ReContoured: She Muses The Quietude of Ezra Weston Loomis Pound, 1

The boots the Army gave him
did not fit his feet so well---
the uniambic feet of that garrulous old man,
whose always present malginancy,
compounded of old resentments
and frustrations,
overshadowed the little good he, indeed, did.


Except for the Pisan Cantos,
the rest of them are merely broken prose,
printed in vertical lattices,
Fascist, whom even Mussolini
mostly avoided,
his arrogant attacks in his shrill accents
through a chill over the poetry---
written in heat, that left the readers cold.
The stupidity of his mostly
imitative ideas and poems
confined him even more harshly
than the Army's cage north of Pisa;
or a D.C. madhouse,
or his dying silence at Venice:
dead and his carcass borne
to the grave by grinning gondoliers.

His fantasy
of writing epic poetry
was, rather, the deceit of mimicry,
which he wielded with astonishing accuracy.


That scurrilous old man---
who verbally battled all who bested him;
remembered mostly for that,
and for a little light verse composed on a whim;
forever peering through his own, or someone else's, bars---
was always banished from that city
who terraces bear the colors of the stars.





Author's Notes/Comments: 

Tnis is about the so-called poetry of Ezra Pound.  The last two lines of the poem are a variation on lines from Pound's Canto LXXIV.  Pound, an unrepentent fascist with a big mouth, was full of odd opinions that, uninvited, he seemed compelled to express.  In my own opinion, Pound's redaction of the manuscript of T. S. Eliot's great poem, The Waste Land, reduced its level of greatness to that which is considered canonical now; but it would have been a markedly different, and greater, poem had Pound kept his paws off it.

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