It is of Piere Vidal, fool par excellence of all Provence, of whom the tale tells how he ran mad, as a wolf, because of his love for Loba of Penautier, and how men hunted him with dogs through the mountains of Cabaret and brought him for dead to the dwelling of this Loba (she-wolf) of Penautier, and how she and her Lord had him healed and made welcome, and he stayed some time at that court. He speaks:
_____________________________________________________________
Yesterday I received my first request ever: A friend writes that I should post original flash fiction on my blog.
Now I haven't even had a class on traditional fiction yet, so this is going to be a brand new experiment for me :) My workshop group meets tomorrow, and I know that at least one person in the group has some experience with flash fiction, so I'll post my first effort after it's workshopped tomorrow (and that will be day one), and I'll post not-previously-critiqued pieces starting the day after tomorrow, and I hope to improve with practice, and I hope you'll be patient with me :)
The lines (about Piere Vidal) at the beginning of this post are the title and epigraph of a poem by Ezra Pound, but I decided to display them separately because I think they can stand on their own as flash fiction. The poem itself, posted below, is fairly typical of Pound ... And tomorrow, original flash fiction.
Piere Vidal Old
By Ezra Pound
It is of Piere Vidal, fool par excellence of all Provence, of whom the tale tells how he ran mad, as a wolf, because of his love for Loba of Penautier, and how men hunted him with dogs through the mountains of Cabaret and brought him for dead to the dwelling of this Loba (she-wolf) of Penautier, and how she and her Lord had him healed and made welcome, and he stayed some time at that court. He speaks:
When I
but think upon the great dead days
And turn
my mind upon that splendid madness,
Lo! I do curse my strength
And
blame the sun his gladness;
For that
the one is dead
And the
red sun mocks my sadness.
Behold
me, Vidal, that was fool of fools!
Swift as
the king wolf was I and as strong
When
tall stags fled me through the alder brakes,
And
every jongleur knew me in his song,
And the
hounds fled and the deer fled
And none
fled over long.
Even the
grey pack knew me and knew fear.
God! how
the swiftest hind's blood spurted hot
Over the
sharpened teeth and purpling lips!
Hot was
that hind's blood yet it scorched me not
As did
first scorn, then lips of the Penautier!
Aye ye are
fools, if ye think time can blot
From
Piere Vidal's remembrance that blue night,
God! but
the purple of the sky was deep!
Clear,
deep, translucent, so the stars me seemed
Set deep
in crystal; and because my sleep
—Rare
visitor—came not,—the Saints I guerdon
For that
restlessness—Piere set to keep
One more
fool's vigil with the hollyhocks.
Swift
came the Loba, as a branch that's caught,
Tom,
green and silent in the swollen Rhone,
Green
was her mantle, close, and wrought
Of some
thin silk stuff that's scarce stuff at all,
But like
a mist wherethrough her white form fought,
And
conquered! Ah God! conquered!
Silent
my mate came as the night was still.
Speech? Words? Faugh! Who talks of words and love?!
Hot is
such love and silent,
Silent
as fate is, and as strong until
It
faints in taking and in giving all.
Stark,
keen, triumphant, till it plays at death.
God! she
was white then, splendid as some tomb
High
wrought of marble, and the panting breath
Ceased
utterly. Well, then I waited, drew,
Half-sheathed,
then naked from its saffron sheath
Drew
full this dagger that doth tremble here.
Just
then she woke and mocked the less keen blade.
Ah God,
the Loba! and my only mate!
Was
there such flesh made ever and unmade!
God
curse the years that turn such women grey!
Behold
here Vidal, that was hunted, flayed,
Shamed
and yet bowed not and that won at last.
And yet
I curse the sun for his red gladness,
I that
have known strath, garth, brake, dale,
And
every run-way of the wood through that great madness,
Behold
me shrivelled as an old oak's trunk
And made
men's mock'ry in my rotten sadness!
No man
hath heard the glory of my days:
No man
hath dared and won his dare as I:
One
night, one body and one welding flame!
What do
ye own, ye niggards! that can buy
Such
glory of the earth? Or who will win
Such
battle-guerdon with his "prowesse high"?
O Age
gone lax! O stunted followers,
That
mask at passions and desire desires,
Behold
me shrivelled, and your mock of mocks;
And yet
I mock you by the mighty fires
That
burnt me to this ash.
*
* * *
* * *
Ah!
Cabaret! Ah Cabaret, thy hills again!
*
* * *
* * *
Take
your hands off me!... [Sniffing the air.
Ha! this scent is hot!
No comments:
Post a Comment