Poets' Corner - Ezra Pound

LOQUITUR: En Bertrans de Born.: Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer; up of strife.; Eccovi!; Judge ye!; Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur.
"The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.: I
Damn it all! all this our South stinks of peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.: II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.: III
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!: IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.: V
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.: VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!": VII
And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for alway the thought "Peace"!: Ezra Pound

Song of the Bowmen of Shu

HERE we are, picking the first fern-shoots

And saying: When shall we get back to our country?

Here we are because we have the Ken-nin for our foemen,

We have no comfort because of these Mongols.

We grub the soft fern-shoots,

When anyone says "Return," the others are full of sorrow.

Sorrowful minds, sorrow is strong, we are hungry and thirsty.

Our defence is not yet made sure, no one can let his friend return.

We grub the old fern-stalks.

We say: Will we be let to go back in October?

There is no ease in royal affairs, we have no comfort.

Our sorrow is bitter, but we would not return to our country.

What flower has come into blossom?

Whose chariot? The General's.

Horses, his horses even, are tired. They were strong.

We have no rest, trhee battles a month.

By heavn, his horses are tired.

The generals are on them, the soldiers are by them.

The horses are well trained, the generals have ivory arrows and

quivers ornamented with fish-skin.

The enemy is swift, we must be careful.

When we set out, the willows were drooping with spring,

We come back in the snow,

We go slowly, we are hungry and thirsty,

Our mind is full of sorrow, who will know of our grief?

By Bunno, reputedly 1100 B. C.

Ezra Pound

The Jewel Stairs' Grievance

THE jewelled steps are already quite white with dew,
It is so late that the dew soaks my gauze stockings,
And I let down the crystal curtain
And watch the moon through the clear autumn.: by Rihaku
Note.--Jewel stairs, therefore a palace. Grievance, therefore there is something to complain of. Gauze stockings, therefore a court lady, not a servant who complains. Clear autumn, therefore he has no excuse on account of weather. Also, she has come early, for the dew has not merely whitened the stairs, but has soaked her stockings. The poem is especially prized because she utters no direct reproach.: Ezra Pound

The Garden

En robe de parade.; --Samain
LIKE a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal: of a sort of emotional anemia.
And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.
In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I: will commit that indiscretion.; Ezra Pound

A Pact

I MAKE a pact with you, Walt Whitman--
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child
Who has had a pig-headed father;
I am old enough now to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root--
Let there be commerce between us.: Ezra Pound

Ité ['Go']

GO, my songs, seek your praise from the young: and from the intolerant,
Move among the lovers of perfection alone.
Seek ever to stand in the hard Sophoclean light
And take you wounds from it gladly.: Ezra Pound

The Bath Tub

AS a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.: Ezra Pound

Fan-Piece, For Her Imperial Lord

O FAN of white silk,: clear as frost on the grass-blade,
You also are laid aside.: Ezra Pound

Ts'ai Chi'h

THE petals fall in the fountain,: the orange-coloured rose-leaves,
Their ochre clings to the stone.: Ezra Pound

In a Station of the Metro

THE apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.: Ezra Pound

Alba ['Dawn Song']

AS cool as the pale wet leaves: of lily-of-the-valley
She lay beside me in the dawn.: Ezra Pound

Ione, Dead the Long Year

EMPTY are the ways,
Empty are the ways of this land
And the flowers: Bend over with heavy heads.
They bend in vain.
Empty are the ways of this land: Where Ione
Walked once, and now does not walk
But seems like a person just gone.: Ezra Pound

L'Art, 1910

GREEN arsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth,
Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.: Ezra Pound

Epilogue

O CHANSONS foregoing
You were a seven days' wonder.
When you came out in the magazines
You created considerable stir in Chicago,
And now you are stale and worn out,
You're a very depleted fashion,
A hoop-skirt, a calash,
An homely, transient antiquity.
Only emotion remains.
Your emotions?: Are those of a maitre-de-cafe.; Ezra Pound

The Lake Isle

O GOD, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Give me in due time, I beseech you, a little tobacco-shop,
With the little bright boxes: piled up neatly upon the shelves
And the loose fragrant cavendish: and the shag,
And the bright Virginia: loose under the bright glass cases,
And a pair of scales not too greasy,
And the whores dropping in for a word or two in passing,
For a flip word, and to tidy their hair a bit.
O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Lend me a little tobacco-shop,: or install me in any profession
Save this damn'd profession of writing,: where one needs one's brains all the time.; Ezra Pound

Salutation

O GENERATION of the thoroughly smug: and the thoroughly uncomfortable,
I have seen fishermen picknicking in the sun,
I have seen them with untidy families,
I have seen their smiles full of teeth: and heard ungainly laughter.
And I am happier than you are,
And they were happier than I am;
And the fish swim in the lake: and do not even own clothing.; Ezra Pound

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter

WHILE my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
Played I about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you,
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into fat Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noises overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early in autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet tou: As far as Cho-fu-Sa.; by Rihaku; Ezra Pound

Envoi

GO, dumb-born book,
Tell her that sang me once that song of Lawes*:
Hadst thou but song
As thou hast subjects known,
Then were there cause in thee that should condone
Even my faults that heavy upon me lie,
And build her glories their longevity.
Tell her that sheds
Such treasure in the air,
Recking naught else but that her graces give
Life to the moment,
I would bid them live
As roses might, in magic amber laid,
Red overwrought with orange and all made
One substance and one color
Braving time.
Tell her that goes
With song upon her lips
But sings not out the song, nor knows
The maker of it, some other mouth
May be as fair as hers,
Might, in new ages, gain her worshippers,
When our two dusts with Waller's* shall be laid,
Siftings on siftings in oblivion,
Till change hath broken down
All things save beauty alone.: Ezra Pound

[* Note: Henry Lawes was a musician and friend of Milton who set Edmund Waller's Envoi, Go, Lovely Rose to music. -SLS]

The Return

SEE, they return; ah, see the tentative: Movements, and the slow feet,; The trouble in the pace and the uncertain; Wavering!
See, they return, one by one,
With fear, as half-awakened;
As if the snow should hesitate
And murmur in the wind,: and half turn back;
These were the "Wing'd-with-Awe,": Inviolable.
Gods of the Wingèd shoe!
With them the silver hounds,: sniffing the trace of air!
Haie! Haie!: These were the swift to harry;
These the keen-scented;
These were the souls of blood.
Slow on the leash,: pallid the leash-men!; Ezra Pound