|
|
XIII. The Canopean Poems
|
|
i.
for a while we had a wonderful time
in canopus
he was so understanding and so tender
tall ships and cooling breezes of the shore
and friendly people
all the roman stiffness rubbed away
here i wrote my poem which took the his fancy:
in this palace at the height of summer
cool marble of the flesh and of the floor
incessant twittering voices twist and turn in air
of people and of birds become bird-people
or heap upon the noontide and the night
and slithering stir the silent weeded pools
the people of the palace turn and stare
moving sightless eyes across the scene
but cannot find the substance of the voice
the form that throws the shadow
cannot intimate the word which they heard whispered
from the mouth of some mute statue
voices of the birds and of the beasts
beat upon the gate and sway the sultry trees
aimlessly we wander the pool's fixed margin
but never enter the labyrinthine passages
which lead, we're told, to the place of the circled square
men and maidens, emperors and catamites
lightened by the light of this blue moon
wander in and out the mazy paths
bordering the always hidden mystery
but never find that central place that is
the axis of the turning sun
the moving pole which runs from star to star
ii.
enchanted by these mysteries the emperor
answered likewise in an antique style
perfectly echoing mine
so that we seemed the left hand and the right hand
of one scribing soul:
at evening in the cooling air
that great bronze bell tolling tolling tolling
and the weary westward wayfaring sun
the cautious chill of wind
and many many memories of him
across the bay the yellow twilight ran
seeking reabsorption in the sun
adjust the broken lace adjust the purple gown
address yourself to moving further on
without purpose walk into the setting sun
dissolving in a roman shower beneath exhaling trees
bowing at the gateway silent proud
mists descending cold and clammy clothes
the innocence that wavered and that passed
disruption of the meaning and the word
all has come together, gathered here
clamours at the entrance and retracts
confounds the issue, disqualifies the sense
iii.
we wrote in that marble hallway high and cool
open at both ends the lampstand gleaming
on the deep red marble table
silent statues watching us
as if they held their breath
at wonder of our words
thru the early canopean night
and that great comet burning in the sky
like an urgent cone of white strange light
which troubled Hadrian
'your turn,' he said, and as he watched i wrote
in a trance of language:
every thought in action finds its deed
what we think is truly what we are
is truly what we are and what will be
is what we once imagined that we were
the world's substance comes to rest in the mind
dictates its vapid cause and its effect
slowly builds its babel tower up
and caps the tottering structure with a thought
from high and lonely watches voices call
their echoes answering from opposing hills
rippling across the streams that steep the plain
reverberating scrub and thorny rock
- i was remembering what the saddhu said
who haunted the great library
his piercing eyes like jewels in his head
swathed in a huge white turban
the emperor had heard him too and he rejoined:
iv.
the golden royal chariot glitters in the sun
the foolish feast their eyes upon its wealth
while men of wisdom quietly passing by
are gazing on the chariot in their hearts
and gazing on the lovely charioteer
(and here i swear he speared me with a look)
who tho not an earthly king possessed of gold
has more of wealth than any king on earth
above the tumult of the palanquin
removed far off from arrows and from war
abstracted from the battlefield of war
(i knew he was thinking here of arjuna)
beyond the court of kings, mere bejewelled men,
far into the ether and the air
the little ba with wings from spirit formed
unbodied in a body pure as dawn
in silent tumult and concentred thought
wrapped about in rays of sun and dew
and steaming up as dew itself will steam
concerted dew that rises to a head
fanning out above in rainbow forms
the plaint platform whence the journey starts
the rainbows back are bended arching low
the ba has taken place and then is fired
in ecstacy in ecstacy is fired
and wings its swiftened way towards the sun
_____________________________________________________
Note: The painting is 'The Ides of March' by Sir Edward Poynter.
|
Links:
|
|
