When song is pain—

A hit by a female artist,

So the husband producers can take limousines,

When song is pain,

A young girl, emotionally engaged,

Will never be the same;

When song is pain,

That has to be the best song to hear

In the mall, when you don’t have to be cognizant of the rain;

When song is pain,

You might briefly escape common sense

And feel what the wordless is saying;

When song is pain,

It will never be a poem, or a very good song.

Pain is nothing. Pain is wrong—

A shadow following you down a sunlit lane.




  1. maryangeladouglas said,

    February 1, 2016 at 10:25 pm

    I like the last line very much. Poe would too, I imagine (as much as I can imagine that knowing far less than you T Graves, on the subject.


    singed on bright waters
    from our first day
    the message of

    our going away
    the leaf whirls down
    the flower can’t stay

    the snow melts like
    old dreams that stray
    into an ever running brook

    oh one last look
    you’ll want to say
    when angels come

    to bear away
    the you that never
    knew how dear

    the earth had grown
    from year to year
    how odd, now, to be leaving…

    but you were written in the book
    that someone else was reading

    mary angela douglas 1 february 2016

    • thomasbrady said,

      February 2, 2016 at 3:43 pm

      Mary Angela Douglas! You are the living Emily Dickinson.

      If this poem were found in an attic and had her marks and punctuation, scholars would think it was Dickinson.

      There is light. Pouring into Scarriet.

      Thank you.

      • maryangeladouglas said,

        February 2, 2016 at 5:12 pm

        Thank you Thomas Graves. What a beautiful thing to say. I have noticed a deeper shifting of things in your own poems for many months now that is beautiful to watch and to contemplate and I wish you the best in it. Even when I don’t comment I still see it and I’m certain others see it too (or else they are sadly tone deaf to real poetry). The odd coincidence is that just yesterday I was thinking what it would feel like to write in an attic (haha after pest control had effectively been administered and the window cracked).

        This is a poem I wrote today which made me happy because I feel it resembles a little of the light in Walter De La Mare’s poems. (I hope so) and because I could enshrine one of my favorite, much maligned words…


        teachers tell me I have used this word too much
        as if it could wear out
        but there’s no other word in English

        for the light that glitters about which
        you are not sure and could not answer
        if the question were put to you

        in front of the whole class:
        What Is Its Source.
        you’d swallow the gold

        and keep a gilded silence
        and yourself to yourself
        knowing you cannot say:

        from hidden kingdoms

        a charged beam has strayed
        and escaped certain tyranny revealing
        that pathway of moonlight

        across the counterpanes so that
        children wander in a vast sleep
        where every tree is…

        everything they see is…

        mary angela douglas 2 february 2016

        P.S. Happy early Spring to Scarriet and everyone herein unless the groundhog lied but it looked honest to me.

        • thomasbrady said,

          February 2, 2016 at 11:12 pm

          The idea of a word—“as if it could wear out” is such a beautiful conceit!

          That’s almost a whole poem in itself, or one that could be developed on its own…

          A word used up, to see it actually fade away somehow in a poem…

          • maryangeladouglas said,

            February 2, 2016 at 11:27 pm

            While I do admit the way you have expressed it is quite beautiful I have at the same time a kind of nervous feeling that this would happen, could happen. But nothing is ever destroyed so it would have to somehow “land” in another dimension. Now I feel better.

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