remuemenage

The Encounter


All the while they were talking the new morality
Her eyes explored me.
And when I arose to go
Her fingers were like the tissue
Of a Japanese paper napkin

I have been re-reading Ezra Pound's stark verse - drawn I am to him because of his genius, because of his madness. I have had a very disorienting decade ... indeed, several brushes with sheer lunacy

I have survived and seem to be on my way back - not whole, but reconstituted and in some ways stronger

In A Station Of The Metro


The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough

There is a spare quality to his verse that bespeaks the Asian influence on his words & thoughts - this last was almost Haiku. Of course he went completely insane in a completely reprehensible way during World War Two - the racial madness of anti-Semitism

Erat Hora


"Thank you, whatever comes." And then she turned
And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers
Fades when the wind hath lifted them aside,
Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatever comes
One hour was sunlit and the most high gods
May not make boast of any better thing
Than to have watched that hour as it passed.

there is a delicacy to his expression that satisfies me. I have always found comfort in words.