Cold! Cold! All heaven’s winds chase through this castle,
But cannot unseat it from its rock...
To pace the Kunstkammer corridor, that is my delight,
Whatever the wars and machinations of the day.
Let no evil insinuate itself between me
And my black Spanish cloak!
Why should I travel the world
When I can gather the world to me
And arrange it all here, at the very centre,
To bolster my powers with talismans?
How old I feel! My hair gone and my beard so grey,
My body flabby and weak from excess.
Each day now I come here to this sainted canvas,
The Feast of the Rosary, from Dürer’s hand,
That I so long coveted and pursued
With guile and patience and infinite care,
And had carried over the Alps from Venice;
Hour after hour, I contemplate the majesty
Of the Madonna, in blue robe, as she crowns
With roses my great-great-grandfather, Maximilian,
Kneeling before her and the infant Lord.
They accuse me of inaction, of indifference,
Who little comprehend the soul’s means
Or the methods a seeker must adhere to
If he would prosper in the dark.
The curve of a comet or a woman’s thigh
Occupy me equally in this necromancy,
Conjuring talismans, infused with my breath,
To blazon the planets’ will to man.
Questions, questions, riddles to bedevil me,
Conundrums of human behaviour and fate!-
How to act for certain good when every action
Entails too many consequences, too many ills?
Give me the magic to untie that knot!
In the meantime, let us allow things to happen,
And scry their entrails as best we can.
I have made all believers welcome,
Hoping that together we may find the one truth,
And for that I am damned by the Vatican
As a devil-worshipper.
Sometimes I feel my reason, like a ship
In a tempest, smashed against rocks,
Masts splintered and sails shredded,
Desperate to anchor anywhere, even
On cannibal shores!
Jew and Muslim, Protestant and Catholic,
Let us join as one in natural magic.
The fires we build shall be not pyres
Of martyrdom, but watchmen’s torches
To burn a path through the night.
Nature, will you one day reveal to me
Your essence, and consecrate my labours
With the Philosopher’s Stone?
Though fools call knowledge heresy,
It is the jewel in the serpent’s head.
I must have solitude and peace, the only freedom
From intrigue, suspscion, the half-heard word
Muttered behind walls and curtains,
The masterful dissembling of supposed friends
And ambassadors’ suave tergiversation.
I’ll gird myself with ceremony
And make authority’s pageant my shield,
Renamed Augustus, under Capricorn.
Black Prague, citadel of the Great Work,
Perilous threshold of the invisible,
Observatory at the world’s hub,
Infuse me with visions and wonders!
Such melancholy I suffer that no doctor
Can cure me,-my twisted guts spew
Fear then boredom then disgust.
Beloved Kunstkammer, unicorn’s cornucopia
Of monstrous marvels! This encyclopaedia
Will grant me the cosmos entire
As my theatre; its secret virtues
Are my only bezoar, carried next
To my heart.
The rare and extraordinary are dear to me;
An hour spent with scientists and artists
Is worth more than any minister’s blather.
In the sanctity of my universal treasure-chest,
There is peace, harmony unachievable
On earth, amid the petty quarrelling
Of inferior beings. Within these walls
I perceive a unity beyond corruption,
And boundless enquiry, without prohibition
Or prejudice- a route, I pray, back to God.
These intermarried objects are my Cabala.
In the workings of these planetary clocks
Creation’s immense will acts out the centuries
Minute by minute.
The soul demands observation and experiment.
I wait, and wait, patiently allowing events
To work through their own repercussions,
And, by the subtlest checks and moves,
Hold the bedlam earth in balance.
Let the Pope say I am bewitched-no matter!
It is my own mind I must hold fast
Against dintegration. Europe divided
Will never make peace with the Turk.
Baleful times! An ominous conjunction of stars
Bodes malaise. Night panics place a dagger
In my grasp-how shall I use it?
Born under Saturn, I sweat morbid fevers,
Closer, ever closer to irredeemable despair.
My brother, my enemy! That horned viper, Matthias,
Would spit his venom into mine and my kingdom’s
Veins,-yet I shall scotch him underfoot,
My magic is far greater than his.
Night is falling, night is falling again...
The wild moon calls me to her service.
I can hear the mandrakes scream.
No comments:
Post a Comment