这几张脸在人群中幻景般闪现；
湿漉漉的黑树枝上花瓣数点。
湿漉漉的黑树枝上花瓣数点。
这几张脸在人群中幻景般闪现；
湿漉漉的黑树枝上花瓣数点。
Petals on a wet, black bough.
湿漉漉的黑树枝上花瓣数点。
Petals on a wet, black bough.
【赏析】 《在地铁站内》仅两行、14个字，是一首单一意象诗（one-image poem）。它是庞德根据在巴黎协和广场地铁站的印象写成的。诗虽短，但诗人最后落笔定稿前经过相当一段时间的酝酿和推敲。
在地铁站庞德眼前闪过一张张美丽的脸。在归途中，这些脸在他眼前反复出现，直到最后他们逐渐变成了一片片彩色印花色底。这时他产生了一个念头，要作出一幅纯粹表现色彩的斑斑点点的非写实主义的画，但他不会作画，只能以诗代之。诗的两行互相依存。apparition是幻象、幽灵，使人们联想到来来往往的乘客的一张张脸。第二行的petal花瓣则传递了美的信息。这一信息由于有深色而又带湿气的树枝的反衬而变得突出鲜明了，同时也给人以模糊重叠之感，意境也就更丰满了。
此诗酷似19世纪法国印象主义画派作品，如反复诵读，读者能勾画出一幅色彩丰富的画面。与此同时也会发现诗歌在音的处理上很巧妙。第一行的［p］音与第二行的［p］音遥相呼应，但其中一个只构成非重读音节；两行末尾均有［au］音，只是前者有辅音［d］，后者没有。第二行中［e］音的重复等都加强了这首短诗的音乐感。以湿润的黑色树枝上挂着的花瓣来比喻他眼前所闪现的脸反映出诗人令人折服的想象力。
我的爱人是深深藏在
水底的火焰。
－我的爱人是欢乐的亲切的
我的爱人象水底的火焰
难寻踪影。
风的手指
给她带去
脆弱的
快速的问候。
我的爱人是欢乐的
亲切的
难于
相逢
象水底的火焰
难于相逢。
that hides beneath the waters
my love is gay and kind
my love is hard to find
as the flame beneath of the waters
the fingers of the wind
meet hers
with a frail
swift greeting
my love is gay
and kind
and hard
of meeting
as the flame beneath the waters
hard of meeting
水底的火焰。
－我的爱人是欢乐的亲切的
我的爱人象水底的火焰
难寻踪影。
风的手指
给她带去
脆弱的
快速的问候。
我的爱人是欢乐的
亲切的
难于
相逢
象水底的火焰
难于相逢。
that hides beneath the waters
my love is gay and kind
my love is hard to find
as the flame beneath of the waters
the fingers of the wind
meet hers
with a frail
swift greeting
my love is gay
and kind
and hard
of meeting
as the flame beneath the waters
hard of meeting
I
"All talk on modern poetry, by people who know," wrote Mr. Carl
Sandburg in _Poetry_, "ends with dragging in Ezra Pound
somewhere. He may be named only to be cursed as wanton and
mocker, poseur, trifler and vagrant. Or he may be classed as
filling a niche today like that of Keats in a preceding epoch.
The point is, he will be mentioned."
This is a simple statement of fact. But though Mr. Pound is well
known, even having been the victim of interviews for Sunday
papers, it does not follow that his work is thoroughly known.
There are twenty people who have their opinion of him for every
one who has read his writings with any care. Of those twenty,
there will be some who are shocked, some who are ruffled, some
who are irritated, and one or two whose sense of dignity is
outraged. The twenty-first critic will probably be one who knows
and admires some of the poems, but who either says: "Pound is
primarily a scholar, a translator," or "Pound's early verse was
beautiful; his later work shows nothing better than the itch for
advertisement, a mischievous desire to be annoying, or a
childish desire to be original." There is a third type of
reader, rare enough, who has perceived Mr. Pound for some years,
who has followed his career intelligently, and who recognizes
its consistency.
This essay is not written for the first twenty critics of
literature, nor for that rare twenty-second who has just been
mentioned, but for the admirer of a poem here or there, whose
appreciation is capable of yielding him a larger return. If the
reader is already at the stage where he can maintain at once the
two propositions, "Pound is merely a scholar" and "Pound is
merely a yellow journalist," or the other two propositions,
"Pound is merely a technician" and "Pound is merely a prophet of
chaos," then there is very little hope. But there are readers of
poetry who have not yet reached this hypertrophy of the logical
faculty; their attention might be arrested, not by an outburst
of praise, but by a simple statement. The present essay aims
merely at such a statement. It is not intended to be either a
biographical or a critical study. It will not dilate upon
"beauties"; it is a summary account of ten years' work in
poetry. The citations from reviews will perhaps stimulate the
reader to form his own opinion. We do not wish to form it for
him. Nor shall we enter into other phases of Mr. Pound's
activity during this ten years; his writings and views on art
and music; though these would take an important place in any
comprehensive biography.
II
Pound's first book was published in Venice. Venice was a halting
point after he had left America and before he had settled in
England, and here, in 1908, "A Lume Spento" appeared. The
volume is now a rarity of literature; it was published by the
author and made at a Venetian press where the author was able
personally to supervise the printing; on paper which was a
remainder of a supply which had been used for a History of the
Church. Pound left Venice in the same year, and took "A Lume
Spento" with him to London. It was not to be expected that a
first book of verse, published by an unknown American in Venice,
should attract much attention. The "Evening Standard" has the
distinction of having noticed the volume, in a review summing it
up as:
wild and haunting stuff, absolutely poetic, original,
imaginative, passionate, and spiritual. Those who do not
consider it crazy may well consider it inspired. Coming
after the trite and decorous verse of most of our decorous
poets, this poet seems like a minstrel of Provence at a
suburban musical evening.... The unseizable magic of poetry
is in the queer paper volume, and words are no good in
describing it.
As the chief poems in "A Lume Spento" were afterwards
incorporated in "Personae," the book demands mention only as a
date in the author's history. "Personae," the first book
published in London, followed early in 1909. Few poets have
undertaken the siege of London with so little backing; few books
of verse have ever owed their success so purely to their own
merits. Pound came to London a complete stranger, without either
literary patronage or financial means. He took "Personae" to Mr.
Elkin Mathews, who has the glory of having published Yeats'
"Wind Among the Reeds," and the "Books of the Rhymers' Club," in
which many of the poets of the '90s, now famous, found a place.
Mr. Mathews first suggested, as was natural to an unknown
author, that the author should bear part of the cost of
printing. "I have a shilling in my pocket, if that is any use to
you," said the latter. "Well," said Mr. Mathews, "I want to
publish it anyway." His acumen was justified. The book was, it
is true, received with opposition, but it was received. There
were a few appreciative critics, notably Mr. Edward Thomas, the
poet (known also as "Edward Eastaway"; he has since been killed
in France). Thomas, writing in the "English Review" (then in its
brightest days under the editorship of Ford Madox Hueffer),
recognized the first-hand intensity of feeling in "Personae":
He has ... hardly any of the superficial good qualities of
modern versifiers.... He has not the current melancholy or
resignation or unwillingness to live; nor the kind of
feeling for nature which runs to minute description and
decorative metaphor. He cannot be usefully compared with any
living writers;... full of personality and with such power
to express it, that from the first to the last lines of most
of his poems he holds us steadily in his own pure grave,
passionate world.... The beauty of it (In Praise of Ysolt)
is the beauty of passion, sincerity and intensity, not of
beautiful words and images and suggestions ... the thought
dominates the words and is greater than they are. Here
(Idyll for Glaucus) the effect is full of human passion and
natural magic, without any of the phrases which a reader of
modern verse would expect in the treatment of such a
subject.
Mr. Scott James, in the "Daily News," speaks in praise of his
metres:
At first the whole thing may seem to be mere madness and
rhetoric, a vain exhibition of force and passion without
beauty. But, as we read on, these curious metres of his seem
to have a law and order of their own; the brute force of Mr.
Pound's imagination seems to impart some quality of
infectious beauty to his words. Sometimes there is a strange
beating of anapaests when he quickens to his subject; again
and again he unexpectedly ends a line with the second half
of a reverberant hexameter:
"Flesh shrouded, bearing the secret."
... And a few lines later comes an example of his favourite
use of spondee, followed by dactyl and spondee, which comes
in strangely and, as we first read it, with the appearance
of discord, but afterwards seems to gain a curious and
distinctive vigour:
"Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes."
Another line like the end of a hexameter is
"But if e'er I come to my love's land."
But even so favourable a critic pauses to remark that
He baffles us by archaic words and unfamiliar metres; he
often seems to be scorning the limitations of form and
metre, breaking out into any sort of expression which suits
itself to his mood.
and counsels the poet to "have a little more respect for his
art."
It is, in fact, just this adaptability of metre to mood,
an adaptability due to an intensive study of metre, that
constitutes an important element in Pound's technique. Few
readers were prepared to accept or follow the amount of
erudition which entered into "Personae" and its close successor,
"Exultations," or to devote the care to reading them which they
demand. It is here that many have been led astray. Pound is not
one of those poets who make no demand of the reader; and the
casual reader of verse, disconcerted by the difference between
Pound's poetry and that on which his taste has been trained,
attributes his own difficulties to excessive scholarship on the
part of the author. "This," he will say of some of the poems in
Provencal form or on Provencal subjects, "is archaeology; it
requires knowledge on the part of its reader, and true poetry
does not require such knowledge." But to display knowledge is
not the same thing as to expect it on the part of the reader;
and of this sort of pedantry Pound is quite free. He is, it is
true, one of the most learned of poets. In America he had taken
up the study of Romance Languages with the intention of
teaching. After work in Spain and Italy, after pursuing the
Provencal verb from Milan to Freiburg, he deserted the thesis
on Lope de Vega and the Ph.D. and the professorial chair,
and elected to remain in Europe. Mr. Pound has spoken out
his mind from time to time on the subject of scholarship in
American universities, its deadness, its isolation from genuine
appreciation, and the active creative life of literature. He has
always been ready to battle against pedantry. As for his own
learning, he has studied poetry carefully, and has made use of
his study in his own verse. "Personae" and "Exultations"
show his talent for turning his studies to account. He was
supersaturated in Provence; he had tramped over most of the
country; and the life of the courts where the Troubadours
thronged was part of his own life to him. Yet, though "Personae"
and "Exultations" do exact something from the reader, they do
not require a knowledge of Provencal or of Spanish or Italian.
