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"O Lynx keep watch on my fire"

Ezra Pound, Canto LXXIX

Written for:

Linking Latitudes 2001: Shanghai & China Conference

Australia-China Writing Project: My Life - Our Future

Edward Reilly PhD

English Department

Geelong High School

17 xi 2000

ON A GREEN MOUNTAIN WITH EZRA POUND & LI BO

Many years ago, my wife and I drove into the countryside north of Yass along a winding road towards Cootamundra. Into these lands my mother's Irish grandparents had fled from the English authorities in Sydney Town, seeking a new start, fresh air and unbounded horizons. Jura was asleep at the time. As the Sun rose higher chasing away morning mists, we pressed further inland, the gentle hills becoming more and more clothed with a golden mantle: the wattle-trees were in bloom. In our district Cootamundra Wattles come into bloom always during the first week of July. I can see them take shape from my classroom looking across the field into Eastern Park: gangs of Ravens and Piwis hold court as Winter's rains cut across Corio Bay and against fogged windows. Such Cootamundra Wattles hold their colour until October when the Bottlebrushes burst into glory and Honeyeaters gorge themselves silly on dew.

We reached a crest in the road and when I looked down, the asphalt ribbon was consumed in a blazing cloud, fierce light streaming out from the crest of a hill across the valley. On a green mountain we were caught up in a light from which I never wanted to emerge, so beautifully compelling was it. My wife's hair was ablaze with dazzling lights. I pulled the car onto a grassy strip, watched, waited for the spell to abate, then drove on. Jura awoke only when we pulled into a petrol station, and I did not try to explain what I had seen, one cannot explain the inexplicable.

Or can one? Ghosts are inexplicable, but just as real as that golden cloud. Some years later after our travels through the Australian countryside, we were staying in an old workers' cottage when visiting friends in Geelong during an early Summer weekend. The woman of the house, Mrs. Karpis, put us into the front bedroom. She had laid out the bed with freshly washed linen sheets, and had arranged by the open window in three vases some freshly cut golden roses: lovers' roses. It had been so hot that day and a cool scented breeze was welcome. Our friend, a doctor now practising in a country town, jokingly mentioned as we meandered to bed after a good meal and very good wines that we should not be surprised to see a ghost wandering down the passageway in the early hours of the morning.

We did not bump into the ghost, but rather Jura woke up screaming there was someone in our room. I saw some thing by the end of our coverlet. I turned on the bedside lamp. No one was there, but a dampness hung in the air. Jura kept on screaming and our hosts came running down to see what was wrong. It took us a long time for us to go back to sleep. The ghost could have been stray beams from a streetlamp or even errant moonbeams, but our friend told us that the night before his mother died, Mrs. Karpis reported she had seen the ghost, who had told her not to worry - Worry about what? There was no reply, only waft of golden roses. Again, there can be no logical explanation, only a realisation that something wonderful exists beyond cold physics and human logic had taken place.

The first time I opened an edition of Ezra Pound's Pisan Cantos, I was lost, completely overwhelmed by a sea of words, ideas and signs I had never seen beforehand: it was like plunging into a meadow of unfamiliar flowers, unknown birds singing in strange tunes about lands I could only have ever guessed at. I read the eleven Cantos at one sitting, and did not understand a thing - yet I understood everything, and felt as though I had arrived in a foreign land.

Jacket of the 1948 edition (Ackroyd, p. 88)

It's not often that a whole book has had that effect on me. Perhaps I need to be in a state of heightened expectation as I was when first reading Lawrence Durrell's Alexandria Quartet or the poetry of Thomas Kinsella. The throat tightens, words cannot escape, dreams come in fits throughout early morning awakenings, coffee goes sour on my tongue. There is no logical explanation for such things, but Robert Graves wrote these things were to be considered as manifestations of the Goddess. She steps through the open window of a book, hair tugged at by summer breezes, her dress drifting in moonlight, and we uneasily dream of her as pages turn.

