Pachelbel's Canon in D Major

For James O. Naremore

I

These things, just beyond the window,

Exist to be not-ourselves,

But are too easily assimilated

For that formulation to be final.

So, this late spring turns into something Japanese,

A world made by a miniaturist that requires

Constant attention. Night rains settle in the pines

And dust the walls with petals from the rosebuds

That are our approximation of cherry blossoms.

There are no clouds. In the absolutely clear light,

The forms of things-trees, roads, a chair placed in the

yard-

Present themselves as possibilities for equations,

Or arrangements designed for Katsura, the prince's retreat.

We have outgrown Confucius's advice

To paint the world in winter.

On the hillsides open to the sun,

The dandelions have turned to fleece, while the mimosa

Doesn't bloom at all, dead from the April freeze.

The sharp air suggests discords, keen arguments,

restlessness,

But is too formal for logic to progress.

There is nowhere to stand in these afternoons.

The green grass blazes in the sunshine

And calls to mind movements of melody that resolve

In intricately repeating figures of descending

And ascending bass. To move more suddenly

Would give away inattention.

One trembles for the uninitiated

With their habit of explication

And desire to revenge the failure at Duddon River.

u

This is the music the gods played,

Summer evenings near the water.

On the wide lawns, sloping towards the river,

They arranged their stands,

Carrying their instruments through the allées

And waist-high dusk to their appointed places

Near the debaters, whose arguments

Were offered up as chords.

They began while it was still light,

Imperceptibly at first, as the guests arrived,

So that it was difficult to tell where the silence left off.

Scores were provided, but it was permitted to improvise

After the discovery that each phrase

Could be played an infinite number of ways.

They played for hours, profil perdu,

Without cadenzas. Candles became evident after dark

In places where groups assembled,

And long lines formed in the gardens.

Could one leave? Yes,

The music was structured to allow for comings and

goings.

It rose in the air, propertyless, unattached,

And became descriptions of motion,

Incapable of demonstration,

The way light collects in an unused room

That faces the sun all morning.

m

Wherever you are, go out into the evening,

Where everything is important

Because there is nothing to be found.

Refresh yourself in its absence

That is your outline for meditation.

You had forgotten how the ground falls

Away into something hidden

There in the corner of the field.

White balls sprout like flowers in the high grass,

Left behind by someone who was practicing.

They are cold until you warm them in your hand.

It is inconceiveable that this uncertainty

Should be your permanent condition.

And yet, since yesterday, there is a just-noticeable-difference

In the way the light gathers on the tree line beside you,

Skirting the hydrangeas

That your grandmother used to love.

Nothing prepared you for this,

Just as nothing follows from it.

Learn it all by heart. They depend on you,

These distinct and careful days

That obliterate the need for remembering them.