And burgle any syllable I want
And then went down to the sea…
Why are you fucking up a poem?
Set keel to breaker on your ass
And see how Pound is doing it again.
I will not even think to make this rhyme
Or know what I am doing with this poem
Except that I am feeling lines to come
Perhaps from being stalled on Gunhill Road
Awaiting here two others for their ride.
I now am in the mumble state it’s Pound
Who’s forcing up contractions I can’t stop.
I now have time to poke about myself
Make mock of silly nonsense I support
But who can see the banners that I raise
For causes too ephemeral to fade
Surviving in the shadows of the day?
And ah, we had our dreams and crazy hope
Our picture of a world that couldn’t be
A man with a terrarium got on
Opaque inside a massive plastic bag
(How I can take in all while on a bus)
Within the tank some lizard or a snake.
Are these content to live in glass
Content enough with water, stones and food?
As we, within that bubble of our times,
Those days when we were all that world and not.
I forgot what I’m needing for this poem
From Pound the Cantos this is mine.
Am I beyond the gondolas this year?
I sat on steps
While everything was all too much this year
And I am seeing rainfall now.
Clearer than solidly as air
The gods in air as Pound described
And of the dead
Who talked to soon-dead sailors through their blood
I number myself one from time to time
As wraith-like in my movements, less than real
I have no history as old as what Pound knew
So I can question my existence reading him
Since dawn to my waking brings no local light
See Canto four, gossip of an era long since gone
The people only Pound would know
I cannot rush the matter further on
Pesaro and Sigsmundo household names,
Ah, Sigsmundo, Malatesta Prado’s boy
A wealth of other once-knowns with the name
Canto thirty-six, my own unending me
I do not leave my likeness over where
Ezra, what can I say
What can I tell you now
A-stretcher and awaiting tests?
I think they think it is my brain
Would your Italians know now how to think
Of how in Hospitals are set
The contradicting facts of every life?
Your ancient Greeks say nothing of the time.
I don’t know what to tell you in your poem.
This is your poem, my pencil and my book,
My canto but I know this is still yours.
So Ezra, you should see me with the sick.
Walk now with me past stretcher beds and chairs
With fearful muted glance at all the ills,
So here we have a poetry of pain,
The rhythms of the doctors as they speak
From clinical to language of the day, with
Tones reflecting competence and calm.
These are not your greasy bastards so well done
The way you play with them through history and time,
A tale of gritty human sordid acts
And blundering through difference to the same,
I think we have to say this is insane.
Ezra Pound, I am not done with you,
In need of other cantos for the times
Your history through Chinese and the Dodge.
With what would your Venetians now contend,
The forms as not so different now as then?
You saw it in the thirties you lived through
Like every age of punish pain and death
Negotiated misery and want.
The few always atop are feeding well
On aspirations, dreams or stupid hopes
(I need your Cantos come complete
The ding an sich not excerpts broken down).
Explain to me the meaning of your rides
The ones you run through history, I mean
Your digging through the faintest most obscure.
Today a massive mammoth wait
At bus stop but at least the day is warm
And I can see the street where I was raised
I see how people look at others’ kids
And see in me an empty place they filled.
We have new words for newer things
So would you see the forms that you recall?
I do not know what happened in your head.