Very few people know the Arthurian legends well, or even Malory
(if they did they might realize that the Idylls of the King are
hardly more important than a parody, or a "Chaucer retold for
Children"); but no one accuses Tennyson of needing footnotes, or
of superciliousness toward the uninstructed. The difference is
merely in what people are prepared for; most readers could no
more relate the myth of Atys correctly than they could give a
biography of Bertrand de Born. It is hardly too much to say that
there is no poem in these volumes of Mr. Pound which needs
fuller explanation than he gives himself. What the poems do
require is a trained ear, or at least the willingness to be
trained.
The metres and the use of language are unfamiliar. There are
certain traces of modern influence. We cannot agree with Mr.
Scott-James that among these are "W. E. Henley, Kipling,
Chatterton, and especially Walt Whitman"--least of all Walt
Whitman. Probably there are only two: Yeats and Browning. Yeats
in "La Fraisne," in "Personae," for instance, in the attitude
and somewhat in the vocabulary:
I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf
And left them under a stone,
And now men call me mad because I have thrown
All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men ...
For Browning, Mr. Pound has always professed strong admiration
(see "Mesmerism" in "Personae"); there are traces of him in
"Cino" and "Famam Librosque Cano," in the same volume. But it is
more profitable to comment upon the variety of metres and the
original use of language.
Ezra Pound has been fathered with vers libre in English, with
all its vices and virtues. The term is a loose one--any verse is
called "free" by people whose ears are not accustomed to it--in
the second place, Pound's use of this medium has shown the
temperance of the artist, and his belief in it as a vehicle is
not that of the fanatic. He has said himself that when one has
the proper material for a sonnet, one should use the sonnet
form; but that it happens very rarely to any poet to find
himself in possession of just the block of stuff which can
perfectly be modelled into the sonnet. It is true that up to
very recently it was impossible to get free verse printed in any
periodical except those in which Pound had influence; and
that now it is possible to print free verse (second, third, or
tenth-rate) in almost any American magazine. Who is responsible
for the bad free verse is a question of no importance, inasmuch
as its authors would have written bad verse in any form; Pound
has at least the right to be judged by the success or failure of
his own. Pound's vers libre is such as is only possible for a
poet who has worked tirelessly with rigid forms and different
systems of metric. His "Canzoni" are in a way aside from his
direct line of progress; they are much more nearly studies in
mediaeval appreciation than any of his other verse; but they are
interesting, apart from their merit, as showing the poet at work
with the most intricate Provencal forms--so intricate that the
pattern cannot be exhibited without quoting an entire poem. (M.
Jean de Bosschere, whose French is translated in the "Egoist,"
has already called attention to the fact that Pound was the
first writer in English to use five Provencal forms.) Quotation
will show, however, the great variety of rhythm which Pound
manages to introduce into the ordinary iambic pentameter:
Thy gracious ways,
O lady of my heart, have
O'er all my thought their golden glamour cast;
As amber torch-flames, where strange men-at-arms
Tread softly 'neath the damask shield of night,
Rise from the flowing steel in part reflected,
So on my mailed thought that with thee goeth,
Though dark the way, a golden glamour falleth.
Within the iambic limits, there are no two lines in the whole
poem that have an identical rhythm.
We turn from this to a poem in "Exultations," the "Night
Litany":
O God, what great kindness
have we done in times past
and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
O God of waters?
O God of the night
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
Before the time of its coming?
There is evident, and more strongly in certain later poems, a
tendency toward quantitative measure. Such a "freedom" as this
lays so heavy a burden upon every word in a line that it becomes
impossible to write like Shelley, leaving blanks for the
adjectives, or like Swinburne, whose adjectives are practically
blanks. Other poets have manipulated a great variety of metres
and forms; but few have studied the forms and metres which they
use so carefully as has Pound. His ballad of the "Goodly Fere"
shows great knowledge of the ballad form:
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.
Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke suddently.
A master of men was the Goodly Fere
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.
I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb
Sin' they nailed him to the tree.
And from this we turn to a very different form in the
"Altaforte," which is perhaps the best sestina that has
been written in English:
Damn it all! all this our South stinks 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.
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heaven 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.
I have quoted two verses to show the intricacy of the pattern.
The Provencal canzon, like the Elizabethan lyric, was written
for music. Mr. Pound has more recently insisted, in a series of
articles on the work of Arnold Dolmetsch, in the "Egoist," on
the importance of a study of music for the poet.
* * * * *
Such a relation between poetry and music is very different from
what is called the "music" of Shelley or Swinburne, a music
often nearer to rhetoric (or the art of the orator) than to the
instrument. For poetry to approach the condition of music
(Pound quotes approvingly the dictum of Pater) it is not
necessary that poetry should be destitute of meaning. Instead of
slightly veiled and resonant abstractions, like
Time with a gift of tears,
Grief with a glass that ran--
of Swinburne, or the mossiness of Mallarme, Pound's verse is
always definite and concrete, because he has always a definite
emotion behind it.
Though I've roamed through many places,
None there is that my heart troweth
Fair as that wherein fair groweth
One whose laud here interlaces
Tuneful words, that I've essayed.
Let this tune be gently played
Which my voice herward upraises.
At the end of this poem the author appends the note:
The form and measure are those of Piere Vidal's "_Ab
l'alen tir vas me l'aire_." The song is fit only to be
sung, and is not to be spoken.
There are, here and there, deliberate archaisms or oddities
(e.g., "herward"); there are deliberately arbitrary images,
having their place in the total effect of the poem:
Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over
The green sheaf of the world ...
The lotos that pours
Her fragrance into the purple cup ...
Black lightning ... (in a more recent poem)
but no word is ever chosen merely for the tinkle; each has
always its part in producing an impression which is produced
always through language. Words are perhaps the hardest of
all material of art: for they must be used to express both
visual beauty and beauty of sound, as well as communicating
a grammatical statement. It would be interesting to compare
Pound's use of images with Mallarme's; I think it will be found
that the former's, by the contrast, will appear always sharp in
outline, even if arbitrary and not photographic. Such images as
those quoted above are as precise in their way as
Sur le Noel, morte saison,
Lorsque les loups vivent de vent ...
and the rest of that memorable Testament.
So much for the imagery. As to the "freedom" of his verse, Pound
has made several statements in his articles on Dolmetsch which
are to the point:
Any work of art is a compound of freedom and order. It is
perfectly obvious that art hangs between chaos on the one
side and mechanics on the other. A pedantic insistence upon
detail tends to drive out "major form." A firm hold on major
form makes for a freedom of detail. In painting men intent
on minutiae gradually lost the sense of form and form-
combination. An attempt to restore this sense is branded as
"revolution." It is revolution in the philological sense of
the term....
Art is a departure from fixed positions; felicitous
departure from a norm....
The freedom of Pound's verse is rather a state of tension due to
constant opposition between free and strict. There are not, as a
matter of fact, two kinds of verse, the strict and the free;
there is only a mastery which comes of being so well trained
that form is an instinct and can be adapted to the particular
purpose in hand.
* * * * *
After "Exultations" came the translation of the "Sonnets and
Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti." It is worth noting that the writer
of a long review in the "_Quest_"--speaking in praise of the
translation, yet found fault with the author not on the ground
of excessive mediaevalism, but because
he is concerned rather with the future than with a somewhat
remote past, so that in spite of his love for the mediaeval
poets, his very accomplishment as a distinctly modern poet
makes against his success as a wholly acceptable translator
of Cavalcanti, the heir of the Troubadours, the scholastic.
Yet the _Daily News_, in criticising "Canzoni," had remarked
that Mr. Pound
seems to us rather a scholar than a poet, and we should like
to see him giving his unusual talent more to direct
translation from the Provencal.
and Mr. J. C. Squire (now the literary editor of the _New
Statesman_), in an appreciative review in the _New Age_, had
counselled the poet that he would
gain and not lose if he could forget all about the poets of
Dante's day, their roses and their flames, their gold and
their falcons, and their literary amorousness, and walk out
of the library into the fresh air.
In "Ripostes" there are traces of a different idiom.
Superficially, the work may appear less important. The diction
is more restrained, the flights shorter, the dexterity of
technique is less arresting. By romantic readers the book would
be considered less "passionate." But there is a much more solid
substratum to this book; there is more thought; greater depth,
if less agitation on the surface. The effect of London is
apparent; the author has become a critic of men, surveying them
from a consistent and developed point of view; he is more
formidable and disconcerting; in short, much more mature.
That he abandons nothing of his technical skill is evident from
the translation from the Anglo-Saxon, the "Seafarer." It is
not a slight achievement to have brought to life alliterative
verse: perhaps the "Seafarer" is the only successful piece of
alliterative verse ever written in modern English; alliterative
verse which is not merely a clever tour de force, but which
suggests the possibility of a new development of this form. Mr.
Richard Aldington (whose own accomplishments as a writer of vers
libre qualify him to speak) called the poem "unsurpassed and
unsurpassable," and a writer in the _New Age_ (a literary organ
which has always been strongly opposed to metrical innovations)
called it "one of the finest literary works of art produced in
England during the last ten years." And the rough, stern beauty
of the Anglo-Saxon, we may remark, is at the opposite pole from
that of the Provencal and Italian poets to whom Pound had
previously devoted his attention.
