Into the coracle — a poem

Ezra Pound

“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.

The Crash Scene of My Brain Contemplating Modern Art and a Pound Canto In the Same Day — a poem

…and the lines and the lines
and the lines making squares
making waves naked waves
unmasked waves slippery
when wet the rivers wet
the streets wet the rain sifts
the rain sifts the drain slips
wet lines draining waves wet
drains lining drains wet waves
squares slipping slippery wet
runs together straight lines
together lines trees dripping
waves breaching their frames
echoed lines wave wetly drains
repeated lines wetly wave rain
squares wave as I drain —
and the lines and the lines
       …ah, the lines