Bird

To Henry Church And for what, except for you, do I feel love? Do I press the extremest book of the wisest man Close to me, hidden in me day and night? In the uncertain light of single, certain truth, Equal in living changingness to the light In which I meet you, in which we sit at rest, For a moment in the central of our being, The vivid transparence that you bring is peace. It Must Be Abstract I Begin, ephebe, by perceiving the idea Of this invention, this invented world, The inconceivable idea of the sun. You must become an ignorant man again And see the sun again with an ignorant eye And see it clearly in the idea of it. Never suppose an inventing mind as source Of this idea nor for that mind compose A voluminous master folded in his fire. How clean the sun when seen in its idea, Washed in the remotest cleanliness of a heaven That has expelled us and our images . . . The death of one god is the death of all. Let purple Phoebus lie in umber harvest, Let Phoebus slumber and die in autumn umber, Phoebus is dead, ephebe. But Phoebus was A name for something that never could be named. There was a project for the sun and is. There is a project for the sun. The sun Must bear no name, gold flourisher, but be In the difficulty of what it is to be. II It is the celestial ennui of apartments That sends us back to the first idea, the quick Of this invention; and yet so poisonous Are the ravishments of truth, so fatal to The truth itself, the first idea becomes The hermit in a poet’s metaphors, Who comes and goes and comes and goes all day. May there be an ennui of the first idea? What else, prodigious scholar, should there be? The monastic man is an artist. The philosopher Appoints man’s place in music, say, today. But the priest desires. The philosopher desires. And not to have is the beginning of desire. To have what is not is its ancient cycle. It is desire at the end of winter, when It observes the effortless weather turning blue And sees the myosotis on its bush. Being virile, it hears the calendar hymn. It knows that what it has is what is not And throws it away like a thing of another time, As morning throws off stale moonlight and shabby sleep. III The poem refreshes life so that we share, For a moment, the first idea . . . It satisfies Belief in an immaculate beginning And sends us, winged by an unconscious will, To an immaculate end. We move between these points: From that ever-early candor to its late plural And the candor of them is the strong exhilaration Of what we feel from what we think, of thought Beating in the heart, as if blood newly came, An elixir, an excitation, a pure power. The poem, through candor, brings back a power again That gives a candid kind to everything. We say: At night an Arabian in my room, With his damned hoobla-hoobla-hoobla-how, Inscribes a primitive astronomy Across the unscrawled fores the future casts And throws his stars around the floor. By day The wood-dove used to chant his hoobla-hoo And still the grossest iridescence of ocean Howls hoo and rises and howls hoo and falls. Life’s nonsense pierces us with strange relation. IV The first idea was not our own. Adam In Eden was the father of Descartes And Eve made air the mirror of herself, Of her sons and of her daughters. They found themselves In heaven as in a glass; a second earth; And in the earth itself they found a green— The inhabitants of a very varnished green. But the first idea was not to shape the clouds In imitation. The clouds preceded us. There was a muddy centre before we breathed. There was a myth before the myth began, Venerable and articulate and complete. From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves And hard it is in spite of blazoned days. We are the mimics. Clouds are pedagogues. The air is not a mirror but bare board, Coulisse bright-dark, tragic chiaroscuro And comic color of the rose, in which Abysmal instruments make sounds like pips Of the sweeping meanings that we add to them. V The lion roars at the enraging desert, Reddens the sand with his red-colored noise, Defies red emptiness to evolve his match, Master by foot and jaws and by the mane, Most supple challenger. The elephant Breaches the darkness of Ceylon with blares, The glitter-goes on surfaces of tanks, Shattering velvetest far-away. The bear, The ponderous cinnamon, snarls in his mountain At summer thunder and sleeps through winter snow. But you, ephebe, look from your attic window, Your mansard with a rented piano. You lie In silence upon your bed. You clutch the corner Of the pillow in your hand. You writhe and press A bitter utterance from your writhing, dumb, Yet voluble of dumb violence. You look Across the roofs as sigil and as ward And in your centre mark