Google



The Mediadrome
Search WWW


Sestina: Altaforte

  by Ezra Pound (1885 - 1972)
     
 

Loquitur: En Bertrans de Born
   Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
   Eccovi!
   Judge ye!
   Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte.  'Papiols' is his jongleur. 'The Leopard',
the device of Richard Cœur de Lion.

				I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

				II

In hot summer I have great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

				III

Hell grant soon we hear again the sword's clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! There's no wine like the blood's crimson!

				IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

				V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson,
But is only fit to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

				VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like the swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst 'The Leopard's' rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry 'Peace!'

				VI

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear the swords clash!
Hell blot black for alway the thought 'Peace"! 

 

 
     
 
 
     


This is a Sestina.
To read more about this form of poetry
click here

Genealogy.com, your resource for family history

 

       
 
Copyright © The Mediadrome 2000. All Rights Reserved.
 
 
Terms of Use | Privacy Policy