And she inhabits our imagination not just through books, which of themselves are dry, friable things, but through more tangible objects, such as statues, and Rosary beads, a girl's velvet ribbon, or even a pet cat asleep on a tousled bed, undisturbed by our Summer love-making. She is the wind rustling through a field of lavender, the slow eddy of an incoming tide over dry sands, the Moon racing through a stormy Springtime sky. She is the laughter of schoolgirls dismissive of an old man's warnings to be careful, the slow eye of a fifty-year-old woman gone mad in grief for the death of a belovèd daughter. I have seen her walking by a lotus-pond in the island of Bali, wreathed in flowers so fragrant that I all but swooned as the priests and people began their descent from Besakih Temple on a path leading across the fields unto the sea. I saw her on a golden hill near Cootamundra.

Thus in the depths of his cagèd misery at the prison compound near Pisa, Ezra Pound dreamt of the Goddess. He names her variously as Koré [Maiden], Méter [Mother] and Kuanon, and yet her form is eternal:

Manet painted the bar at La Cigale or at Les Folies in that year

she did her hair in small ringlets, à la 1880 it might have been,

red, and the dress she wore was Drecol or Lanvin

a great goddess, Aeneas knew her forthwith

by paint immortal as no other age is immortal

La France dixneuvième …

(Pound, Canto LXXIV, p. 435)

Manet: Bar at the Folies-Bergère, 1882 (Schneider, p. 179)

However bored this bargirl may seem to us, in reality she is all eyes, all ears, taking in everything that evening at Folies-Bergère. Twelve years before, silly Plon-Plon disastrously led France into war with Prussia, failed, lost the Imperial Crown, gave birth to the Paris Commune and the bloody horrors that followed. Now Parisians give themselves over to pleasure, not revolution. Let us call her Isaude. As a child in distant Lorient she would have heard little about events in Paris. Her older brother, Tristan, had come back from naval duty in Algiers resplendent in his blue & silver Captain's uniform.

Paris attracted Isaude like a candle attracts nightmoths. So now, she stands behind the lang bar, serving, observing, speaking only to herself in Breton, her parents' tongue, that an unseen shield against those million follies before her.

She had come to him, mated with him in whom were mingled threefold the modern Americas, classical Europe and ancient China, and out of which he gave birth Zeus-like to these enigmatic and luminous poems. For myself, raised on the wavering certainties of post-War Irish-Australian Catholicism, Pound's vision of the maidenly Goddess was a natural extension of Italianate images: the Blessèd Virgin Maria being visited by saccharine Angels in flowing blonde locks, or herself in assumptive ecstasy. Although our common religion derives from monotheisitic Levantine belief, we are still Europeans, and as such are more akin to Hindus than to Jews or Muslims. Catholic and Orthodox Saints are first cousins to Indo-European chthonic gods and goddesses such as Krišna, but in Plaster-of-Paris and bright polychrome, so his use of expressions such as Koré and Méter to express the eternal feminine fitted my religious sensibility quite comfortably.

The Annunciation, Russia C16 (Küpper, p. 25)

Gabriel of the golden wings has come to announce, no - instruct, this village maiden that she is to bear God's son. He will be the people's saviour, he tells her, you must consent. Maria, knowing that he is a direct descendant of David Melek Israël. She puts on a show of coy modesty - May His will be done. Inwardly she cannot restrain herself. Her magnificat is a battle cry against the hated occupiers, her son will led the people of Israël to freedom! She would not have rejoiced had she known the child's fate. What sort of freedom would this gifted boy - Isa bar Yusuf - offer his people? Had she known, Maria would have covered her face in horror and sprinkled her homespun cloak with ashes from her husband's forge. But we Europeans made her into something else, our Demeter, Žemyne, Zemes Mate, Matriuška, the eternal Triple Goddess visualised as Maiden, Matron and Sophia, the Feminine Trinity.

I was in familiar, if new, religious and psychological territory. Pound taught me that the linear poetry learnt from earlier teachers, although still true in its own way, was not the only Universe a poet could describe. It was like discovering a new Geometry in which lines came round in curves to meet themselves at the point they had started out from, or learning that the soul could be coloured in an infinite variety of shades and tints.

Pound, left to rot in punishment cells open to the vagaries of an Italian Winter, had cried out in his fear:

O Lynx, wake Silenus and Casey

Shake the castagnettes of the bassarids,

The mountain forest is full of light

The tree-comb red-gilded

Who sleeps in the field of lynxes

In the orchard of Maelids?