May I for my own self song's truth reckon,
Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days
Hardship endured oft.
But we can notice in "Ripostes" other evidences than of
versatility only; certain poems show Mr. Pound turning to more
modern subjects, as in the "Portrait d'une femme," or the
mordant epigram, "An Object." Many readers are apt to confuse
the maturing of personality with desiccation of the emotions.
There is no desiccation in "Ripostes." This should be evident to
anyone who reads carefully such a poem as "A Girl." We quote it
entire without comment.
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast--
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child--_so_ high--you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
"The Return" is an important study in verse which is really
quantitative. We quote only a few lines:
See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
Wavering!
"Ripostes" belongs to the period when Mr. Pound was being
attacked because of his propaganda. He became known as the
inventor of "Imagism," and later, as the "High Priest of
Vorticism." As a matter of fact, the actual "propaganda" of Mr.
Pound has been very small in quantity. The impression which his
personality made, however, is suggested by the following note in
"_Punch_," which is always a pretty reliable barometer of the
English middle-class Grin:
Mr. Welkin Mark (exactly opposite Long Jane's) begs to
announce that he has secured for the English market the
palpitating works of the new Montana (U.S.A.) poet, Mr.
Ezekiel Ton, who is the most remarkable thing in poetry
since Robert Browning. Mr. Ton, who has left America to
reside for a while in London and impress his personality on
English editors, publishers and readers, is by far the
newest poet going, whatever other advertisements may say. He
has succeeded, where all others have failed, in evolving a
blend of the imagery of the unfettered West, the vocabulary
of Wardour Street, and the sinister abandon of Borgiac
Italy.
In 1913, someone writing to the New York _Nation_ from the
University of Illinois, illustrates the American, more serious,
disapproval. This writer begins by expressing his objections to
the "principle of Futurism." (Pound has perhaps done more than
anyone to keep Futurism out of England. His antagonism to this
movement was the first which was not due merely to unintelligent
dislike for anything new, and was due to his perception that
Futurism was incompatible with any principles of form. In his
own words, Futurism is "accelerated impressionism.") The writer
in the _Nation_ then goes on to analyze the modern "hypertrophy
of romanticism" into
The exaggeration of the importance of a personal emotion.
The abandonment of all standards of form.
The suppression of all evidence that a particular composition
is animated by any directing intelligence.
As for the first point, here are Mr. Pound's words in answer to
the question, "do you agree that the great poet is never
emotional?"
Yes, absolutely; if by emotion is meant that he is at the
mercy of every passing mood.... The only kind of emotion
worthy of a poet is the inspirational emotion which
energises and strengthens, and which is very remote from the
everyday emotion of sloppiness and sentiment....
And as for the platform of Imagism, here are a few of Pound's
"Don'ts for Imagists":
Pay no attention to the criticisms of men who have never
themselves written a notable work.
Use no superfluous word and no adjective which does not
reveal something.
Go in fear of abstractions. Don't retail in mediocre verse
what has already been done in good prose.
Don't imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler than the
art of music or that you can please the expert before you
have spent at least as much effort on the art of verse as
the average piano teacher spends on the art of music.
Be influenced by as many great artists as you can, but have
the decency either to acknowledge the debt outright or try
to conceal it.
Consider the definiteness of Dante's presentation as
compared with Milton's. Read as much of Wordsworth as does
not seem to be unutterably dull.
If you want the gist of the matter go to Sappho, Catullus,
Villon when he is in the vein, Gautier when he is not too
frigid, or if yon have not the tongues seek out the
leisurely Chaucer.
Good prose will do you no harm. There is good discipline to
be had by trying to write it. Translation is also good
training.
The emphasis here is certainly on discipline and form. The
Chicago _Tribune_ recognized this as "sound sense," adding:
If this is Imagism ... we are for establishing Imagism by
constitutional amendment and imprisoning without recourse to
ink or paper all "literary" ladies or gents who break any of
these canons.
But other reviewers were less approving. While the writer in the
_Nation_, quoted above, dreads the anarchy impending, Mr.
William Archer was terrified at the prospect of hieratic
formalisation. Mr. Archer believes in the simple untaught muse:
Mr. Pound's commandments tend too much to make of poetry a
learned, self-conscious craft, to be cultivated by a guild
of adepts, from whose austere laboratories spontaneity and
simplicity are excluded.... A great deal of the best poetry
in the world has very little technical study behind it....
There are scores and hundreds of people in England who could
write this simple metre (i.e. of "A Shropshire Lad")
successfully.
To be hanged for a cat and drowned for a rat is, perhaps,
sufficient exculpation.
Probably Mr. Pound has won odium not so much by his theories as
by his unstinted praise of certain contemporary authors whose
work he has liked. Such expressions of approval are usually
taken as a grievance--much more so than any personal abuse,
which is comparatively a compliment--by the writers who escape
his mention. He does not say "A., B., and C. are bad poets or
novelists," but when he says "The work of X., Y., and Z. is in
such and such respects the most important work in verse (or
prose) since so and so," then A., B., and C. are aggrieved.
Also, Pound has frequently expressed disapproval of Milton and
Wordsworth.
After "Ripostes," Mr. Pound's idiom has advanced still farther.
Inasmuch as "Cathay," the volume of translations from the
Chinese, appeared prior to "Lustra," it is sometimes thought
that his newer idiom is due to the Chinese influence. This is
almost the reverse of the truth. The late Ernest Fenollosa left
a quantity of manuscripts, including a great number of rough
translations (literally exact) from the Chinese. After certain
poems subsequently incorporated in "Lustra" had appeared in
"Poetry," Mrs. Fenollosa recognized that in Pound the Chinese
manuscripts would find the interpreter whom her husband would
have wished; she accordingly forwarded the papers for him to do
as he liked with. It is thus due to Mrs. Fenollosa's acumen that
we have "Cathay"; it is not as a consequence of "Cathay" that we
have "Lustra." This fact must be borne in mind.
Poems afterward embodied in "Lustra" appeared in "Poetry," in
April, 1913, under the title of "Contemporanea." They included
among others "Tenzone," "The Condolence," "The Garret,"
"Salutation the Second," and "Dance Figure."
There are influences, but deviously. It is rather a gradual
development of experience into which literary experiences have
entered. These have not brought the bondage of temporary
enthusiasms, but have liberated the poet from his former
restricted sphere. There is Catullus and Martial, Gautier,
Laforgue and Tristan Corbiere. Whitman is certainly not an
influence; there is not a trace of him anywhere; Whitman and Mr.
Pound are antipodean to each other. Of "Contemporanea" the
_Chicago Evening Post_ discriminatingly observed:
Your poems in the April _Poetry_ are so mockingly, so
delicately, so unblushingly beautiful that you seem to have
brought back into the world a grace which (probably) never
existed, but which we discover by an imaginative process in
Horace and Catullus.
It was a true insight to ally Pound to the Latin, not to the
Greek poets.
Certain of the poems in "Lustra" have offended admirers of the
verse of the "Personae" period. When a poet alters or develops,
many of his admirers are sure to drop off. Any poet, if he is to
survive as a writer beyond his twenty-fifth year, must alter; he
must seek new literary influences; he will have different
emotions to express. This is disconcerting to that public which
likes a poet to spin his whole work out of the feelings of his
youth; which likes to be able to open a new volume of his poems
with the assurance that they will be able to approach it exactly
as they approached the preceding. They do not like that constant
readjustment which the following of Mr. Pound's work demands.
Thus has "Lustra" been a disappointment to some; though it
manifests no falling off in technique, and no impoverishment
of feeling. Some of the poems (including several of the
"Contemporanea") are a more direct statement of views than
Pound's verse had ever given before. Of these poems, M. Jean de
Bosschere writes:
Everywhere his poems incite man to exist, to profess a
becoming egotism, without which there can be no real
altruism.
I beseech you enter your life.
I beseech you learn to say "I"
When I question you.
For you are no part, but a whole;
No portion, but a being.
... One must be capable of reacting to stimuli for a moment,
as a real, live person, even in face of as much of one's own
powers as are arrayed against one;... The virile complaint,
the revolt of the poet, all which shows his emotion,--that
is poetry.
Speak against unconscious oppression,
Speak against the tyranny of the unimaginative,
Speak against bonds.
Be against all forms of oppression,
Go out and defy opinion.
This is the old cry of the poet, but more precise, as an
expression of frank disgust:
Go to the adolescent who are smothered in family.
O, how hideous it is
To see three generations of one house gathered together!
It is like an old tree without shoots,
And with some branches rotted and falling.
Each poem holds out these cries of revolt or disgust, but
they are the result of his still hoping and feeling:
Let us take arms against this sea of stupidities. Pound ...
has experience of the folly of the Philistines who read his
verse. Real pain is born of this stupid interpretation, and
one does not realize how deep it is unless one can feel,
through the ejaculations and the laughter, what has caused
these wounds, which are made deeper by what he knows, and
what he has lost....
The tone, which is at once jocund and keen, is one of
Pound's qualities. Ovid, Catullus--he does not disown them.
He only uses these accents for his familiars; with the
others he is on the edge of paradox, pamphleteering, indeed
of abuse....
This is the proper approach to the poems at the beginning of
"Lustra," and to the short epigrams, which some readers find
"pointless," or certainly "not poetry." They should read, then,
the "Dance Figure," or "Near Perigord," and remember that all
these poems come out of the same man.
Thine arms are as a young sapling under the bark;
Thy face as a river with lights.
White as an almond are thy shoulders;
As new almonds stripped from the husk.
Or the ending of "Near Perigord":
Bewildering spring, and by the Auvezere
Poppies and day's-eyes in the green email
Rose over us; and we knew all that stream,
And our two horses had traced out the valleys;
Knew the low flooded lands squared out with poplars,
In the young days when the deep sky befriended.
And great wings beat above us in the twilight,
And the great wheels in heaven
Bore us together ... surging ... and apart ...
