhat, shy-

        you are impelled

        to reach to the ceilinged skies
        and snatch for yourself or others
        a peach shade- happenstance

        quite whimsically portrayed or,
        of a sudden:
        this snow of stars, of shimmering pears

        of lemon froth, half caught in the sieve
        all on a dare
        that a masterpiece may take place

        mary angela douglas 8 january 2016

  2. maryangeladouglas said,

    December 11, 2015 at 2:51 pm

    Haha, I like to think so. Thank you Thomas. I had fun writing this poem because it mirrors my tiny living situation in a positive way and I have to face the fact that every poem I’m writing right now is automatically turning itself into a Christmas poem. It can’t be helped. Not that I mind.


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