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poetry

on the porch with Pound

 

     

 Venice,

evening breezes,

the radio faint from the kitchen,

the parched pain of a life’s labor,

leaves of greatness spraying into darkness,

dangling limp in exhausted hands.

Waves of soft moon-dyed mist

break purple on the rail,

the bubbles crest,

exploding in canticles of silence.

 

Daub the salt-stained stigmata,

open the weeping pores,

exude the horrors of hate, deceit,

in a not-forgotten alien race.

Transcend the swimmer

of a summer’s night

who is drowned by the dawn

of registered time –

drink this froth of fog with me,

toast the dew of Ezra’s brow.

 

 

3 replies on “on the porch with Pound”

Craig,

Both timing and style are transcendent.

The last stanza is my favorite.

This one is particularly relevant on the eve of Hart Crane’s
drowning. Pound had such a profound influence on Crane.
I’m wondering if that played a part in your posting
this now. Yea or nay, it is a poem among poems. I love it.

Like

Hi Craig

You set the scene beautifully with that opening —


Venice,

evening breezes,

the radio faint from the kitchen,

the parched pain of a life’s labor,

leaves of greatness spraying into darkness,

in keeping with the voice and context of Pound. I can feel the intensity and depth of this poem, and especially feel that aura in these lines from the last stanza —

exude the horrors of hate, deceit,

in a not-forgotten alien race.

Transcend the swimmer

of a summer’s night

who is drowned by the dawn

of registered time –

Thank you for sharing this one. Pound is one of my favorites!

My Best
Wendy

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