Travels In Provence, Summer,1972 Poem by Daniel Brick

(I)

For three weeks I have wandered
without an itinerary across
these Troubadour lands. Delight
and Repose are my boon companions
as I move in courtly measures
from a place of beauty to a place
of loveliness, with flowers forming
color patterns on the ground and
swirls of scent in the air.
And in my hearing the chansson of
Arnaut Daniel alternate with Gregorian
Chant, bringing flesh and spirit
into harmony, with threads of bird songs
connecting human with animal music.
At moments out of time, I see my mentor
hiking along a ridge above a river
I have yet to cross. He waves to me
but does not summon me. Even at this remove
I can see he is a very happy man.
But all too soon he drops out of
view. It must be his intent
to make me decide for myself
what this journey is: a pilgrimage?
a vacation? an exploration? I carry
my much-read copy of his book,
THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE by Ezra Pound,
and I sometimes wonder: Is this
my liberation he has arranged?
Just last week I rushed after him,
looking for traces of him
in the heavy scented air, but
all I found was more beauty.
But I know he has not abandoned me,
like the sun that withdraws its favor
every day. Ezra is the steady sun
of continual illumination. At dusk,
I feel the only sadness of my travels. It is
not loneliness, it is not panic,
but this sadness overwhelms me
before sleep. I shove it aside
like a dead log. Nothing unliving
will retard my progress. I lie
in a pool of moonlight, and count
my blessings prayerfully. And
the wonder of it is the man
I could not detain strides
into my dreams. Ezra Pound says,
"I can tell you are a very
happy man. Make your joy a lasting
thing, and address her, the
April-like Queen, as another Venus."
As he begins to fade I hear
his anthem, "Nothing better
suits a poet than the worship
of a goddess who still lingers,
in this world, Beauty within Beauty."