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.

5 thoughts on “Into the coracle — a poem

  1. Charley, you have thrown the bilge overboard with this one and scooped a lot of out of the Cantos coracle – as hard to grasp as water but so satisfying to a thirsty imagination – “What seafaring lay makes the task
    more a bliss?” Indeed!
    p.s. I believe it is mea culpas – or that is what I have always owned up to

    Liked by 1 person

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