Believing we should meet with lips and hands ...
There shut up in his castle, Tairiran's,
She who had nor ears nor tongue save in her hands,
Gone, ah, gone--untouched, unreachable!
She who could never live save through one person,
She who could never speak save to one person,
And all the rest of her a shifting change,
A broken bundle of mirrors...!
Then turn at once to "To a Friend Writing on Cabaret Dancers."
It is easy to say that the language of "Cathay" is due to the
Chinese. If one looks carefully at (1) Pound's other verse, (2)
other people's translations from the Chinese (e.g., Giles's), it
is evident that this is not the case. The language was ready for
the Chinese poetry. Compare, for instance, a passage from
"Provincia Deserta":
I have walked
into Perigord
I have seen the torch-flames, high-leaping,
Painting the front of that church,--
And, under the dark, whirling laughter,
I have looked back over the stream
and seen the high building,
Seen the long minarets, the white shafts.
I have gone in Ribeyrac,
and in Sarlat.
I have climbed rickety stairs, heard talk of Croy,
Walked over En Bertran's old layout,
Have seen Narbonne, and Cahors and Chalus,
Have seen Excideuil, carefully fashioned.
with a passage from "The River Song":
He goes out to Hori, to look at the wing-flapping storks,
He returns by way of Sei rock, to hear the new nightingales,
For the gardens at Jo-run are full of new nightingales,
Their sound is mixed in this flute,
Their voice is in the twelve pipes here.
It matters very little how much is due to Rihaku and how much to
Pound. Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer has observed: "If these are
original verses, then Mr. Pound is the greatest poet of this
day." He goes on to say:
The poems in "Cathay" are things of a supreme beauty. What
poetry should be, that they are. And if a new breath of
imagery and handling can do anything for our poetry, that
new breath these poems bring....
Poetry consists in so rendering concrete objects that the
emotions produced by the objects shall arise in the
reader....
Where have you better rendered, or more permanently
beautiful a rendering of, the feelings of one of those
lonely watchers, in the outposts of progress, whether it be
Ovid in Hyrcania, a Roman sentinel upon the great wall of
this country, or merely ourselves, in the lonely recesses of
our minds, than the "Lament of the Frontier Guard"?...
Beauty is a very valuable thing; perhaps it is the most
valuable thing in life; but the power to express emotion so
that it shall communicate itself intact and exactly is
almost more valuable. Of both these qualities Mr. Pound's
book is very full. Therefore, I think we may say that this
is much the best work he has done, for, however closely he
may have followed his originals--and of that most of us have
no means of judging--there is certainly a good deal of Mr.
Pound in this little volume.
"Cathay" and "Lustra" were followed by the translations of Noh
plays. The Noh are not so important as the Chinese poems
(certainly not so important for English); the attitude is less
unusual to us; the work is not so solid, so firm. "Cathay" will,
I believe, rank with the "Sea-Farer" in the future among Mr.
Pound's original work; the Noh will rank among his translations.
It is rather a dessert after "Cathay." There are, however,
passages which, as Pound has handled them, are different both
from the Chinese and from anything existent in English. There
is, for example, the fine speech of the old Kagekiyo, as he
thinks of his youthful valour:
He thought, how easy this killing. He rushed with his
spearshaft gripped under his arm. He cried out, "I am
Kagekiyo of the Heike." He rushed on to take them. He
pierced through the helmet vizards of Miyanoya. Miyanoya
fled twice, and again; and Kagekiyo cried: "You shall not
escape me!" He leaped and wrenched off his helmet. "Eya!"
The vizard broke and remained in his hand, and Miyanoya
still fled afar, and afar, and he looked back crying in
terror, "How terrible, how heavy your arm!" And Kagekiyo
called at him, "How tough the shaft of your neck is!" And
they both laughed out over the battle, and went off each his
own way.
The "Times Literary Supplement" spoke of Mr. Pound's "mastery of
beautiful diction" and his "cunningly rhythmically prose," in
its review of the "Noh."
Even since "Lustra," Mr. Pound has moved again. This move is to
the epic, of which three cantos appear in the American "Lustra"
(they have already appeared in "Poetry"--Miss Monroe deserves
great honour for her courage in printing an epic poem in this
twentieth century--but the version in "Lustra" is revised and is
improved by revision). We will leave it as a test: when anyone
has studied Mr. Pound's poems in _chronological_ order, and has
mastered "Lustra" and "Cathay," he is prepared for the Cantos--
but not till then. If the reader then fails to like them, he has
probably omitted some step in his progress, and had better go
back and retrace the journey.
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF
BOOKS AND PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY OF
NOTABLE CRITICAL ARTICLES
BY EZRA POUND
POEMS
A LUME SPENTO (100 copies). Antonelli, Venice, June, 1908.
A QUINZAINE FOR THIS YULE.
First 100 printed by Pollock, London, December, 1908.
Second 100 published under Elkin Mathews' imprint, London,
December, 1908.
PERSONAE. Mathews, London, Spring, 1909.
EXULTATIONS. Mathews, London, Autumn, 1909.
PROSE
THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE. Dent, London, 1910.
POEMS
PROVENCA (a _select_ion of poems from "Personae" and
"Exultations" with new poems). Small Maynard, Boston, 1910.
CANZONI. Mathews, London, 1911.
THE SONNETS AND BALLATE OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI (translated).
Small Maynard, Boston, 1912.
A cheaper edition of the same, Swift and Co., London, 1912.
The bulk of this edition destroyed by fire.
RIPOSTES. Swift, London, 1912.
(_Note_.--This book contains the first announcement of
Imagism, in the foreword to the poems of T. E. Hulme.)
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
"A FEW DON'TS BY AN IMAGISTE," in "Poetry," for March, 1913.
"CONTEMPORANIA" (poems), in "Poetry," April, 1913.
POEMS
PERSONAE, EXULTATIONS, CANZONI, RIPOSTES, published in two
volumes. Mathews, London, 1913.
FIRST OF THE NOTES ON JAMES JOYCE, "Egoist," January, 1914.
FIRST OF THE ARTICLES CONCERNING GAUDIER-BRZESKA, "Egoist,"
February, 1914.
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
"DES IMAGISTES," poems by several authors _select_ed by Ezra
Pound, published as a number of "The Glebe," in New York.
February, 1914.
Alfred Kreymborg was at this time editor of "The Glebe." The
first arrangements for the anthology were made through the
kind offices of John Cournos during the winter of 1912-13.
The English edition of this anthology published by The Poetry
Book Shop. London, 1914.
ARTICLE ON WYNDHAM LEWIS, "Egoist," June 15, 1914.
CONTRIBUTIONS TO FIRST NUMBER OF "Blast," June 20, 1914.
"VORTICISM," an article in "The Fortnightly Review," September,
1914.
"GAUDIER-BRZESKA," an article in "The New Age," February 4,
1915.
CONTRIBUTIONS to second number of "Blast," 1915.
POEMS
CATHAY. Mathews, London, April, 1915. (Translations from the
Chinese from the notes of Ernest Fenollosa.)
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
THE CATHOLIC ANTHOLOGY, edited by Ezra Pound. Mathews, London,
December, 1915.
GAUDIER-BRZESKA, a memoir. John Lane, London and New York, 1916.
LUSTRA (poems) public edition, pp. 116. Mathews, London, 1916.
200 copies privately printed and numbered, pp. 124.
CERTAIN NOBLE PLAYS OF JAPAN. Cuala Press, Dundrum, Ireland,
1916. Translated by Ernest Fenollosa and Ezra Pound, with an
introduction by William Butler Yeats.
NOH, or Accomplishment. A study of the Classical Stage of
Japan, including translations of fifteen plays, by Ernest
Fenollosa and Ezra Pound. Macmillan, London, 1917. Knopf, New
York, 1917.
PASSAGES FROM THE LETTERS OF JOHN BUTLER YEATS, _select_ed by Ezra
Pound, with brief editorial note. Cuala Press, 1917.
LUSTRA, with Earlier Poems, Knopf, New York, 1917. (This
collection of Mr. Pound's poems contains all that he now
thinks fit to republish.)
There is also a privately-printed edition of fifty copies,
with a reproduction of a drawing of Ezra Pound by Henri
Gaudier-Brzeska (New York, 1917).
PAVANNES and DIVISIONS (Prose), in preparation. Knopf,
New York.
"All talk on modern poetry, by people who know," wrote Mr. Carl
Sandburg in _Poetry_, "ends with dragging in Ezra Pound
somewhere. He may be named only to be cursed as wanton and
mocker, poseur, trifler and vagrant. Or he may be classed as
filling a niche today like that of Keats in a preceding epoch.
The point is, he will be mentioned."
This is a simple statement of fact. But though Mr. Pound is well
known, even having been the victim of interviews for Sunday
papers, it does not follow that his work is thoroughly known.
There are twenty people who have their opinion of him for every
one who has read his writings with any care. Of those twenty,
there will be some who are shocked, some who are ruffled, some
who are irritated, and one or two whose sense of dignity is
outraged. The twenty-first critic will probably be one who knows
and admires some of the poems, but who either says: "Pound is
primarily a scholar, a translator," or "Pound's early verse was
beautiful; his later work shows nothing better than the itch for
advertisement, a mischievous desire to be annoying, or a
childish desire to be original." There is a third type of
reader, rare enough, who has perceived Mr. Pound for some years,
who has followed his career intelligently, and who recognizes
its consistency.
This essay is not written for the first twenty critics of
literature, nor for that rare twenty-second who has just been
mentioned, but for the admirer of a poem here or there, whose
appreciation is capable of yielding him a larger return. If the
reader is already at the stage where he can maintain at once the
two propositions, "Pound is merely a scholar" and "Pound is
merely a yellow journalist," or the other two propositions,
"Pound is merely a technician" and "Pound is merely a prophet of
chaos," then there is very little hope. But there are readers of
poetry who have not yet reached this hypertrophy of the logical
faculty; their attention might be arrested, not by an outburst
of praise, but by a simple statement. The present essay aims
merely at such a statement. It is not intended to be either a
biographical or a critical study. It will not dilate upon
"beauties"; it is a summary account of ten years' work in
poetry. The citations from reviews will perhaps stimulate the
reader to form his own opinion. We do not wish to form it for
him. Nor shall we enter into other phases of Mr. Pound's
activity during this ten years; his writings and views on art
and music; though these would take an important place in any
comprehensive biography.