them and are cowed . . . These are the heroic children whom time breeds Against the first idea—to lash the lion, Caparison elephants, teach bears to juggle. VI Not to be realized because not to Be seen, not to be loved nor hated because Not to be realized. Weather by Franz Hals, Brushed up by brushy winds in brushy clouds, Wetted by blue, colder for white. Not to Be spoken to, without a roof, without First fruits, without the virginal of birds, The dark-blown ceinture loosened, not relinquished. Gay is, gay was, the gay forsythia And yellow, yellow thins the Northern blue. Without a name and nothing to be desired, If only imagined but imagined well. My house has changed a little in the sun. The fragrance of the magnolias comes close, False flick, false form, but falseness close to kin. It must be visible or invisible, Invisible or visible or both: A seeing and unseeing in the eye. The weather and the giant of the weather, Say the weather, the mere weather, the mere air: An abstraction blooded, as a man by thought. VII It feels good as it is without the giant, A thinker of the first idea. Perhaps The truth depends on a walk around a lake, A composing as the body tires, a stop To see hepatica, a stop to watch A definition growing certain and A wait within that certainty, a rest In the swags of pine-trees bordering the lake. Perhaps there are times of inherent excellence, As when the cock crows on the left and all Is well, incalculable balances, At which a kind of Swiss perfection comes And a familiar music of the machine Sets up its Schwärmerei, not balances That we achieve but balances that happen, As a man and woman meet and love forthwith. Perhaps there are moments of awakening, Extreme, fortuitous, personal, in which We more than awaken, sit on the edge of sleep, As on an elevation, and behold The academies like structures in a mist. VIII Can we compose a castle-fortress-home, Even with the help of Viollet-le-Duc, And see the MacCullough there as major man? The first idea is an imagined thing. The pensive giant prone in violet space May be the MacCullough, an expedient, Logos and logic, crystal hypothesis, Incipit and a form to speak the word And every latent double in the word, Beau linguist. But the MacCullough is MacCullough. It does not follow that major man is man. If MacCullough himself lay lounging by the sea, Drowned in its washes, reading in the sound, About the thinker of the first idea, He might take habit, whether from wave or phrase, Or power of the wave, or deepened speech, Or a leaner being, moving in on him, Of greater aptitude and apprehension, As if the waves at last were never broken, As if the language suddenly, with ease, Said things it had laboriously spoken. IX The romantic intoning, the declaimed clairvoyance Are parts of apotheosis, appropriate And of its nature, the idiom thereof. They differ from reason’s click-clack, its applied Enflashings. But apotheosis is not The origin of the major man. He comes, Compact in invincible foils, from reason, Lighted at midnight by the studious eye, Swaddled in revery, the object of The hum of thoughts evaded in the mind, Hidden from other thoughts, he that reposes On a breast forever precious for that touch, For whom the good of April falls tenderly, Falls down, the cock-birds calling at the time. My dame, sing for this person accurate songs. He is and may be but oh! he is, he is, This foundling of the infected past, so bright, So moving in the manner of his hand. Yet look not at his colored eyes. Give him No names. Dismiss him form your images. The hot of him is purest in the heart. X The major abstraction is the idea of man And major man is its exponent, abler In the abstract than in his singular, More fecund as principle than particle, Happy fecundity, flor-abundant force, In being more than an exception, part, Though an heroic part, of the commonal. The major abstraction is the commonal, The inanimate, difficult visage. Who is it? What rabbi, grown furious with human wish, What chieftain, walking by himself, crying Most miserable, most victorious, Does not see these separate figures one by one, And yet see only one, in his old coat, His slouching pantaloons, beyond the town, Looking for what was, where it used to be? Cloudless the morning. It is he. The man In that old coat, those sagging pantaloons, It is of him, ephebe, to make, to confect The final elegance, not to console Nor sanctify, but plainly to propound. It Must Change I The old seraph, parcel-gilded, among violets Inhaled the appointed odor, while the doves Rose up like phantoms from chronologies. The Italian girls wore jonquils in their hair And these the seraph saw, had seen long since, In the bandeaux of the mothers, would