(Pound, Canto LXXIX, p. 488)

This passage is difficult, to say the least. My immediate impression was that Pound's invocation of Diana the Huntress, whose sign is the feline lynx, invoking the full force of ecstatic religion which would free him at least in conscience if not in body. His body was trapped, incarcerated in a cage open to the elements. He trembled in fear of being executed like other prisoners at the Disciplinary Training Center outside of Pisa.

US Army open "cages for beasts" at Pisa (Ackroyd, p. 87)

So when at last I had made acquaintance with a lynx at the Melbourne Zoological Gardens, the full force of Pound's image was realised. I had thought she would be a gentle animal, not unlike our tame black kitten, playful, but ultimately homely. Not she, no way would she be tamed. She looked through me, not at me. Her heart was filled with a cold fire, marble-cold as a Goddess ought be, unreachable. She would not court me, even though I stayed to watch her for three whole hours. In the end, it was I who weakened, and made to leave. Only then, as I was rising from my seat, about to put away my notes and sketches, did she come down to the sill closest to the cage bars. I went up to the bars and put my upturned hand through. She could have ripped my flesh open, wounded me, but rather suffered that I stroke her head a few times, then looked into my eyes, and was gone. They say there are no lynxes left in Italy, but Pound knew better.

The Pisan Cantos, whose guiding spirit appears as the lynx, were written by Pound as an act of cultural reconstruction, just as Chinese scholars had reconstructed the Shu Ching [Xiu Qing in Pinyin???] - a gathering of records from past rulers - from the ashes of their country's ruin. His world had fallen apart, and even if he were not insane, perhaps that was the kindest way for the American administration to treat Pound, otherwise they would have had to try and execute him in the same way the English disposed of William Joyce, who also had broadcast against Churchill's wartime régime and its innate hatred of Europe. In Pound's telling of this tragic and wasteful act of book-burning:

…and of TSIN was CHI HOANG TI that united all China

who referred to himslef as the surplus

or needless bit of the Empire

and jacked up astronomy

and after 33 years burnt the books

because of fool litterati b.c. 213

by counsel of Li-ssé

save medicine and on field works …

(Pound, Canto LIV, p. 275)

Although Confucius himself had preserved a copy of the original by hiding it in the walls of his house, this was not rediscovered until 140 BC, so that the document we now have is a collation of oral and written sources, a many layered text (Furia, p. 110). This is something so preternaturally post-modern that Derrida ought to have written on it, at length. But medicine and agriculture are not enough to sustain a national culture, for although they are necessary, without a guiding principle they are no more than a blunt adze. Craft needs culture, needs intellect and soul as guides.

So who was Kuanon, and how was she linked with the Goddess? I have no training in Chinese language, and what little I have of Sinitic cultures has been haphazardly acquired as my daughter studied Japanese at her school. Then in 1992, when first visiting the Honolulu Academy of the Arts, Hawai'i, I discovered a statue of her.

Kuanon - Gwan Yin (UNCG)

Her name, Kuanon, is the Japanese form of Gwan Yin, Goddess of Mercy, Fruitfulness and Fertility. She is often depicted carrying fruit or hold the branch of a fruiting tree. More resplendent than ever, more an earth-mother-goddess, that is a Demeter rather than Koré, she reclines as on a cushioned couch, is at her ease rather than being enthroned. Come here and sit besides me - she seems to be saying - Eat of my fruit that you may learn. The Rabbis got it wrong, Eve's offer of the Apple of Knowledge to Adam was the best thing she could have done, for without that knowledge of Good and Evil, without the ability to make a choice we would not have become sentient beings but remained fleshed robots, no more than naked apes. Kuanon-Eve hid herself on Mount Taishan and sent her lynx down to comfort and inform her poet, and from the lynx's mewlings Pound rewrote the world's story. She was still there this year when I returned.

Meanwhile, down the hallway, in his own alcove, the Hindu Prince Siddharta stands regal, erect despite his ascetic poverty, verging on a state of coming into enlightenment. Their eyes ensnare me back and front, seeing through me just as the lynx had seen past the cage bars those years ago. Wherever I walk in the Academy's hallways, I am followed and guided, just as I am guided by Pound's eyes in this photograph towards the path of some as-yet unrealised Enlightenment.