II
Pound's first book was published in Venice. Venice was a halting
point after he had left America and before he had settled in
England, and here, in 1908, "A Lume Spento" appeared. The
volume is now a rarity of literature; it was published by the
author and made at a Venetian press where the author was able
personally to supervise the printing; on paper which was a
remainder of a supply which had been used for a History of the
Church. Pound left Venice in the same year, and took "A Lume
Spento" with him to London. It was not to be expected that a
first book of verse, published by an unknown American in Venice,
should attract much attention. The "Evening Standard" has the
distinction of having noticed the volume, in a review summing it
up as:
wild and haunting stuff, absolutely poetic, original,
imaginative, passionate, and spiritual. Those who do not
consider it crazy may well consider it inspired. Coming
after the trite and decorous verse of most of our decorous
poets, this poet seems like a minstrel of Provence at a
suburban musical evening.... The unseizable magic of poetry
is in the queer paper volume, and words are no good in
describing it.
As the chief poems in "A Lume Spento" were afterwards
incorporated in "Personae," the book demands mention only as a
date in the author's history. "Personae," the first book
published in London, followed early in 1909. Few poets have
undertaken the siege of London with so little backing; few books
of verse have ever owed their success so purely to their own
merits. Pound came to London a complete stranger, without either
literary patronage or financial means. He took "Personae" to Mr.
Elkin Mathews, who has the glory of having published Yeats'
"Wind Among the Reeds," and the "Books of the Rhymers' Club," in
which many of the poets of the '90s, now famous, found a place.
Mr. Mathews first suggested, as was natural to an unknown
author, that the author should bear part of the cost of
printing. "I have a shilling in my pocket, if that is any use to
you," said the latter. "Well," said Mr. Mathews, "I want to
publish it anyway." His acumen was justified. The book was, it
is true, received with opposition, but it was received. There
were a few appreciative critics, notably Mr. Edward Thomas, the
poet (known also as "Edward Eastaway"; he has since been killed
in France). Thomas, writing in the "English Review" (then in its
brightest days under the editorship of Ford Madox Hueffer),
recognized the first-hand intensity of feeling in "Personae":
He has ... hardly any of the superficial good qualities of
modern versifiers.... He has not the current melancholy or
resignation or unwillingness to live; nor the kind of
feeling for nature which runs to minute description and
decorative metaphor. He cannot be usefully compared with any
living writers;... full of personality and with such power
to express it, that from the first to the last lines of most
of his poems he holds us steadily in his own pure grave,
passionate world.... The beauty of it (In Praise of Ysolt)
is the beauty of passion, sincerity and intensity, not of
beautiful words and images and suggestions ... the thought
dominates the words and is greater than they are. Here
(Idyll for Glaucus) the effect is full of human passion and
natural magic, without any of the phrases which a reader of
modern verse would expect in the treatment of such a
subject.
Mr. Scott James, in the "Daily News," speaks in praise of his
metres:
At first the whole thing may seem to be mere madness and
rhetoric, a vain exhibition of force and passion without
beauty. But, as we read on, these curious metres of his seem
to have a law and order of their own; the brute force of Mr.
Pound's imagination seems to impart some quality of
infectious beauty to his words. Sometimes there is a strange
beating of anapaests when he quickens to his subject; again
and again he unexpectedly ends a line with the second half
of a reverberant hexameter:
"Flesh shrouded, bearing the secret."
... And a few lines later comes an example of his favourite
use of spondee, followed by dactyl and spondee, which comes
in strangely and, as we first read it, with the appearance
of discord, but afterwards seems to gain a curious and
distinctive vigour:
"Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes."
Another line like the end of a hexameter is
"But if e'er I come to my love's land."
But even so favourable a critic pauses to remark that
He baffles us by archaic words and unfamiliar metres; he
often seems to be scorning the limitations of form and
metre, breaking out into any sort of expression which suits
itself to his mood.
and counsels the poet to "have a little more respect for his
art."
It is, in fact, just this adaptability of metre to mood,
an adaptability due to an intensive study of metre, that
constitutes an important element in Pound's technique. Few
readers were prepared to accept or follow the amount of
erudition which entered into "Personae" and its close successor,
"Exultations," or to devote the care to reading them which they
demand. It is here that many have been led astray. Pound is not
one of those poets who make no demand of the reader; and the
casual reader of verse, disconcerted by the difference between
Pound's poetry and that on which his taste has been trained,
attributes his own difficulties to excessive scholarship on the
part of the author. "This," he will say of some of the poems in
Provencal form or on Provencal subjects, "is archaeology; it
requires knowledge on the part of its reader, and true poetry
does not require such knowledge." But to display knowledge is
not the same thing as to expect it on the part of the reader;
and of this sort of pedantry Pound is quite free. He is, it is
true, one of the most learned of poets. In America he had taken
up the study of Romance Languages with the intention of
teaching. After work in Spain and Italy, after pursuing the
Provencal verb from Milan to Freiburg, he deserted the thesis
on Lope de Vega and the Ph.D. and the professorial chair,
and elected to remain in Europe. Mr. Pound has spoken out
his mind from time to time on the subject of scholarship in
American universities, its deadness, its isolation from genuine
appreciation, and the active creative life of literature. He has
always been ready to battle against pedantry. As for his own
learning, he has studied poetry carefully, and has made use of
his study in his own verse. "Personae" and "Exultations"
show his talent for turning his studies to account. He was
supersaturated in Provence; he had tramped over most of the
country; and the life of the courts where the Troubadours
thronged was part of his own life to him. Yet, though "Personae"
and "Exultations" do exact something from the reader, they do
not require a knowledge of Provencal or of Spanish or Italian.
Very few people know the Arthurian legends well, or even Malory
(if they did they might realize that the Idylls of the King are
hardly more important than a parody, or a "Chaucer retold for
Children"); but no one accuses Tennyson of needing footnotes, or
of superciliousness toward the uninstructed. The difference is
merely in what people are prepared for; most readers could no
more relate the myth of Atys correctly than they could give a
biography of Bertrand de Born. It is hardly too much to say that
there is no poem in these volumes of Mr. Pound which needs
fuller explanation than he gives himself. What the poems do
require is a trained ear, or at least the willingness to be
trained.
The metres and the use of language are unfamiliar. There are
certain traces of modern influence. We cannot agree with Mr.
Scott-James that among these are "W. E. Henley, Kipling,
Chatterton, and especially Walt Whitman"--least of all Walt
Whitman. Probably there are only two: Yeats and Browning. Yeats
in "La Fraisne," in "Personae," for instance, in the attitude
and somewhat in the vocabulary:
I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf
And left them under a stone,
And now men call me mad because I have thrown
All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men ...
For Browning, Mr. Pound has always professed strong admiration
(see "Mesmerism" in "Personae"); there are traces of him in
"Cino" and "Famam Librosque Cano," in the same volume. But it is
more profitable to comment upon the variety of metres and the
original use of language.
Ezra Pound has been fathered with vers libre in English, with
all its vices and virtues. The term is a loose one--any verse is
called "free" by people whose ears are not accustomed to it--in
the second place, Pound's use of this medium has shown the
temperance of the artist, and his belief in it as a vehicle is
not that of the fanatic. He has said himself that when one has
the proper material for a sonnet, one should use the sonnet
form; but that it happens very rarely to any poet to find
himself in possession of just the block of stuff which can
perfectly be modelled into the sonnet. It is true that up to
very recently it was impossible to get free verse printed in any
periodical except those in which Pound had influence; and
that now it is possible to print free verse (second, third, or
tenth-rate) in almost any American magazine. Who is responsible
for the bad free verse is a question of no importance, inasmuch
as its authors would have written bad verse in any form; Pound
has at least the right to be judged by the success or failure of
his own. Pound's vers libre is such as is only possible for a
poet who has worked tirelessly with rigid forms and different
systems of metric. His "Canzoni" are in a way aside from his
direct line of progress; they are much more nearly studies in
mediaeval appreciation than any of his other verse; but they are
interesting, apart from their merit, as showing the poet at work
with the most intricate Provencal forms--so intricate that the
pattern cannot be exhibited without quoting an entire poem. (M.
Jean de Bosschere, whose French is translated in the "Egoist,"
has already called attention to the fact that Pound was the
first writer in English to use five Provencal forms.) Quotation
will show, however, the great variety of rhythm which Pound
manages to introduce into the ordinary iambic pentameter:
Thy gracious ways,
O lady of my heart, have
O'er all my thought their golden glamour cast;
As amber torch-flames, where strange men-at-arms
Tread softly 'neath the damask shield of night,
Rise from the flowing steel in part reflected,
So on my mailed thought that with thee goeth,
Though dark the way, a golden glamour falleth.
Within the iambic limits, there are no two lines in the whole
poem that have an identical rhythm.
We turn from this to a poem in "Exultations," the "Night
Litany":
O God, what great kindness
have we done in times past
and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
O God of waters?
O God of the night
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
Before the time of its coming?
There is evident, and more strongly in certain later poems, a
tendency toward quantitative measure. Such a "freedom" as this
lays so heavy a burden upon every word in a line that it becomes
impossible to write like Shelley, leaving blanks for the
adjectives, or like Swinburne, whose adjectives are practically
blanks. Other poets have manipulated a great variety of metres
and forms; but few have studied the forms and metres which they
use so carefully as has Pound. His ballad of the "Goodly Fere"
shows great knowledge of the ballad form:
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.
Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke suddently.
A master of men was the Goodly Fere
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.
I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb
Sin' they nailed him to the tree.
And from this we turn to a very different form in the
"Altaforte," which is perhaps the best sestina that has
been written in English:
Damn it all! all this our South stinks 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.
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heaven 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.
I have quoted two verses to show the intricacy of the pattern.
The Provencal canzon, like the Elizabethan lyric, was written
for music. Mr. Pound has more recently insisted, in a series of
articles on the work of Arnold Dolmetsch, in the "Egoist," on
the importance of a study of music for the poet.
* * * * *
Such a relation between poetry and music is very different from
what is called the "music" of Shelley or Swinburne, a music
often nearer to rhetoric (or the art of the orator) than to the
instrument. For poetry to approach the condition of music
(Pound quotes approvingly the dictum of Pater) it is not
necessary that poetry should be destitute of meaning. Instead of
slightly veiled and resonant abstractions, like
Time with a gift of tears,
Grief with a glass that ran--
of Swinburne, or the mossiness of Mallarme, Pound's verse is
always definite and concrete, because he has always a definite
emotion behind it.
Though I've roamed through many places,
None there is that my heart troweth
Fair as that wherein fair groweth
One whose laud here interlaces
Tuneful words, that I've essayed.
Let this tune be gently played
Which my voice herward upraises.
At the end of this poem the author appends the note:
The form and measure are those of Piere Vidal's "_Ab
l'alen tir vas me l'aire_." The song is fit only to be
sung, and is not to be spoken.
There are, here and there, deliberate archaisms or oddities
(e.g., "herward"); there are deliberately arbitrary images,
having their place in the total effect of the poem:
Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over
The green sheaf of the world ...
The lotos that pours
Her fragrance into the purple cup ...
Black lightning ... (in a more recent poem)
but no word is ever chosen merely for the tinkle; each has
always its part in producing an impression which is produced
always through language. Words are perhaps the hardest of
all material of art: for they must be used to express both
visual beauty and beauty of sound, as well as communicating
a grammatical statement. It would be interesting to compare
Pound's use of images with Mallarme's; I think it will be found
that the former's, by the contrast, will appear always sharp in
outline, even if arbitrary and not photographic. Such images as
those quoted above are as precise in their way as
Sur le Noel, morte saison,
Lorsque les loups vivent de vent ...
and the rest of that memorable Testament.
So much for the imagery. As to the "freedom" of his verse, Pound
has made several statements in his articles on Dolmetsch which
are to the point:
Any work of art is a compound of freedom and order. It is
perfectly obvious that art hangs between chaos on the one
side and mechanics on the other. A pedantic insistence upon
detail tends to drive out "major form." A firm hold on major
form makes for a freedom of detail. In painting men intent
on minutiae gradually lost the sense of form and form-
combination. An attempt to restore this sense is branded as
"revolution." It is revolution in the philological sense of
the term....
Art is a departure from fixed positions; felicitous
departure from a norm....
The freedom of Pound's verse is rather a state of tension due to
constant opposition between free and strict. There are not, as a
matter of fact, two kinds of verse, the strict and the free;
there is only a mastery which comes of being so well trained
that form is an instinct and can be adapted to the particular
purpose in hand.
* * * * *
After "Exultations" came the translation of the "Sonnets and
Ballate of Guido Cavalcanti." It is worth noting that the writer
of a long review in the "_Quest_"--speaking in praise of the
translation, yet found fault with the author not on the ground
of excessive mediaevalism, but because
he is concerned rather with the future than with a somewhat
remote past, so that in spite of his love for the mediaeval
poets, his very accomplishment as a distinctly modern poet
makes against his success as a wholly acceptable translator
of Cavalcanti, the heir of the Troubadours, the scholastic.
Yet the _Daily News_, in criticising "Canzoni," had remarked
that Mr. Pound
seems to us rather a scholar than a poet, and we should like
to see him giving his unusual talent more to direct
translation from the Provencal.
and Mr. J. C. Squire (now the literary editor of the _New
Statesman_), in an appreciative review in the _New Age_, had
counselled the poet that he would
gain and not lose if he could forget all about the poets of
Dante's day, their roses and their flames, their gold and
their falcons, and their literary amorousness, and walk out
of the library into the fresh air.
In "Ripostes" there are traces of a different idiom.
Superficially, the work may appear less important. The diction
is more restrained, the flights shorter, the dexterity of
technique is less arresting. By romantic readers the book would
be considered less "passionate." But there is a much more solid
substratum to this book; there is more thought; greater depth,
if less agitation on the surface. The effect of London is
apparent; the author has become a critic of men, surveying them
from a consistent and developed point of view; he is more
formidable and disconcerting; in short, much more mature.
That he abandons nothing of his technical skill is evident from
the translation from the Anglo-Saxon, the "Seafarer." It is
not a slight achievement to have brought to life alliterative
verse: perhaps the "Seafarer" is the only successful piece of
alliterative verse ever written in modern English; alliterative
verse which is not merely a clever tour de force, but which
suggests the possibility of a new development of this form. Mr.
Richard Aldington (whose own accomplishments as a writer of vers
libre qualify him to speak) called the poem "unsurpassed and
unsurpassable," and a writer in the _New Age_ (a literary organ
which has always been strongly opposed to metrical innovations)
called it "one of the finest literary works of art produced in
England during the last ten years." And the rough, stern beauty
of the Anglo-Saxon, we may remark, is at the opposite pole from
that of the Provencal and Italian poets to whom Pound had
previously devoted his attention.
May I for my own self song's truth reckon,
Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days
Hardship endured oft.
But we can notice in "Ripostes" other evidences than of
versatility only; certain poems show Mr. Pound turning to more
modern subjects, as in the "Portrait d'une femme," or the
mordant epigram, "An Object." Many readers are apt to confuse
the maturing of personality with desiccation of the emotions.
There is no desiccation in "Ripostes." This should be evident to
anyone who reads carefully such a poem as "A Girl." We quote it
entire without comment.
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast--
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child--_so_ high--you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
"The Return" is an important study in verse which is really
quantitative. We quote only a few lines:
See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
Wavering!
"Ripostes" belongs to the period when Mr. Pound was being
attacked because of his propaganda. He became known as the
inventor of "Imagism," and later, as the "High Priest of
Vorticism." As a matter of fact, the actual "propaganda" of Mr.
Pound has been very small in quantity. The impression which his
personality made, however, is suggested by the following note in
"_Punch_," which is always a pretty reliable barometer of the
English middle-class Grin:
Mr. Welkin Mark (exactly opposite Long Jane's) begs to
announce that he has secured for the English market the
palpitating works of the new Montana (U.S.A.) poet, Mr.
Ezekiel Ton, who is the most remarkable thing in poetry
since Robert Browning. Mr. Ton, who has left America to
reside for a while in London and impress his personality on
English editors, publishers and readers, is by far the
newest poet going, whatever other advertisements may say. He
has succeeded, where all others have failed, in evolving a
blend of the imagery of the unfettered West, the vocabulary
of Wardour Street, and the sinister abandon of Borgiac
Italy.
In 1913, someone writing to the New York _Nation_ from the
University of Illinois, illustrates the American, more serious,
disapproval. This writer begins by expressing his objections to
the "principle of Futurism." (Pound has perhaps done more than
anyone to keep Futurism out of England. His antagonism to this
movement was the first which was not due merely to unintelligent
dislike for anything new, and was due to his perception that
Futurism was incompatible with any principles of form. In his
own words, Futurism is "accelerated impressionism.") The writer
in the _Nation_ then goes on to analyze the modern "hypertrophy
of romanticism" into
The exaggeration of the importance of a personal emotion.
The abandonment of all standards of form.
The suppression of all evidence that a particular composition
is animated by any directing intelligence.
As for the first point, here are Mr. Pound's words in answer to
the question, "do you agree that the great poet is never
emotional?"
Yes, absolutely; if by emotion is meant that he is at the
mercy of every passing mood.... The only kind of emotion
worthy of a poet is the inspirational emotion which
energises and strengthens, and which is very remote from the
everyday emotion of sloppiness and sentiment....
And as for the platform of Imagism, here are a few of Pound's
"Don'ts for Imagists":
Pay no attention to the criticisms of men who have never
themselves written a notable work.
Use no superfluous word and no adjective which does not
reveal something.
Go in fear of abstractions. Don't retail in mediocre verse
what has already been done in good prose.
Don't imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler than the
art of music or that you can please the expert before you
have spent at least as much effort on the art of verse as
the average piano teacher spends on the art of music.
Be influenced by as many great artists as you can, but have
the decency either to acknowledge the debt outright or try
to conceal it.
Consider the definiteness of Dante's presentation as
compared with Milton's. Read as much of Wordsworth as does
not seem to be unutterably dull.
If you want the gist of the matter go to Sappho, Catullus,
Villon when he is in the vein, Gautier when he is not too
frigid, or if yon have not the tongues seek out the
leisurely Chaucer.
Good prose will do you no harm. There is good discipline to
be had by trying to write it. Translation is also good
training.
The emphasis here is certainly on discipline and form. The
Chicago _Tribune_ recognized this as "sound sense," adding:
If this is Imagism ... we are for establishing Imagism by
constitutional amendment and imprisoning without recourse to
ink or paper all "literary" ladies or gents who break any of
these canons.
But other reviewers were less approving. While the writer in the
_Nation_, quoted above, dreads the anarchy impending, Mr.
William Archer was terrified at the prospect of hieratic
formalisation. Mr. Archer believes in the simple untaught muse:
Mr. Pound's commandments tend too much to make of poetry a
learned, self-conscious craft, to be cultivated by a guild
of adepts, from whose austere laboratories spontaneity and
simplicity are excluded.... A great deal of the best poetry
in the world has very little technical study behind it....
There are scores and hundreds of people in England who could
write this simple metre (i.e. of "A Shropshire Lad")
successfully.
