Does anyone know how hard it is to get a hold of Ezra Pound’s Cantos? I mean, they don’t even have the damn thing on eBook and they have everything on eBook these days. Since I have boycotted Amazon for their unacceptable treatment of Hachette, the less popular titles I’m after have started to seem less attainable. (While Amazon is a nasty monopoly who is literally squeezing money out of the fragile publishing industry, they have an unparalleled selection.) But as a principled book buyer, I went to Strand, talked to a human, ordered the book, waited two days (agony), and picked it up. I sort of felt like Ezra Pound was playing hard to get.
I liked Ezra Pound ever since I read this quote: “Use either no ornament or good ornament.” I’m entirely guilty of the occasional mediocre ornament, but this simple, straightforward statement on writing made me feel an immediate kinship with him. Then I started reading his biography…
Ezra Pound was a fascist. He supported Hitler and Mussolini, wrote for fascist publications, and was prosecuted as a traitor of the United States of America. How could I possibly like a poet like that!?
But that raises the question, do you have approve of the artist to like the art?
The recent Wood Allen Controversy has made many avid fans answer this question. After his stepdaughter, Dylan Farrow came forward with an open letter accusing Allen of sexual abuse, fans and colleagues had to decide if this mattered. Are Allen’s films now ruined because he’s a bad person? People don’t argue if Allen’s films are good. Everyone knows they are. But does his personal life change the way we feel about them?
I decided I could live with Ezra Pound’s political past, separate the poems from the poet. The poems are good. Undeniably good, but they’re also pretentious and alienating. Pound alludes to obscure figures in classical mythology and switches without warning into Italian and Greek. The reader gets the feeling that he’s got something to prove. I wish my hard-to-get copy was footnoted, but even without fully understanding the content of Pound’s poems I am still drawn to them. I sit in my room, reading the poems aloud, feeling delight at the lines that are just perfect. Below is my favorite Canto thus far.
Great bulk, huge mass, thesaurus;
Ecbatan, the clock ticks and fades out
The bride awaiting the god’s tough; Ecbatan
City of patterned streets; again the vision:
Down in the viae stradae, toga’d the crowd, and arme’d,
Rushing on the populous business,
And from parapet looked down
And North was Egypt
The celestial Nile, blue deep
Cutting low barren land,
Old men and camels
Working the water-wheels;
The souls ascending
Sparks like a partridge covey,
Like the “ciocco”, brand struck in the game.
“Et omniformis”: Air, fire, the pale soft light.
Topaz I manage, and three sorts of blue;
But on the barb of time.
The fire? Always, and the vision always,
Ear dull, perhaps, with the vision, flitting
And fading at will. Weaving with points of gold,
Gold-yellow, saffron… The roman shoe, Aurunculeia’s
And come shuffling feet, and cries “Da nuces!
“Nuces!” praise, and Hymenaeus “brings the girl to her man”
Or “here Suxtus had seen her.”
Titter of sound about me, always
And from “Hesperus…”
Hush of the older song: “Fades light from sea-crest,
“And in Lydia walks with pair’d women
“Peerless among the pairs, that ones in Sardis
Fades the light from the sea, and many things
“Are set abroad and brought to mind of thee”
And the vinestocks lie untended, new leaves come one the shoots,
North wind nips on the bough, and seas in heart
Toss up chill crests,
And the vine stocks lie untended
And many things are set abroad and brought to mind
Of thee, Atthis, unfruitful.
The talks ran long into the night.
And from Mauleon, fresh with a new earned grade,
In maze of approaching rain-steps, Poicebot—
The air was full of women,
And Savairic Mauleon
Gave him his land and knight’s fee, and he wed the woman.
Came lust of travel on him, of romerya;
And out of England a knight with slow-lifting eyelids
Lei fassa furar a del, put glamour upon her…
And left her an eight months gone
“Came lust of women upon him,”
Poicebot, now on north road from Spain
(Sea-change, a grey in the water)
And in small house by town’s edge
Found a woman, changed and familiar face;
Hard night, and parting at morning.
And Pieire won the singing, Pieire de Maensac,
Song or land on the throw, and was dreitz hom
And had De Tierci’s wife and with the war they made:
Troy in Auvergnat
While Menelaus piled up the curch at port
He kept Tyndarida. Dauphin stood with de Maensac.
John Borgia is bathed at last. (Clock-tick pierces the vision)
Tiber, dark with the cloak, wet cat gleaming in patches.
Click of the hooves, through garbage,
Clutching the greasy stone. “And the clock floated.”
Slander is up betimes.
But Varchi of Florence,
Steeped in a different year, and pondering Brutus,
Then Σιγα μαλ ανΘις σεντεραν!
“Dog-eye!!”” (to Alessandro)
“Whether for love of Florence,” Varchi leaves it,
Saying “I saw the man, came up with him at Venice,
“I, one wanting the facts,
“And no means labor… Or for a privy spite?”
Our Benedetto leaves it,
“O empia? For Lorenzaccio had thought of stroke in the open
But uncertain (for the Duke went never unguarded)
“And would have thrown him from the wall
“Yet feared this might not end him,” or lest Alessandro
Know not by whom death came, O se credesse
“If when the foot slipped, when death came upon him,
“Lest cousin Duke Alessandro think he had fallen alone,
“No friend to aid him falling.”
The lake of ice there below me.
And all of this, runs Varchi, dreamed out beforehand
In Perugia, caught in the star-maze by Del Carmine,
Cast on a natal paper, set with an exegesis, told,
All told to Alessandro, told thrice over,
Who held his death for a doom.
In abuleia. But Don Lorenzino
Whether for love of Florence…but
“O se morisse, credesse caduto da sé”
Schiavoni, caught on the wood-barge,
Gives out the afterbirth, Giovanni Borgia,
Trails out no more at nights, where Barabello
Prods the Pope’s elephant, and gets no crown, where Mozarello
Takes the Calabrian roadway, and for ending
Is smothered beneath a mule,
a poet’s ending,
Down a stale well-hole, oh a poet’s ending. “Sanazarro
“Alone out of all the court was faithful to him”
For the gossip of Naples’ trouble drifts to North,
Fracastor (lightning was midwife) Cotta, and Ser D’Alviano,
Al poco giorno ed al gran cerchio d’ombra,
Talk the talks out with Navighero,
Burner of yearly Martials
(The slavelet is nourned in vain)
And the next comer says “Were nine wounds,
“Four men, white hourse. Held on the saddle before him…”
Hooves clink and slick on the cobbles.
Schiavoni…cloak… “Sink the damn thing!”
Splash wakes that chap on the wood-barge.
Tiber catching the nap, the moonlit velvet,
A wet cat gleaming in patches.
“Se pia,” Varchi,
“O empia, ma risoluto
“E terribile deliberazione.”
Both sayings rule in the wine,
Ma se morisse!