see again. The bees came booming as if they had never gone, As if hyacinths had never gone. We say This changes and that changes. Thus the constant Violets, doves, girls, bees and hyacinths Are inconstant objects of inconstant cause In a universe of inconstancy. This means Night-blue is an inconstant thing. The seraph Is satyr in Saturn, according to his thoughts. It means the distaste we feel for this withered scene Is that it has not changed enough. It remains, It is a repetition. The bees come booming As if—The pigeons clatter in the air. An erotic perfume, half of the body, half Of an obvious acid is sure what it intends And the booming is blunt, not broken in subtleties. II The President ordains the bee to be Immortal. The President ordains. But does The body lift its heavy wing, take up, Again, an inexhaustible being, rise Over the loftiest antagonist To drone the green phrases of its juvenal? Why should the bee recapture a lost blague, Find a deep echo in a horn and buzz The bottomless trophy, new hornsman after old? The President has apples on the table And barefoot servants round him, who adjust The curtains to a metaphysical t And the banners of the nation flutter, burst On the flag-poles in a red-blue dazzle, whack At the halyards. Why, then, when in golden fury Spring vanishes the scraps of winter, why Should there be a question of returning or Of death in memory’s dream? Is spring a sleep? This warmth is for lovers at last accomplishing Their love, this beginning, not resuming, this Booming and booming of the new-come bee. III The great statue of the General Du Puy Rested immobile, though neighboring catafalques Bore off the residents of its noble Place. The right, uplifted foreleg of the horse Suggested that, at the final funeral, The music halted and the horse stood still. On Sundays, lawyers in their promenades Approached this strongly-heightened effigy To study the past, and doctors, having bathed Themselves with care, sought out the nerveless frame Of a suspension, a permanence, so rigid That it made the General a bit absurd, Changed his true flesh to an inhuman bronze. There never had been, never could be, such A man. The lawyers disbelieved, the doctors Said that as keen, illustrious ornament, As a setting for geraniums, the General, The very Place Du Puy, in fact, belonged Among our more vestigial states of mind. Nothing had happened because nothing had changed. Yet the General was rubbish in the end. IV Two things of opposite natures seem to depend On one another, as a man depends On a woman, day on night, the imagined On the real. This is the origin of change. Winter and spring, cold copulars, embrace And forth the particulars of rapture come. Music falls on the silence like a sense, A passion that we feel, not understand. Morning and afternoon are clasped together And North and South are an intrinsic couple And sun and rain a plural, like two lovers That walk away as one in the greenest body. In solitude the trumpets of solitude Are not of another solitude resounding; A little string speaks for a crowd of voices. The partaker partakes of that which changes him. The child that touches takes character from the thing, The body, it touches. The captain and his men Are one and the sailor and the sea are one. Follow after, O my companion, my fellow, my self, Sister and solace, brother and delight. V On a blue island in a sky-wide water The wild orange trees continued to bloom and to bear, Long after the planter’s death. A few limes remained, Where his house had fallen, three scraggy trees weighted With garbled green. These were the planter’s turquoise And his orange blotches, these were his zero green, A green baked greener in the greenest sun. These were his beaches, his sea-myrtles in White sand, his patter of the long sea-slushes. There was an island beyond him on which rested, An island to the South, on which rested like A mountain, a pine-apple pungent as Cuban summer. And là-bas, là-bas, the cool bananas grew, Hung heavily on the great banana tree, Which pierces clouds and bends on half the world. He thought often of the land from which he came, How that whole country was a melon, pink If seen rightly and yet a possible red. An unaffected man in a negative light Could not have borne his labor nor have died Sighing that he should leave the banjo’s twang. VI Bethou me, said sparrow, to the crackled blade, And you, and you, bethou me as you blow, When in my coppice you behold me be. Ah, ké! The bloody wren, the felon jay, Ké-ké, the jug-throated robin pouring out, Bethou, bethou, bethou me in my glade. There was such idiot minstrelsy in rain, So many clappers going without bells, That these bethous compose a heavenly gong. One voice