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I. MORPHO MENELAUS Foiled acqua- moiré wings the butterfly’s beauty- mark hydraulic in its purposes   his hair’s flame lifts you snarls you II. MORPHO ACHILLES Sea-bed in semaphore / an eyepiece     wing-span delft dye vat-dipped shingle scintilla        :        truant and acclimate     enfold or infuriate:     SOS: Don’t surround Don’t surround yourself with yourself III. MORPHO RHETENOR HELENA Neon heather sky- lit bluer than moiré: inseam of street trash     lush mask- contour     soul- strait fungible as raiment in the crawlspace     radiating amatory birds’ egg bulls-eye

Canto III appeared in the July, 1917 issue of Poetry. Originally part of what scholars call the "Ur-Cantos," this version of Canto III was later edited by Pound to become Canto I of his collected Cantos. The section that eventually became Canto I is highlighted in blue in the poem below. —THE EDITORS III Another's a half-cracked fellow—John Heydon, Worker of miracles, dealer in levitation, In thoughts upon pure form, in alchemy, Seer of pretty visions ("servant of God and secretary of nature"); Full of plaintive charm, like Botticelli's, With half-transparent forms, lacking the vigor of gods. Thus Heydon, in a trance, at Bulverton, Had such a sight: Decked all in green, with sleeves of yellow silk Slit to the elbow, slashed with various purples. Her eyes were green as glass, her foot was leaf-like. She was adorned with choicest emeralds, And promised him the way of holy wisdom. "Pretty green bank," began the half-lost poem. Take the old way, say I met John Heydon, Sought out the place, Lay on the bank, was "plungèd deep in swevyn;" And saw the company—Layamon, Chaucer— Pass each in his appropriate robes; Conversed with each, observed the varying fashion. And then comes Heydon. "I have seen John Heydon." Let us hear John Heydon! "Omniformis Omnis intellectus est"—thus he begins, by spouting half of Psellus. (Then comes a note, my assiduous commentator: Not Psellus De Daemonibus, but Porphyry's Chances, In the thirteenth chapter, that "every intellect is omni-form.") Magnifico Lorenzo used the dodge, Says that he met Ficino In some Wordsworthian, false-pastoral manner, And that they walked along, stopped at a well-head, And heard deep platitudes about contentment From some old codger with an endless beard. "A daemon is not a particular intellect, But is a substance differed from intellect," Breaks in Ficino, "Placed in the latitude or locus of souls"— That's out of Proclus, take your pick of them. Valla, more earth and sounder rhetoric— Prefacing praise to his Pope Nicholas: "A man of parts, skilled in the subtlest sciences; A patron of the arts, of poetry; and of a fine discernment." Then comes a catalogue, his jewels of conversation. No, you've not read your Elegantiae— A dull book?—shook the church. The prefaces, cut clear and hard: "Know then the Roman speech, a sacrament," Spread for the nations, eucharist of wisdom, Bread of the liberal arts. Ha! Sir Blancatz, Sordello would have your heart to give to all the princes; Valla, the heart of Rome, Sustaining speech, set out before the people. "Nec bonus Christianus ac bonus Tullianus." Marius, Du Bellay, wept for the buildings, Baldassar Castiglione saw Raphael "Lead back the soul into its dead, waste dwelling," Corpore laniato; and Lorenzo Valla, "Broken in middle life? bent to submission?— Took a fat living from the Papacy" (That's in Villari, but Burckhardt's statement is different)— "More than the Roman city, the Roman speech" (Holds fast its part among the ever-living). "Not by the eagles only was Rome measured." "Wherever the Roman speech was, there was Rome," Wherever the speech crept, there was mastery Spoke with the law's voice while your Greek, logicians... More Greeks than one! Doughty's "divine Homeros" Came before sophistry. Justinopolitan Uncatalogued Andreas Divus, Gave him in Latin, 1538 in my edition, the rest uncertain, Caught up his cadence, word and syllable: "Down to the ships we went, set mast and sail, Black keel and beasts for bloody sacrifice, Weeping we went." I've strained my ear for -ensa, -ombra, and -ensa And cracked my wit on delicate canzoni— Here's but rough meaning: "And then went down to the ship, set keel to breakers, Forth on the godly sea; We set up mast and sail on the swarthy ship, Sheep bore we aboard her, and our bodies also Heavy with weeping. And winds from sternward Bore us out onward with bellying canvas— Circe's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess. Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller. Thus with stretched sail We went over sea till day's end: Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean. Came we then to the bounds of deepest water, To the Kimmerian lands and peopled cities Covered with close-webbed mist, unpiercèd ever With glitter of sun-rays, Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven, Swartest night stretched over wretched men there. Thither we in that ship, unladed sheep there, The ocean flowing backward, came we through to the place Aforesaid by Circe. Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus, And drawing sword from my hip I dug the ell-square pitkin, poured we libations unto each the dead, First mead and then sweet wine, Water mixed with white flour. Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best, For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods. Sheep, to Tiresias only, Black, and a bell sheep; Dark blood flowed in the fosse. Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead Of brides, of youths, and of many passing old, Virgins tender, souls stained with recent tears, Many men mauled with bronze lance-heads, Battle spoil, bearing yet dreary arms: These many crowded about me, With shouting, pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts; Slaughtered the herds—sheep slain of bronze, Poured ointment, cried to the gods, To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine. Unsheathed the narrow steel, I sat to keep off the impetuous, impotent dead Till I should hear Tiresias. But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor, Unburied, cast on the wide earth— Limbs that we left in the house of Circe, Unwept, unwrapped in sepulchre, since toils urged other, Pitiful spirit—and I cried in hurried speech: 'Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast? Cam'st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?' And he in heavy speech: 'Ill fate and abundant wine! I slept in Circe's ingle, Going down the long ladder unguarded, I fell against the buttress, Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus. But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied! Heap up mine arms, be tomb by the sea-board, and inscribed, A man of no fortune and with a name to come; And set my oar up, that I swung 'mid fellows.' Came then another ghost, whom I beat off, Anticlea, And then Tiresias, Theban, Holding his golden wand, knew me and spoke first: 'Man of ill hour, why come a second time, Leaving the sunlight, facing the sunless dead and this joyless region? Stand from the fosse, move back, leave me my bloody bever, And I will speak you true speeches.' "And I stepped back, Sheathing the yellow sword. Dark blood he drank then And spoke: 'Lustrous Odysseus, shalt Return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas, Lose all companions.' Foretold me the ways and the signs. Came then Anticlea, to whom I answered: 'Fate drives me on through these deeps; I sought Tiresias.' I told her news of Troy, and thrice her shadow Faded in my embrace. Then had I news of many faded women— Tyro, Alcmena, Chloris— Heard out their tales by that dark fosse, and sailed By sirens and thence outward and away, And unto Circe buried Elpenor's corpse." Lie quiet, Divus. In Officina Wechli, Paris, M. D. three X's, Eight, with Aldus on the Frogs, And a certain Cretan's Hymni Deorum: (The thin clear Tuscan stuff Gives way before the florid mellow phrase.) Take we the Goddess, Venus: Venerandam, Aurean coronam habentem, pulchram, Cypri munimenta sortita est, maritime, Light on the foam, breathed on by zephyrs, And air-tending hours. Mirthful,orichalci, with golden Girdles and breast bands. Thou with dark eye-lids, Bearing the golden bough of Argicida.

