I could see what you were depicting, and that was the problem—
It is my ears, not my eyes, which need food.
Be conversant with me for many hours—these hours lit still.
Talk is the secret of poetry and love. Depiction is for the painters.
It is not the bad, but the bad which seems to be good,
Which gets you in the end, and chiefly by its seeming;
For soon good which is really bad ruins your judgement completely,
And the bad which turns out to be good doesn’t help, either.
You resent the good since it was good all this time and you didn’t know,
And when you start to resent the good, you lose a sense of taste
For the mundane steps common sense must take, and confusion
Slowly and unconsciously poisons all enthusiasm and joy.
The style ruined the poet, who had much to say, but remained silent,
As the style of the poetry inhibited speech; the artificial naturally the aim,
Which is the great mistake of all artists—to be artistic.
Scarriet 
maryangeladouglas said,
May 2, 2018 at 5:31 am
THOSE WHO WERE NEVER TOLD
I have been partial to the speed of clouds
suspended animation of the leaves
the winter vagaries
and I like a clouded marble.
the elegance of the departing waves.
resolved into the spell of ice
syllables saved for the special occasions
like the good china used for company
the pink linen cloth laid on the cherry table
variant equations someone else can understand
it’s not my job.
starshine is enough and truly, God, yet
sometimes in late aftenoons
the feeling of not being here at all
and the soul resounding, yes
that has always been the rule
going out or coming in after childhood
was sent off into exile they said I never did
like the mopsy rabbits the flopsy ones
or so’s to bed without the blackberry supper
disappeared not mattering as much
from year to year
and asking, what is here
my soul feels everywhere and nowhere
at the same time
in need in want only of the starry ladders
swinging down this is not my home
my lovelies gone
except when caught in music
and in the divinity of words flowing
from a spigot of gold in the
quiet beyond midnight
I who have known clouds dream
that the angels awake
to guard lost armies
who were never told
the war is gone.
and everything else, with it.
mary angela douglas 1 may 2018
maryangeladouglas said,
May 3, 2018 at 5:52 pm
GOLD HAS FALLEN;GOLD
gold has fallen, Gold.
not the gold of empires;Light.
it’s slanted glory across
our hearts, departing in
the season of sighs.
now are we numb;
again the harps
hung in the willows.
ourselves, our own exiles,
the ash of roses composed.
the last of the shadows surging.
and for no prize at all.
why will you persist in counting out
counting out and hoarding
the honey of our days
net worth of souls.ah, the expedient!
you who know branding so well.
banished, in one hand
quiet and no fool’s gold,
the luminous love of our Lord
Cande beyond all candles
lighting our way.
and in the other,
the weight of trembling.nothing.
the blackbirds counted out
from dubious pies arising
have flown laquered into the ionesphere.
the lacklustre zones.
will you still keep
vetting the lachrimosa,
your professional demeanor,
your resumes of snow?
all verse is blank.
the cclipse drawn in crayons
by small children who know
this is no longer
the harbinger of fear
in nursery tales
but fear itself and terrorizing.
Jacob’s angel in the bent dawns.
all wrong on display
in the museum of Song
for the chuldren’s field trips where.
Beauty went
weeping, away, the.last moon
over the monsoon
with the Ark new furnished now.
what more can be implored.
and Infinite Love the dazzling,
the last beggar at your door.
the world awash in rain.
mary angela douglas 3 may 2018