Travels In Provence, Summer,1972

(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."