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 comments

  1. 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

  2. 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

    Like

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