repeating, one tireless chorister, The phrases of a single phrase, ké-ké, A single text, granite monotony, One sole face, like a photograph of fate, Glass-blower’s destiny, bloodless episcopus, Eye without lid, mind without any dream— These are of minstrels lacking minstrelsy, Of an earth in which the first leaf is the tale Of leaves, in which the sparrow is a bird Of stone, that never changes. Bethou him, you And you, bethou him and bethou. It is A sound like any other. It will end. VII After a luster of the moon, we say We have not the need of any paradise, We have not the need of any seducing hymn. It is true. Tonight the lilacs magnify The easy passion, the ever-ready love Of the lover that lies within us and we breathe An odor evoking nothing, absolute. We encounter in the dead middle of the night The purple odor, the abundant bloom. The lover sighs as for accessible bliss, Which he can take within him on his breath, Possess in his heart, conceal and nothing known. For easy passion and ever-ready love Are of our earthy birth and here and now And where we live and everywhere we live, As in the top-cloud of a May night-evening, As in the courage of the ignorant man, Who chants by book, in the heat of the scholar, who writes The book, hot for another accessible bliss; The fluctuations of certainty, the change Of degrees of perception in the scholar’s dark. VIII On her trip around the world, Nanzia Nunzio Confronted Ozymandias. She went Alone and like a vestal long-prepared. I am the spouse. She took her necklace off And laid it in the sand. As I am, I am The spouse. She opened her stone-studded belt. I am the spouse, divested of bright gold, The spouse beyond emerald or amethyst, Beyond the burning body that I bear. I am the woman stripped more nakedly Than nakedness, standing before an inflexible Order, saying I am the contemplated spouse. Speak to me that, which spoken, will array me In its own only precious ornament. Set on me the spirit’s diamond coronal. Clothe me entire in the final filament, So that I tremble with such love so known And myself am precious for your perfecting. Then Ozymandias said the spouse, the bride Is never naked. A fictive covering Weaves always glistening form the heart and mind. IX The poem goes from the poet’s gibberish to The gibberish of the vulgate and back again. Does it move to and fro or is it of both At once? Is it a luminous flittering Or the concentration of a cloudy day? Is there a poem that never reaches words And one that chaffers the time away? Is the poem both peculiar and general? There’s a meditation there, in which there seems To be an evasion, a thing not apprehended or Not apprehended well. Does the poet Evade us, as in a senseless element? Evade, this hot, dependent orator, The spokesman at our bluntest barriers, Exponent by a form of speech, the speaker Of a speech only a little of the tongue? It is the gibberish of the vulgate that he seeks. He tries by a peculiar speech to speak The peculiar potency of the general, To compound the imagination’s Latin with The lingua franca et jocundissima. X A bench was his catalepsy, Theatre Of Trope. He sat in the park. The water of The lake was full of artificial things, Like a page of music, like an upper air, Like a momentary color, in which swans Were seraphs, were saints, were changing essences. The west wind was the music, the motion, the force To which the swans curveted, a will to change, A will to make iris frettings on the blank. There was a will to change, a necessitous And present way, a presentation, a kind Of volatile world, too constant to be denied, The eye of a vagabond in metaphor That catches our own. The casual is not Enough. The freshness of transformation is The freshness of a world. It is our own, It is ourselves, the freshness of ourselves, And that necessity and that presentation Are rubbings of a glass in which we peer. Of these beginnings, gay and green, propose The suitable amours. Time will write them down. It Must Give Pleasure I To sing jubilas at exact, accustomed times, To be crested and wear the mane of a multitude And so, as part, to exult with its great throat, To speak of joy and to sing of it, borne on The shoulders of joyous men, to feel the heart That is the common, the bravest fundament, This is a facile exercise. Jerome Begat the tubas and the fire-wind strings, The golden fingers picking dark-blue air: For companies of voices moving there, To find of sound the bleakest ancestor, To find of light a music issuing Whereon it falls in more than sensual mode. But the difficultest rigor is forthwith, On the image of what we see, to catch from that Irrational moment its unreasoning, As when the sun comes rising, when the sea