To be hanged for a cat and drowned for a rat is, perhaps,
sufficient exculpation.
Probably Mr. Pound has won odium not so much by his theories as
by his unstinted praise of certain contemporary authors whose
work he has liked. Such expressions of approval are usually
taken as a grievance--much more so than any personal abuse,
which is comparatively a compliment--by the writers who escape
his mention. He does not say "A., B., and C. are bad poets or
novelists," but when he says "The work of X., Y., and Z. is in
such and such respects the most important work in verse (or
prose) since so and so," then A., B., and C. are aggrieved.
Also, Pound has frequently expressed disapproval of Milton and
Wordsworth.
After "Ripostes," Mr. Pound's idiom has advanced still farther.
Inasmuch as "Cathay," the volume of translations from the
Chinese, appeared prior to "Lustra," it is sometimes thought
that his newer idiom is due to the Chinese influence. This is
almost the reverse of the truth. The late Ernest Fenollosa left
a quantity of manuscripts, including a great number of rough
translations (literally exact) from the Chinese. After certain
poems subsequently incorporated in "Lustra" had appeared in
"Poetry," Mrs. Fenollosa recognized that in Pound the Chinese
manuscripts would find the interpreter whom her husband would
have wished; she accordingly forwarded the papers for him to do
as he liked with. It is thus due to Mrs. Fenollosa's acumen that
we have "Cathay"; it is not as a consequence of "Cathay" that we
have "Lustra." This fact must be borne in mind.
Poems afterward embodied in "Lustra" appeared in "Poetry," in
April, 1913, under the title of "Contemporanea." They included
among others "Tenzone," "The Condolence," "The Garret,"
"Salutation the Second," and "Dance Figure."
There are influences, but deviously. It is rather a gradual
development of experience into which literary experiences have
entered. These have not brought the bondage of temporary
enthusiasms, but have liberated the poet from his former
restricted sphere. There is Catullus and Martial, Gautier,
Laforgue and Tristan Corbiere. Whitman is certainly not an
influence; there is not a trace of him anywhere; Whitman and Mr.
Pound are antipodean to each other. Of "Contemporanea" the
_Chicago Evening Post_ discriminatingly observed:
Your poems in the April _Poetry_ are so mockingly, so
delicately, so unblushingly beautiful that you seem to have
brought back into the world a grace which (probably) never
existed, but which we discover by an imaginative process in
Horace and Catullus.
It was a true insight to ally Pound to the Latin, not to the
Greek poets.
Certain of the poems in "Lustra" have offended admirers of the
verse of the "Personae" period. When a poet alters or develops,
many of his admirers are sure to drop off. Any poet, if he is to
survive as a writer beyond his twenty-fifth year, must alter; he
must seek new literary influences; he will have different
emotions to express. This is disconcerting to that public which
likes a poet to spin his whole work out of the feelings of his
youth; which likes to be able to open a new volume of his poems
with the assurance that they will be able to approach it exactly
as they approached the preceding. They do not like that constant
readjustment which the following of Mr. Pound's work demands.
Thus has "Lustra" been a disappointment to some; though it
manifests no falling off in technique, and no impoverishment
of feeling. Some of the poems (including several of the
"Contemporanea") are a more direct statement of views than
Pound's verse had ever given before. Of these poems, M. Jean de
Bosschere writes:
Everywhere his poems incite man to exist, to profess a
becoming egotism, without which there can be no real
altruism.
I beseech you enter your life.
I beseech you learn to say "I"
When I question you.
For you are no part, but a whole;
No portion, but a being.
... One must be capable of reacting to stimuli for a moment,
as a real, live person, even in face of as much of one's own
powers as are arrayed against one;... The virile complaint,
the revolt of the poet, all which shows his emotion,--that
is poetry.
Speak against unconscious oppression,
Speak against the tyranny of the unimaginative,
Speak against bonds.
Be against all forms of oppression,
Go out and defy opinion.
This is the old cry of the poet, but more precise, as an
expression of frank disgust:
Go to the adolescent who are smothered in family.
O, how hideous it is
To see three generations of one house gathered together!
It is like an old tree without shoots,
And with some branches rotted and falling.
Each poem holds out these cries of revolt or disgust, but
they are the result of his still hoping and feeling:
Let us take arms against this sea of stupidities. Pound ...
has experience of the folly of the Philistines who read his
verse. Real pain is born of this stupid interpretation, and
one does not realize how deep it is unless one can feel,
through the ejaculations and the laughter, what has caused
these wounds, which are made deeper by what he knows, and
what he has lost....
The tone, which is at once jocund and keen, is one of
Pound's qualities. Ovid, Catullus--he does not disown them.
He only uses these accents for his familiars; with the
others he is on the edge of paradox, pamphleteering, indeed
of abuse....
This is the proper approach to the poems at the beginning of
"Lustra," and to the short epigrams, which some readers find
"pointless," or certainly "not poetry." They should read, then,
the "Dance Figure," or "Near Perigord," and remember that all
these poems come out of the same man.
Thine arms are as a young sapling under the bark;
Thy face as a river with lights.
White as an almond are thy shoulders;
As new almonds stripped from the husk.
Or the ending of "Near Perigord":
Bewildering spring, and by the Auvezere
Poppies and day's-eyes in the green email
Rose over us; and we knew all that stream,
And our two horses had traced out the valleys;
Knew the low flooded lands squared out with poplars,
In the young days when the deep sky befriended.
And great wings beat above us in the twilight,
And the great wheels in heaven
Bore us together ... surging ... and apart ...
Believing we should meet with lips and hands ...
There shut up in his castle, Tairiran's,
She who had nor ears nor tongue save in her hands,
Gone, ah, gone--untouched, unreachable!
She who could never live save through one person,
She who could never speak save to one person,
And all the rest of her a shifting change,
A broken bundle of mirrors...!
Then turn at once to "To a Friend Writing on Cabaret Dancers."
It is easy to say that the language of "Cathay" is due to the
Chinese. If one looks carefully at (1) Pound's other verse, (2)
other people's translations from the Chinese (e.g., Giles's), it
is evident that this is not the case. The language was ready for
the Chinese poetry. Compare, for instance, a passage from
"Provincia Deserta":
I have walked
into Perigord
I have seen the torch-flames, high-leaping,
Painting the front of that church,--
And, under the dark, whirling laughter,
I have looked back over the stream
and seen the high building,
Seen the long minarets, the white shafts.
I have gone in Ribeyrac,
and in Sarlat.
I have climbed rickety stairs, heard talk of Croy,
Walked over En Bertran's old layout,
Have seen Narbonne, and Cahors and Chalus,
Have seen Excideuil, carefully fashioned.
with a passage from "The River Song":
He goes out to Hori, to look at the wing-flapping storks,
He returns by way of Sei rock, to hear the new nightingales,
For the gardens at Jo-run are full of new nightingales,
Their sound is mixed in this flute,
Their voice is in the twelve pipes here.
It matters very little how much is due to Rihaku and how much to
Pound. Mr. Ford Madox Hueffer has observed: "If these are
original verses, then Mr. Pound is the greatest poet of this
day." He goes on to say:
The poems in "Cathay" are things of a supreme beauty. What
poetry should be, that they are. And if a new breath of
imagery and handling can do anything for our poetry, that
new breath these poems bring....
Poetry consists in so rendering concrete objects that the
emotions produced by the objects shall arise in the
reader....
Where have you better rendered, or more permanently
beautiful a rendering of, the feelings of one of those
lonely watchers, in the outposts of progress, whether it be
Ovid in Hyrcania, a Roman sentinel upon the great wall of
this country, or merely ourselves, in the lonely recesses of
our minds, than the "Lament of the Frontier Guard"?...
Beauty is a very valuable thing; perhaps it is the most
valuable thing in life; but the power to express emotion so
that it shall communicate itself intact and exactly is
almost more valuable. Of both these qualities Mr. Pound's
book is very full. Therefore, I think we may say that this
is much the best work he has done, for, however closely he
may have followed his originals--and of that most of us have
no means of judging--there is certainly a good deal of Mr.
Pound in this little volume.
"Cathay" and "Lustra" were followed by the translations of Noh
plays. The Noh are not so important as the Chinese poems
(certainly not so important for English); the attitude is less
unusual to us; the work is not so solid, so firm. "Cathay" will,
I believe, rank with the "Sea-Farer" in the future among Mr.
Pound's original work; the Noh will rank among his translations.
It is rather a dessert after "Cathay." There are, however,
passages which, as Pound has handled them, are different both
from the Chinese and from anything existent in English. There
is, for example, the fine speech of the old Kagekiyo, as he
thinks of his youthful valour:
He thought, how easy this killing. He rushed with his
spearshaft gripped under his arm. He cried out, "I am
Kagekiyo of the Heike." He rushed on to take them. He
pierced through the helmet vizards of Miyanoya. Miyanoya
fled twice, and again; and Kagekiyo cried: "You shall not
escape me!" He leaped and wrenched off his helmet. "Eya!"
The vizard broke and remained in his hand, and Miyanoya
still fled afar, and afar, and he looked back crying in
terror, "How terrible, how heavy your arm!" And Kagekiyo
called at him, "How tough the shaft of your neck is!" And
they both laughed out over the battle, and went off each his
own way.
The "Times Literary Supplement" spoke of Mr. Pound's "mastery of
beautiful diction" and his "cunningly rhythmically prose," in
its review of the "Noh."
Even since "Lustra," Mr. Pound has moved again. This move is to
the epic, of which three cantos appear in the American "Lustra"
(they have already appeared in "Poetry"--Miss Monroe deserves
great honour for her courage in printing an epic poem in this
twentieth century--but the version in "Lustra" is revised and is
improved by revision). We will leave it as a test: when anyone
has studied Mr. Pound's poems in _chronological_ order, and has
mastered "Lustra" and "Cathay," he is prepared for the Cantos--
but not till then. If the reader then fails to like them, he has
probably omitted some step in his progress, and had better go
back and retrace the journey.