Ezra Pound (Ackroyd, p. 2)

Ezra Pound's Cantos had slowly introduced me to a parallel world of mythic references, ways of explaining my dreams and fears, my joys and the rising urge to write these down in a coherent form. At first, his use of much Greek, some Latin and then increasingly, Chinese, quotations seemed to interfere with his singular poetic. T. S. Eliot had first thought Pound had made a "rag-bag" rather than a poem, but acknowledged the "positive coherence" of the Cantos, for as Pound himself wrote, "all foreign words … will be underlinings … the Greek, ideograms, etc., will indicate a duration from whence or since when" (Yu, p. 200). This constituted an ideogrammic method, a new poetic. That much becomes clear when in Canto LXXXIV he writes, in connection with the heroic figure of John Adams, and his descendants:

John Adams, the Brothers Adam

there is our norm of spirit

our chung1

whereto we may pay our

homage

(Pound, Canto LXXXIV, p. 540)

Now while Pound a selection of four-hundred or so Chinese characters to augment his poetic according to the ideas first propounded by Ernest Fenollosa, he was rather idiosyncratic in his phoeneticisation of them, using a both Pauthier's French system and sometimes Japanese versions of Chinese names (Yu, p. 198). By insisting on this eclectic method, Pound was able to keep track of the pathways which would lead him back to the Goddess whenever he was lost, and also to pay tribute to his cultural teachers such as Fenollosa (Kearns, p. 63). No-one has dared modernise these annotations, although I would be tempted to add the Pinyin romanisation, zhong, to the margins, if only to help myself and other readers say the characters with less confusion about phonetics and tones.

Annotated page from Li Bo (UNCG)

Li Bo, or as Pound and all other Americans still write Li Po in their obsolete style of transcription, was introduced to me in the guise of Rihaku, whom I thought at first was a Japanese poet, but then as Japanese substitutes [ r ] for [ l ], my confusion was understandable. I was more familiar with Bašo and several other Japanese poets whose haiku form is deceptively easy to imitate but not master. As schoolchildren like to write in that form, and can gain some proficiency, I have happily taught haiku-writing and something about Bašo and his school. Li Bo was first employed by Pound in his book Cathay, which now is seen as so full of errors, but still holds its place as being seminal to the West's stumbling to an understanding of China. What were we to make of lines such as:

Ko-jin goes west from Ko-kaku-ro,

The smoke-flowers are blurred over the river.

His lone sail blots the far sky,

And now I see only the river,

The long Kiang, reaching heaven.

(Yu, p. 182)

Now while one may appreciate the intrinsic beauty of Chinese calligraphy and associated art works with with Li Bo's poetry, I have wondered what the poems sounded like. There are two problems: firstly, the Chinese languages have changed in the last thirteen centuries, and secondly, since Chinese systems of writing are ideographic there is no way sounds can be directly conveyed. Modern Standard Chinese is a tonal language, that is to say, syllabic tone is phonemic. For example: da, with the first or high tone, means "assist" or "raise", dá, with the second or rising tone, means "answer"; dã, with the third or falling-rising tone, means "strike' or "do"; while dà, with the fourth or falling tone signifies "great". The only final consonants allowed are nasals, -n and -ng. In other dialects and languages, there are more or less tones, and other final consonants are allowed in syllables. Perhaps it may be possible to reconstruct 8th Century Chinese sounds by examining contemporary borrowings into languages such as Japanese and Korean which do have phonetic systems of writing. Surely Li Bo and his fellow poets were sensitive to the sounds with which they gave utterance to their thoughts and feelings: it would be instructive to hear such poems as they would have said them.

Poetry is not merely a creature of writing and a poem is not to be judged in the same way as one would judge a translation. Pound had not set out to translate, but rather re-create, a feat he achieves with stunningly simple phrases. If he had merely translated "Ko-jin" would appear as an old friend, "Ko-kaku-ro" as Yellow Crane Pavillion, and "Kiang" would have been redundant as it merely means river (Yu, p. 183). But by incorporating untranslated phrases, just as he incorporated unglossed ideograms, Pound was able to excite the Western mind into imagining new places and actors in a large drama.