Clears deeply, when the moon hangs on the wall Of heaven-haven. These are not things transformed. Yet we are shaken by them as if they were. We reason about them with a later reason. II The blue woman, linked and lacquered, at her window Did not desire that feathery argentines Should be cold silver, neither that frothy clouds Should foam, be foamy waves, should move like them, Nor that the sexual blossoms should repose Without their fierce addictions, nor that the heat Of summer, growing fragrant in the night, Should strengthen her abortive dreams and take In sleep its natural form. It was enough For her that she remembered: the argentines Of spring come to their places in the grape leaves To cool their ruddy pulses; the frothy clouds Are nothing but frothy clouds; the frothy blooms Waste without puberty; and afterward, When the harmonious heat of August pines Enters the room, it drowses and is the night. It was enough for her that she remembered. The blue woman looked and from her window named The corals of the dogwood, cold and clear, Cold, coldly delineating, being real, Clear and, except for the eye, without intrusion. III A lasting visage in a lasting bush, A face of stone in an unending red, Red-emerald, red-slitted-blue, a face of slate, An ancient forehead hung with heavy hair, The channel slots of rain, the red-rose-red And weathered and the ruby-water-worn, The vines around the throat, the shapeless lips, The frown like serpents basking on the brow, The spent feeling leaving nothing of itself, Red-in-red repetitions never going Away, a little rusty, a little rouged, A little roughened and ruder, a crown The eye could not escape, a red renown Blowing itself upon the tedious ear. An effulgence faded, dull cornelian Too venerably used. That might have been. It might and might have been. But as it was, A dead shepherd brought tremendous chords from hell And bade the sheep carouse. Or so they said. Children in love with them brought early flowers And scattered them about, no two alike. IV We reason of these things with later reason And we make of what we see, what we see clearly And have seen, a place dependent on ourselves. There was a mystic marriage in Catawba, At noon it was on the mid-day of the year Between a great captain and the maiden Bawda. This was their ceremonial hymn: Anon We loved but would no marriage make. Anon The one refused the other one to take, Foreswore the sipping of the marriage wine. Each must the other take not for his high, His puissant front nor for her subtle sound, The shoo-shoo-shoo of secret cymbals round. Each must the other take as sign, short sign To stop the whirlwind, balk the elements. The great captain loved the ever-hill Catawba And therefore married Bawda, whom he found there, And Bawda loved the captain as she loved the sun. They married well because the marriage-place Was what they loved. It was neither heaven nor hell. They were love’s characters come face to face. V We drank Meursault, ate lobster Bombay with mango Chutney. Then the Canon Aspirin declaimed Of his sister, in what a sensible ecstasy She lived in her house. She had two daughters, one Of four, and one of seven, whom she dressed The way a painter of pauvred color paints. But still she painted them, appropriate to Their poverty, a gray-blue yellowed out With ribbon, a rigid statement of them, white, With Sunday pearls, her widow’s gayety. She hid them under simple names. She held Them closelier to her by rejecting dreams. The words they spoke were voices that she heard. She looked at them and saw them as they were And what she felt fought off the barest phrase. The Canon Aspirin, having said these things, Reflected, humming an outline of a fugue Of praise, a conjugation done by choirs. Yet when her children slept, his sister herself Demanded of sleep, in the excitements of silence Only the unmuddled self of sleep, for them. VI When at long midnight the Canon came to sleep And normal things had yawned themselves away, The nothingness was a nakedness, a point, Beyond which fact could not progress as fact. Thereon the learning of the man conceived Once more night’s pale illuminations, gold Beneath, far underneath, the surface of His eye and audible in the mountain of His ear, the very material of his mind. So that he was the ascending wings he saw And moved on them in orbits’ outer stars Descending to the children’s bed, on which They lay. Forth then with huge pathetic force Straight to the utmost crown of night he flew. The nothingness was a nakedness, a point Beyond which thought could not progress as thought. He had to choose. But it was not a choice Between excluding things. It was not a choice Between, but of. He chose to include the things