On Vladimir Bukovsky Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

perhaps there were embattled angels in his features
some saw from the corners of their eyes at that first press conference
the angel delivered from a hell more furious than Dante's
I dont know
a suprahuman messenger or a bent wing with a searing eye
unaccountable humor; a cat. forget all that.
basically at 76 called home wherever people like that go
when the trump sounds.
the one that comes for all as Donne noted.
emperor and king.
our best men.
our best men.
obituaries said so little.
of the man seeking judgement in Moscow
the man some said who loved rose trees
friends. what he meant by friendship some know.
Jesus of Nazareth...better love than this...
building castles in all that spare time.
spare time.in between tortures and reports.
multiple inanities. East and West alike.
how far the human heart can drag itself
the lips slaked from no thirst still speaking
to the snow blind tone deaf carnival elites
so little time to understand what is in man.
to be defamed as a saint.
how to fling yourself in the fire again when you have no limbs left
to speak of; psychologically, spiritually speaking
how a being like that ever got here in the first place.
was sent here.
survived. beyond survival itself.
bore witness. prevailed. kept hammering the nail.
you explain if you can all those prating of the Russian dissident movement. this unusual orphan of moral rectitude the Idée fixe
how an avenging angel fell to earth whimsical; quizzical,
all too human. puncturing the Wound
a continual crystalline self willed falling on the sword of Truth
an anguish of gold and incorruptible weeping, hemorrhaging
and did what he did irrevocably.
with nothing left unsaid.

mary angela douglas 17 november 2020