Since, as you’ve said, There is room in this world for infinities
of gods, would you mind too much if I made you one of mine?
As genius loci, a sort of outsized daimon of the desk, you’d
recline beneath a throw of papers, your lower lip hanging in that
distracted meditation often mistaken for a snooze. We’d talk
of your beloved Biala and of Béziers bereft, as well as more
recent fires you prophesied in life. Did we do all we could?
The March of Literature defended all books from burning.
When Provence heard the cleric cry, “Burn them all!”
empathetic grapes shriveled on the vine as precious parchments
vanished in the flames. May bowls of bouillabaisse and bottles of
Cassis replace the barbarians’ sacrificial pyres, and as you breathe
my altar’s saffron-scented air, hear this foolish pagan’s simple-
minded prayer. My dear girl, food and wine ARE culture!
Ed. note: From Cultural Tourism by Mary Maxwell (Longnooksbooks, 2012). The poem alludes to Ford's brilliant poem on heaven, which you can find in Pound's "Confucius to Cummings" anthology.
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