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF
BOOKS AND PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY OF
NOTABLE CRITICAL ARTICLES
BY EZRA POUND
POEMS
A LUME SPENTO (100 copies). Antonelli, Venice, June, 1908.
A QUINZAINE FOR THIS YULE.
First 100 printed by Pollock, London, December, 1908.
Second 100 published under Elkin Mathews' imprint, London,
December, 1908.
PERSONAE. Mathews, London, Spring, 1909.
EXULTATIONS. Mathews, London, Autumn, 1909.
PROSE
THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE. Dent, London, 1910.
POEMS
PROVENCA (a _select_ion of poems from "Personae" and
"Exultations" with new poems). Small Maynard, Boston, 1910.
CANZONI. Mathews, London, 1911.
THE SONNETS AND BALLATE OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI (translated).
Small Maynard, Boston, 1912.
A cheaper edition of the same, Swift and Co., London, 1912.
The bulk of this edition destroyed by fire.
RIPOSTES. Swift, London, 1912.
(_Note_.--This book contains the first announcement of
Imagism, in the foreword to the poems of T. E. Hulme.)
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
"A FEW DON'TS BY AN IMAGISTE," in "Poetry," for March, 1913.
"CONTEMPORANIA" (poems), in "Poetry," April, 1913.
POEMS
PERSONAE, EXULTATIONS, CANZONI, RIPOSTES, published in two
volumes. Mathews, London, 1913.
FIRST OF THE NOTES ON JAMES JOYCE, "Egoist," January, 1914.
FIRST OF THE ARTICLES CONCERNING GAUDIER-BRZESKA, "Egoist,"
February, 1914.
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
"DES IMAGISTES," poems by several authors _select_ed by Ezra
Pound, published as a number of "The Glebe," in New York.
February, 1914.
Alfred Kreymborg was at this time editor of "The Glebe." The
first arrangements for the anthology were made through the
kind offices of John Cournos during the winter of 1912-13.
The English edition of this anthology published by The Poetry
Book Shop. London, 1914.
ARTICLE ON WYNDHAM LEWIS, "Egoist," June 15, 1914.
CONTRIBUTIONS TO FIRST NUMBER OF "Blast," June 20, 1914.
"VORTICISM," an article in "The Fortnightly Review," September,
1914.
"GAUDIER-BRZESKA," an article in "The New Age," February 4,
1915.
CONTRIBUTIONS to second number of "Blast," 1915.
POEMS
CATHAY. Mathews, London, April, 1915. (Translations from the
Chinese from the notes of Ernest Fenollosa.)
OTHER PUBLICATIONS
THE CATHOLIC ANTHOLOGY, edited by Ezra Pound. Mathews, London,
December, 1915.
GAUDIER-BRZESKA, a memoir. John Lane, London and New York, 1916.
LUSTRA (poems) public edition, pp. 116. Mathews, London, 1916.
200 copies privately printed and numbered, pp. 124.
CERTAIN NOBLE PLAYS OF JAPAN. Cuala Press, Dundrum, Ireland,
1916. Translated by Ernest Fenollosa and Ezra Pound, with an
introduction by William Butler Yeats.
NOH, or Accomplishment. A study of the Classical Stage of
Japan, including translations of fifteen plays, by Ernest
Fenollosa and Ezra Pound. Macmillan, London, 1917. Knopf, New
York, 1917.
PASSAGES FROM THE LETTERS OF JOHN BUTLER YEATS, _select_ed by Ezra
Pound, with brief editorial note. Cuala Press, 1917.
LUSTRA, with Earlier Poems, Knopf, New York, 1917. (This
collection of Mr. Pound's poems contains all that he now
thinks fit to republish.)
There is also a privately-printed edition of fifty copies,
with a reproduction of a drawing of Ezra Pound by Henri
Gaudier-Brzeska (New York, 1917).
PAVANNES and DIVISIONS (Prose), in preparation. Knopf,
New York.
合同长久以来我憎恨你。
我走向你，一个顽固父亲的孩子
已经长大成人了；
现在我的年龄已足够交朋友。
是你砍例了新的丛林，
现在是雕刻的时候了。
我们有着共同的树液和树根一—
让我们之间进行交易。
为《加利利的卡纳的婚礼》而作
呵，黑眼珠的
我梦想的妇人，
穿着象牙舞鞋
在那些舞蹈的人们中，
没有人像你舞步如飞。
我没有在帐篷中，
在破碎的黑暗中发现你。
我没有在井边，
在那些头顶水罐的妇女中发现你。
你的手臂像树皮下嫩绿的树苗；
你的面孔像闪光的河流。
你的肩白得像杏仁；
像刚剥掉壳的杏仁。
他们没有让太监护卫你；
没有用铜栅栏护卫你。
在你憩息的地方放着镀金的绿宝石和银子。
一件黄袍，用金丝织成图案，披在你身上，
呵，纳塔——伊卡奈，“河畔之树”。
像流经苍苔间的潺潺溪流，你的手按在我身上；
你的手指是寒冷的溪流。
你的女伴们白得像卵石
她们围绕着你奏乐。
在那些舞蹈的人们中，
没有人像你舞步如飞。
树长进我的手心，
树叶升上我的手臂，
树在我的前胸
朝下长，
树枝象手臂从我身上长出。
你是树，
你是青苔，
你是轻风吹拂的紫罗兰，
你是个孩子——这么高，
这一切，世人都看作愚行。
树叶升上我的手臂，
树在我的前胸
朝下长，
树枝象手臂从我身上长出。
你是树，
你是青苔，
你是轻风吹拂的紫罗兰，
你是个孩子——这么高，
这一切，世人都看作愚行。
整整三年，与他的时代脱了节，
他努力恢复那死去了的
诗的艺术；去维持“雄浑”
本来的意义。一开始就错了的——
不，不是，但要知道他生在
一个半野蛮的国家，落后有余；
总坚决地想要从橡树上拧出百合；
做攻城勇士；装作鱼铒的鳟鱼；
“神令众人在特洛伊城受苦”
没有堵塞的耳朵听见那歌声；
因此，那一年，仅给礁石留下少许余地，
海洋汹涌的浪涛把他载承。
他真正的爱妻是福楼拜，
他垂钓在顽固的岛屿旁边；
宁欣赏女妖赛西的秀发
不愿遵从日晷上的箴言。
不受“世事进展”的影响，
他从人们的记忆中消失，不过才
三十多岁的年纪；这个例子
不会给缪斯的冠冕增添一分光彩。
有如苍白湿润的铃兰
凉凉的花瓣
拂晓时她躺在我身边。
凉凉的花瓣
拂晓时她躺在我身边。
我的爱人是深深藏在
水底的火焰。
－我的爱人是欢乐的亲切的
我的爱人象水底的火焰
难寻踪影。
风的手指
给她带去
脆弱的
快速的问候。
我的爱人是欢乐的
亲切的
难于
相逢
象水底的火焰
难于相逢。
白色的罂粟花，沉重地负载着梦，
我渴望着它们的唇瓣
当我瞧见它们隐匿
出没在阴影之中
－它们是白色的－
如果有人用她眼中古老的渴望瞧我，
我将如何回答她的眼色？
我已经追随森林中的白人。
是的，这是一次长的追寻
这是一次焦渴，当我看到它们
在挺立的树丛中消逝，忽隐忽现。
呵，当爱情在心中熄灭，
人们何等悲痛。
去吧，天生无声的书，
告诉她唱一次罗斯*的歌给我听
若要是你有歌
就象你有知识一样
你就能消除
甚至我的错误．那沉重的包袱，
并且给她的光辉带来长寿
告诉她，她将珍贵宝物
投入空中，
一切都没有意义，只有她的恩情
使此时获得生命
我将令它们活得
象玫瑰，在魔术样的琥珀中
红色泛出橙黄．一切
成为一种物质，一种颜色
藐视着时间
告诉她，她
唇边带着歌声走开
但没有唱出声，也不知道
作者是谁，别的嘴唇
可能和她的一样美丽
可能在新时期，夺取了她的崇拜者们
当我们两人的骨灰，和华洛**的
一起洒下，一层层埋在无声无息中
直到变迁摧毁了一切
只有美丽幸存。
【注释】 *亨利·罗斯（1598-1662），英国作曲家。
**爱德芒·华洛（1606-1687），英国诗人，曾写《去吧，可爱的玫瑰》。这首诗披庞德用作《使者》的模式。
赞七湖，有佚名诗曰：
雨，空江，孤旅，
冻云中现一团火，黄昏骤雨
船篷下一盏孤灯。
芦苇沉沉，弯弯，
竹林簌簌如泣。
秋月；沿湖山耸
浓弊锭
暮似云帘，
笼涟漪；而穿帘
是月桂尖长的枝刺，
芦苇丛荡一支寒曲。
山后佛寺的钟声
随风飘来。
四月逝帆十月归，
船溶入银波；缓缓；
太阳独耀江上。
一竿酒旗揽斜阳
斜光中几缕炊烟依稀
忽有雪飞江上
大地玉裹
扁舟似灯笼摇荡，
流水凝寒。而在山阴
黎民悠悠自得
大雁猝降沙洲，
云拢聚窗口
水渺渺；雁与秋并行，
渔火上空一片鸦噪，
光移北天际；
有数童掷石捕虾。
1700年康熙巡歇山湖畔，
光移南天际。
国屯富亦衰？
这会遗臭万年；会为鬼怪。
大运河虽为昏帝享乐而掘，
可它仍流至通县。
卿云烂兮
纠缦缦兮
日月光华
旦复旦兮
日出而作
日入而息
掘井而饮
耕田而食
帝力于我何有哉？
第四度，安宁的空间。
其威制伏野兽。
白绢扇啊，
纯洁如草上霜，
你也被搁置一边。
纯洁如草上霜，
你也被搁置一边。