True to his Imagist inclinations, Pound deliberately leaves us with a series of verbalised pictures which will linger on the tongue and in the mind once the page is closed, and which continued to yield gold for poets following after. American poet, Gary Snyder, follows Pound and Li Bo in his approach to farewelling a travelling friend:

Next morning I went with you

as far as the cliffs,

Loaned you my poncho - the rain across the shale -

You down the snowfield

flapping in the wind

Waving a last goodbye half hidden in the clouds

To go on hitching

clear to New York

Me back to my mountain and far, far, west.

(G. Snyder, The Back Country, Yu, p. 221)

Without Pound, no Li Bo, no Snyder. Though Snyder's poems are based on his experience as a lookout for fires in vast pine forests, his poetry has gained so much from his studies of Buddhism and Sino-Japanese culture that many of his poems are "typically Chinese in their progression from the natural to the human" (Yu, p. 220). Even so, Snyder, like Pound, takes account of the natural sounds and patterns of his sociolect.

Li Bo (c. 701 - 762 AD) was born in the far western lands near Afghanistan, and was noted for his drinking, his swordsmanship and his love of travel (Bush, p. 38). He was admired for his eloquence and love of the natural world: he employed dreams and fantasies as themes in his poetry. In these things, especially his alienation form the conformist society of his day, Li Bo is surprisingly modern: he was his own man, and one can understand his appeal to poets such as Pound and Gary Snyder.

Li Bo (Poetry Today)

Further, Li Bo is more appreciated in our times for his ability to renew Chinese tradition by the externality of his viewpoint, not having been subsumed into traditional paths of scholarship and teaching. Just as China needed a Li Bo, the West needed an Ezra Pound in order to re-examine and renew its poetic practice. A contemporary strong poet such as Pound can draw upon ideas and traditions external to his own society and then apply his gains to gift his own tongue with reinvigorated words and images. Hence his invocation of Mount Taishan, in Shandong, when looking out of his prison cage, allows us to make unexpected connections between eras separated by time and space, but united by a common yearning that goes beyond the prosaic.

Taishan (UNCG)

I wonder what it is about hills and mountains that attracts poets. Painters like to look across or up at mountains and depict them rising above valleys and ravines, filling empty skies with their power. Poets, like hermits, climb mountains, secure a foothold so as to look down on plains and cities, all the better to read their fellow men, and on quiet nights rise up out of the world's dross, float to heaven in the Moon's chariot. At Pisa, all Pound could do look out of his steel-mesh cage and pray that the Lynx would take him away to Taishan where he could share with Li Bo a poet's freedom.

On yet another journey, I was travelling in Lithuania, the home of Jura's forebears. I went walking with my host Butrimas one afternoon through the now-peaceful land around the ancient fortress of Kernave. As we scrambled up the steep embankment to the ancient hillfort, then along pathways overlooking the bright River Nemunas, I watched unfamiliar birds feeding off fruit and flowers. Then we climbed higher up the hillside to a viewing platform. Not quite a mountain, but high enough to have clear oversight for many kilometres in all directions. My friend explained how this was the main defence bastion in the wars against invading German hordes. He went off towards a small Church to see the local priest about getting keys to an even smaller ethnographic museum nearby.

Whilst waiting, I wandered over to the crest of a hillock looking towards the East. There was a peculiarity to the light that day, the sky burnished like bronze. I saw flashes of green light. I could have missed them if I had not been looking at the horizon so intently. Then a band of orange spread itself out and fingered into the now-greying sky. Soon the whole of the eastern sky was orange, trembling. The pines and birches in the small enclosed park also trembled, all the birds fell silent. The river below had deepened from its clear azure, almost black now. Then, behind me, the Sun announced herself and slid westwards into a band of clouds I had not noticed before. The whole of the afternoon would turn grey, and stayed that way almost until sunset. I turned to go back up the path to the museum, and found myself confronted by a low altar. There was fresh ash on the capstone. Butrimas was guarded about this when I asked, and muttered something about pagans coming in secret to worship the Old Gods. After I had descended from the hill to the riverbank, I could look up to my former vantage-point and wondered how small I might appear from there. I trembled.

One cannot explain such moments in rational language, any more than one can dissect a poem in order to capture its essence. Such things slide through fingers like quicksilver. Li Bo put it so succinctly in 'Conversation among mountains'

There are worlds

Beyond this one.

