“In the green deep of an eye… (XCI).”
— Pound, from the Cantos
Into the coracle I bundle my tormented
night-sweated revelations, memorized
mea-culpas of dreamed delirium,
and row, row, row my fat arsed self
across Acheron — the wind’s unsailable.
Waveless glass, though more like oil,
the bastarded vessel, bent in the making —
never true — slogs and dies, slogs anew.
What seafaring lay makes the task
more a bliss? “I shall never this way
travel again,” comes to mind. Is it?
Is it a veritable song, or more fevered
my brain’s fantasy? It signifies not if…
if the laborer throws unction under
the tongue! The craft is heavy laden,
and I am ready to drop them over
into the swirling orb of the green deep.
* * *
One never knows what will come from gazing into the Pound Cantos.