That in each other are included, the whole, The complicate, the amassing harmony. VII He imposes orders as he thinks of them, As the fox and snake do. It is a brave affair. Next he builds capitols and in their corridors, Whiter than wax, sonorous, fame as it is, He establishes statues of reasonable men, Who surpassed the most literate owl, the most erudite Of elephants. But to impose is not To discover. To discover an order as of A season, to discover summer and know it, To discover winter and know it well, to find, Not to impose, not to have reasoned at all, Out of nothing to have come on major weather, It is possible, possible, possible. It must Be possible. It must be that in time The real will from its crude compoundings come, Seeming at first, a beast disgorged, unlike, Warmed by a desperate milk. To find the real, To be stripped of every fiction except one, The fiction of an absolute—Angel, Be silent in your luminous cloud and hear The luminous melody of proper sound. VIII What am I to believe? If the angel in his cloud, Serenely gazing at the violent abyss, Plucks on his strings to pluck abysmal glory, Leaps downward through evening’s revelations, and On his spredden wings, needs nothing but deep space, Forgets the gold centre, the golden destiny, Grows warm in the motionless motion of his flight, Am I that imagine this angel less satisfied? Are the wings his, the lapis-haunted air? Is it he or is it I that experience this? Is it I then that keep saying there is an hour Filled with expressible bliss, in which I have No need, am happy, forget need’s golden hand, Am satisfied without solacing majesty, And if there is an hour there is a day, There is a month, a year, there is a time In which majesty is a mirror of the self: I have not but I am and as I am, I am. These external regions, what do we fill them with Except reflections, the escapades of death, Cinderella fulfilling herself beneath the roof? IX Whistle aloud, too weedy wren. I can Do all that angels can. I enjoy like them, Like men besides, like men in light secluded, Enjoying angels. Whistle, forced bugler, That bugles for the mate, nearby the nest, Cock bugler, whistle and bugle and stop just short, Red robin, stop in your preludes, practicing Mere repetitions. These things at least comprise An occupation, an exercise, a work, A thing final in itself and, therefore, good: One of the vast repetitions final in Themselves and, therefore, good, the going round And round and round, the merely going round, Until merely going round is a final good, The way wine comes at a table in a wood. And we enjoy like men, the way a leaf Above the table spins its constant spin, So that we look at it with pleasure, look At it spinning its eccentric measure. Perhaps, The man-hero is not the exceptional monster, But he that of repetition is most master. X Fat girl, terrestrial, my summer, my night, How is it I find you in difference, see you there In a moving contour, a change not quite completed? You are familiar yet an aberration. Civil, madam, I am, but underneath A tree, this unprovoked sensation requires That I should name you flatly, waste no words, Check your evasions, hold you to yourself. Even so when I think of you as strong or tired, Bent over work, anxious, content, alone, You remain the more than natural figure. You Become the soft-footed phantom, the irrational Distortion, however fragrant, however dear. That’s it: the more than rational distortion, The fiction that results from feeling. Yes, that. They will get it straight one day at the Sorbonne. We shall return at twilight from the lecture Pleased that the irrational is rational, Until flicked by feeling, in a gildered street, I call you by name, my green, my fluent mundo. You will have stopped revolving except in crystal.                            ————— Soldier, there is a war between the mind And sky, between thought and day and night. It is For that the poet is always in the sun, Patches the moon together in his room To his Virgilian cadences, up down, Up down. It is a war that never ends. Yet it depends on yours. The two are one. They are a plural, a right and left, a pair, Two parallels that meet if only in The meeting of their shadows or that meet In a book in a barrack, a letter from Malay. But your war ends. And after it you return With six meats and twelve wines or else without To walk another room . . . Monsieur and comrade, The soldier is poor without the poet’s lines, His petty syllabi, the sounds that stick, Inevitably modulating, in the blood. And war for war, each has its gallant kind. How simply the fictive hero becomes the real; How gladly with proper words the soldier dies, If he must, or lives on the bread of faithful speech.