(Young, p. 69)

The best one can hope for is to mimic an experience through our very limited and human means, words and images. Perhaps Pound through in his inclusion of ideograms into texts had come across the perfect means to convey what he had first intuited about the world, that it must be experienced and discussed eclectically, using whatever material is at hand, that experience transports one beyond those boundaries we think of as normal.

In my own writing I have considered how I have treated certain found passages that had appealed to me over a period of years. I like to ferret through old, dusty bookshops, especially in those suburbs and towns which have not already been attacked by real estate agents and gentrifying developers. Occasionally, I find little treasures such as W. B. Yeats' A Packet for Ezra Pound. In this volume, a pirate edition I think, an unauthorised copy bound in cheap cardboard, Yeats wrote of a certain "Japanese saint" who had "cast off the lower mind for no more than an instant" (Yeats, p. 29), and like Whitman, began to sing a song of himself.

He stays a minute,

Letting the sun shine

Through transparent brocade curtains

Shifting with the breeze:

Now he tastes incense

And hears summer crickets.

He flirts with dancers,

Talks to his friends,

When the sun rose

She had kissed him,

Now he goes home

Telling only his mistress.

This moment had been transcribed as prose by W. B. Yeats in A Packet for Ezra Pound (Yeats, p. 29). Here, I have rendered a passage using the four-word line characteristic of Chinese verse (Legge, p. 117), hoping to heighten something of that youth's heart-joy in a single transparent moment. While there is no obligation on the part of the poet to make matters unduly easy, and one should expect a modicum of cultural literacy of readers. One may wonder who "she" may be - a dancer perhaps? But no, if the poem is read carefully, and with regard to correct grammar, "she" can only be "the sun". Usually we follow a misreading Græco-Roman tradition and think of the Sun as masculine, as the embodiment of Apollo. But this is a misreading. Apollo is merely the Sun's servant, she is his mistress, and he is bound to transport her through the heavens. In the Lithuanian tongue, Saule, Sun, is still a feminine noun, as is its Sanskrit cognate Suria. So, a sun-kissed youth such as the boy above is doubly blessed, both in health (Vitamin D) and in sexuality!

And so this small poem, taken out of Yeats essay for Pound, I make to refer to that experience outlined in the opening lines of this essay. Sunlight, at dawn, is as pure and complex as beaten bronze. It is seen by us refracted by clouds into a rainbow, which if drawn out in our imagination would form a perfect circle, a halo, encompassing the whole world. One morning, I would like to stand with Li Bo and Ezra Pound on Taishan to watch the dawning Sun rise up from the primal land, share a cup of wine and write poems.

Edward Reilly PhD

English Dept. Geelong HS Wednesday, 15 November 2000

Bibliography

Ackroyd, p. Ezra Pound, Thames & Hudson, London, 1987.

Bornstein, G. Ezra Pound among the Poets, Uni. of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1985.

Bush, R. 'Pound and Li Po: What Becomes a Man', Bornstein, pp. 35 - 62.

Cook, A. Figural Choice in Poetry and Art, Uni. Press of New England, Hanover & London, 1985.

Fenollosa, E. The Chinese written character as a medium for Poetry, E. Pound ed., City Lights Books, San Francisco, 1983.

Furia, P. Pound's Cantos Declassified, Pennsylvania State Uni. Press, University Park, 1984.

Graves, R. The White Goddess, Faber & Faber, London, rev. 1961.

Kearns, G. Ezra Pound: The Cantos, Cambridge Uni. Press, Cambridge, 1989.

Küppers, L. Mary, H. Rosenwald tr., Bongers, Recklinghausen, 1965.

Legge, J. The Chinese Classics. vol. iv, The She King or The Book of Poetry, Hong Kong Uni. Press, Hong Kong, reprint 1970.

'Li Bo', The World Book Encyclopedia, vol. 12, Chicago, 1999.

Pound, E. The Cantos of Ezra Pound, Faber & Faber, London, 1986.

Seymour, M. Robert Graves: Life on the Edge, Doubleday, London, 1996.

Yeats, W. B. A Packet for Ezra Pound, Exprimatur Editions, non loc., 1973.

Young, D. Four T'ang Poets, Field, Ohio, 1980.

Yu, B. The Great Circle: American Writers and the Orient, Wayne State Uni. Press, Detroit, 1983.

Internet sources

Kuanon image www.uncg.edu/eng/pound/kuanon.htm