I Will Mention The Blind Dissident Forever Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

the great players on the world stage
must have been greatly inconvenienced
to clam up that suddenly concerning the blind dissident
who scaled a wall at midnight
in the name of everyone living.
the great players don't wish to appear
indelicate in their discussions
to speak with their mouths full or
to chew gum while whistling-
or to indicate to us at all that they have even barely heard
of the blind man in total darkness, hoisting himself
on a mouthful of air over the wall;
crudely, with no stars to guide him.
treated now, at best, like a badly behaved child
shoved into a closet where the fine coats hang
of the distinguished guests, appalled-
while the Grownups figure out what to do next.
the man with no protocols, I guess,
to follow - must be excused for his
crassness for putting the great players
-on short notice- into hipwaders
through a predicament they thought they were well rid of-
imagine their horror, if you can…
what was he thinking?
at such a precious moment in the history
of hushed corridors-
to be drawing attention away from
the muffled footsteps of Giants?
sitting glumly at thick tables
with their eyesight intact
their expensive water-
they'll try to take back lost heights of
professionalism I guess it's called now
but they'll keep slipping
on the 'situation'
falling a little flat…
Playground Bullies Are Mum,
the papers read next day (half-right, you figure out, which half) :
Counting Out Their Confliscated Marbles
For the Really Important Work That Lies Ahead-
may I never learn to speak that way dear God
it's such a critical lapse in judgment
it's such a delicate moment in the single butterfly life-span
neither here nor there to the estimable diplomats=
who know how to play the game-
and should just table it-
I want my language back.
forget the marbles. the lost pocketbook of the world…
where's the subject of the sentence here?
the Big People behind the hush-hush doors or
the barely acknowledged man who risked his life?
dear children, let's take a holiday from all this.
can you imagine this, children?
can you imagine the rarest flower in the rarest garden.
now imagine the flower living and not plucked out…
now imagine this is not imaginary…
may I mention and mention even in my sleep
the blind man
who hoisted himself over the world at midnight
as if to see-
and to feel the night air all around him-
breathing all on his own the breath-taking gardens of the world.
may he be honored above nations-
who are silent when they should sing
and speaking when they should just
sit down and weep
for starry courage branching on
even in blind eyes at midnight.

something to shout about. don't you think?
what's the point of discretion here?
Thank God for him. Like Christ, before…
let's be glad there's at least one of us left
in the barricaded gardens of the world
who still remembers
how to leave at midnight-


mary angela douglas