Canzon - (for singing) - after Cavalcanti

 

My donna prays, 'Say' -
                                    such is my volition, dearly!
'of one accident,
                          which so vents
                                                 itself, ferociously
to alter old Guido'.
                              It's amatory. Ah, more, eh?
Some chill nay-
                        sayers even perceive it clearly
and I'm at present
                            cognisant
                                            their old
hope's gone where old
                                    hopes go. Old story!

Whencever they import their cognisance
I sense
            (no Nature-demonstration meant, o
no, no talent to
                        die!) no will to prove
by exhaustion Love's bed here, nor its prime-mover's;
nor to test its virtue, lack of impotence,
essence,
              or what indeed it's sent to
do, or bent on.
                        I can't say, and you've
no stylus for its groove.

It plants its scars
                          in memory, and
they're its state.
                        It's form? Wait.
                                                Make
it silken spume
                       spilled out from dark which charts
a path from Mars.
                           And Love, what's more, has
been created!
                       is sensate!
                                        Takes
from the soul its costume,
                                        its desire from the heart!

It starts in visible form, and then intends
to befriend
                 all feasible intellects
(those which have subjects!)
                                            It has a home,
but fidgets - like as not will roam
about a bit, though of course it won't (in any sense) descend...
It stays resplendent
                              in its eternal aspect
- not for our delectation,
                                      but as a comb
for thought... the kind of thing you won't catch in a poem.

It's not virtue, though, but the quested source
of Perfection
                     (which it's treason to offend).
It isn't rational: you just sense it. I did!
It's past solution: forces
Invention
              to be Reason's end.
Chooses irrationally. Feeds on weakness. Why did

it ever decide, though, to hang around with Death?
If Love's dance should find its course impeded,
if it's conceded that the way's
not blocked by some natural enemy,
maybe Perfection's fluffed a shibboleth.
'Chance' doesn't govern the life you lead.
If your needs outrun your authority,
don't blame the dice. Love spoiled your party.

It comes to the hand when Want is a giant
out of all measure - i.e. Nature's - turned.
It's never adorned in poseur's pleats
but sweeps the land, a psychedelic plant
(unstable figure), features grinned or gurned,
burnt-on by pokers, planed back off in sheets.

The gentle brave find it their treasure-trove,
the glove to keep their quality unfrayed.
It's sprayed the Ego down a groundless hole
where flames of thirst are fuelled by the soul.
You can't imaging anything of
Love till it's moved you. Time will see you preyed on.
Love was not made to bend to a slight goal:
it can display surprising self-control.

One look is dragged from a recognised complexion:
to Delight, it seems right - yes, certain
to entertain all manner of half-grown
hopes. It's not in the bag yet - and on reflection
it might be better to remain...
no, here we go again. The Twilight Zone!

You'll never find it in a living face:
there's grace, but not there.
You do well, if the eyes you trust
aren't physical, but those transcending dust.
There is no shade, but essence fixed in space,
light racing out from darkness, and despair
defeated, Hell undone, unrusting
honour preserved by Love, among the just.

The world's your blotter, canzon:
your structure's so ornate
that, now or soon, a legion
will sense what Reason made you,
not what committee brayed you.

 

after Ezra Pound and Louis Zukofsky

---

Previously unpublished (1992).

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