That field nag, old-penny swayback. Low hawk, to ducks in train to a quad of geese, in case. Last night, the long moon lay it seemed a tissue of snow, but then dawn told that wasn't so. Late morning, now, the fire, the hearth, eggs sitting for the mute plate and fork, this pen making a thing of them. Two more nights— waterfowl safe and noisy in the dusk, the low rails running flank to the river at midnight—find what they'll make of that river, this moon.

East will take me back. I drive west. I wend between snowbanks, until the road delivers me to a sleeping boat launch. They stand on the frozen ramp; watch me with coats that are better than mine. Ice houses and snowmobiles edge the distance. I have to turn around, I say to them,I went the wrong way. They stamp and chuff. No, they tell me,this is the way.

1. This one happens in morning as a nearby crow wakes me, calling God,God,look at this: I am on the steps of a church, wrapped in Monday's Korea Times telling of the drought in Pusan. You can live by the water and still die of thirst, and I, there on the cold brick steps, am dying. But dying means the presence of breath. This one happens on Hangul Day, Independence Day in Seoul, where girls in purple satin hanboks parade through downtown streets. In this dream I make eye contact with every single one of them. Another boy, a few years older than I, rides a tricycle in the parade, trailing the girls. He sees me. He winks, as if he knows how everything will end. 2. This one happens in the evening just as daylight surrenders to the moon, and the flute of dusk arrives. It is cool. I am wrapped in a sky blue blanket, so whoever finds me thinks kindly of whoever left me. The one who finds me is a nun. She opens the door, looking beyond me into the tired night, then looks down. She gasps softly. She says,ahneyong, you sweet beautiful child. She bends down like an angel and takes me into her arms. 3. This one happens in the cruelest moment of the day, as heat curls flowers into dirt. A man, drunk with despair, screams at the sun. His sorrow is a collage of moths and ants, crawling from his face to his chest. I watch from the steps. It is the year of the dog and I am a part of it : unable to speak but an expert at listening : to the old man from Laos who sits on the steps two buildings down : he is telling another man how Hmong children become human on the third day of life, after the soul calling ceremony and the burning of animal flesh. He smokes from a pipe and closes his eyes as he inhales. I can hear all of this. I can hear a woman rustling inside the church. She is a dancer, so she speaks with her hands. I hear her rise, sweetly from her knees to her feet. This means she believes in dreams. I hear her slide her hand, sweetly along her hair. This means she believes in the sun. I hear her move towards me and place her open palm on the door. This means she welcomes me. This means she believes in the miracle of possibility.

THE FLESH "Sweet, thou art pale." "More pale to see, Christ hung upon the cruel tree And bore His Father's wrath for me." "Sweet, thou art sad." "Beneath a rod More heavy, Christ for my sake trod The winepress of the wrath of God." "Sweet, thou art weary." "Not so Christ: Whose mighty love of me suffic'd For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist." "Sweet, thou art footsore." "If I bleed, His feet have bled; yea in my need His Heart once bled for mine indeed." THE WORLD "Sweet, thou art young." "So He was young Who for my sake in silence hung Upon the Cross with Passion wrung." "Look, thou art fair." "He was more fair Than men, Who deign'd for me to wear A visage marr'd beyond compare." "And thou hast riches." "Daily bread: All else is His: Who, living, dead, For me lack'd where to lay His Head." "And life is sweet." "It was not so To Him, Whose Cup did overflow With mine unutterable woe." THE DEVIL "Thou drinkest deep." "When Christ would sup He drain'd the dregs from out my cup: So how should I be lifted up?" "Thou shalt win Glory." "In the skies, Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes Lest they should look on vanities." "Thou shalt have Knowledge." "Helpless dust! In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust: Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just." "And Might."— "Get thee behind me. Lord, Who hast redeem'd and not abhorr'd My soul, oh keep it by Thy Word."

Three flies, woken by the sun on a white, illuminated wall, leap like the hands of a florist wrapping bouquets. They remind me of a knife thrower, who performs with five in the air. Is the quantity restricted? Catch and don’t think. Weigh me. I’ll run away from you like water and press you like ice if you sizzle too much. Look at them on the white wall. Three trees from the new shoots of a cedar. From the corner of a cube. And, if you look closely, from a gully. Translated from the Slovenian

(Kyoto) CONFIDENCE (after Bashō) Clouds murmur darkly, it is a blinding habit— gazing at the moon. TIME OF JOY (after Buson) Spring means plum blossoms and spotless new kimonos for holiday whores. RENDEZVOUS (after Shiki) Once more as I wait for you, night and icy wind melt into cold rain. FOR SATORI In the spring of joy, when even the mud chuckles, my soul runs rabid, snaps at its own bleeding heels, and barks: “What is happiness?” SOMBER GIRL She never saw fire from heaven or hotly fought with God; but her eyes smolder for Hiroshima and the cold death of Buddha.

for Patti Smith At the end of Bing Crosby’s Riding High his horse Will be buried in the clay of the racetrack where he fell, As a lesson for all of us. Sad, waggish Bing, The Mob didn’t want Broadway Bill to win, so the jockey Pulled on the reins until the thoroughbred, straining Over the finish line first, collapsed, heart attack. I loved you like a guitar string breaking Under the conviction of a clumsy hand— Something like that . . . I suppose I must have Been thinking of you and your complex and beautiful band, Except the image demands I hold the guitar, If not you, and the broken string, as Over and over loudspeakers call riders to the starting gate. The track bartender and a teller, a sharpshooter and the chess master Wrestler, the petty con man and a cop, reprise their parts. The heist gang dons clown masks, and Sherry will betray George, and Johnny can’t love Fay, And the fortune in the suitcase just blows away.

We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi's winding stream, and from New England's shore; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear; We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! If you look across the hill tops that meet the Northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy vail aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag, in glory and in pride, And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour: We are coming Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! If you look all up your valleys, where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys, fast forming into line; And children from their mothers' knees, are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs; And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more! You have called us, and we're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide To lay us down, for freedom's sake, our brother's bones beside; Or from foul treason's savage group to wrench the murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade; Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before: We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!