“One scarlet flower is cast on the blanch-white stone.”
— Ezra Pound, Canto IV
The stain, the stain, a whispered —
no, a creatured thought that crawled
from the blanketed chambers.
Too easy to follow its rhythmic flow,
ignore
questions of source, of purity, of alloy,
of intent; to trip the meanders, wave
at others oxbowed, becalmed in static
utterance — atonal life along a silent shore.
But what then?
Paddle, portage, prospect the driven
stream of unconsciousness. Seek
golden answers to unexamined
life while the stain, the strain,
the whispered petals remain.
* * *
What comes of reading Pound!
