No Traveler Returns — a poem

…he spoke to me
neither wholly to me, nor to the next man
But a part of himself talked to himself….

— Ezra Pound, Canto LXXII


You won’t read this poem until I pass.
Certainly you won’t remember
as it floated past your eyes, dulled
by too many glanced pages, posts,
readings — “glance is the enemy of vision” —
my words flitted on your loaded
screen.  It came and went like shit
through a goose on the internet.
That’s a three-fer: idiom, cliche,
and simile.  Back to poetry and dying.
It will be my dust that sparkles,
my ashes that draw your attention.
Until then, I remain… yours truly
sans MFA, sans readers of note,
sans art.

* * *

So a couple poet friends and I have been mining Pound’s Cantos… you know, sparks of insanity to see what it causes our pens (figuratively speaking) to bleed.

4 thoughts on “No Traveler Returns — a poem

  1. Seems fitting considering how Merwin pinged all over the internet, was suddenly everyone’s favorite poet on the announcement of his passing. Like Oliver a short time back. This is great, Charley.

    Like

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