CANTO ONE BLAUSTEIN

And burgle any syllable I want

And then went down to the sea…

Stop that!

Enough!

Why are you fucking up a poem?

Set keel to breaker on your ass

And see how Pound is doing it again.

(Access-A-Ride)

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

(The Bus)

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.

Ezra_Pound_2

Ezra Pound

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