Rechercher

Cantus in Memory of James Wilson - Mark Wilson


We publish below a poem by Mark Wilson, which first appeared in issue 3 of The Black Herald (September 2012), then was published in his collection Passio (2013).




Gustav Klimt
Gustav Klimt, The Tree of Life, 1909


Cantus in Memory of James Wilson


(after Arvo Pärt)



1.

To belatedly crank up the apparatus

of lament, to fashion a

doppelgänger-mass after hours

and worthy of your innate

perfectionism in absentia is part of

the very entropy


of endgame.


Your wild expenditure of

discontent at the end was, to

say the least,

burdensome.


A gravity of admittance like the

lodestar thrust out of its

inconceivable orbit to plummet

the lift-shaft of experience just for a

share of the pitiless laurels is not

up for debate on

the open-forum.

Petulantly Parnassian you

smouldered in a cascade of implicit

grace-notes

until the fall.

Sheol cradles you now to her

amorphous nipple, intravenously

force-feeding you the liquor of

Lethe. For, although you slumber in

the Valley of the Bees, not even the

resplendent carillon of a

thousand cathedrals will bring you to

your inscrutable senses;

all asphodel-cushioned.

To share an identical branding, that

self-same Anathemata's always a

blessed curse. Connotations

birthmark assailed you too and must

have prevailed somewhere saga-deep in

the sallow scriptorium of your

final confessional.

Nano-seconds that must have

leaped impressively their glissando

of echolalia, flame-tongue,

misericordia.

Lowlands are positively ashen now

in the gloaming. After the auto-da-fe,

after the lapse: your so-called

‘assurance-lack’.

Meanwhile you've dissipated through

some metaphysical fire-curtain:

surreptitious, incognito,

as if into the

holy-of-holies.



2.

Tintinnabuli

resonating

throughout

Sheol-Coma

I want out

Who wants out?

Lamentate:

laments for the

livingnot

the undead

pomegranate-

aroma tracing

the moribund

airwaves

threnodies

come unbroken

yet still a

murmurous

susurrus

challenges the

unhallowed

ear-duct

revelations

merely tissue

unveiling

inexplicable

maranathas

after all that

the unspeakable

Words only

le mot juste

after all that

the right word

is the Logos in

all its rightly

ordered

dissonance



3.

So what is left after all that

sermonising, deconstruction,

post-mortemising is over?


Music, you say, hanging on to

arpeggio, division, the weft

crochet and minims. A wrought

pavane might see us both through

purgatory or, nevertheless, provide

more than just a passing muzak

ofsad, angry consolation.


In these shopping malls of retribution.


Airport coffee-lounges are for

slow-dying in.


Still the hieroglyph cypher to open

the embrasured portal above your

mound reveals its

concealment.


Chapels-of-rest are the exquisite

edifices of our arrivals and

departures. I know that now

just from looking at your

sepulchral composure.


Still, you have outdone me.

And no chance

in time, in space


to come abreast.





Mark Wilson has published four poetry collections: Quartet For the End of Time, Passio (Editions du Zaporogue, 2011 & 2013), The Angel of History and Illuminations (Leaky Boot Press, 2013 & 2016). He is also the author of a verse-drama, One Eucalyptus Seed, about the arrest and incarceration of Ezra Pound after World War Two. His poems and articles have appeared in The Black Herald, The Shop, 3:AM Magazine, International Times, The Fiend, Epignosis Quarterly, Dodging the Rain, The Ekphrastic Review and Le Zaporogue.