Pound, Browning, and me?

It has been a great month reading poetry. I have read many of the greats, and right now I’m reading selected works from two of the Greatest. Ezra Pound is exceptionally interesting (as he should be), but it is way over my head. Robert Browning on the other hand seems to sing to me. I’ll be giving examples of each; therefore covieing some of what I have been experiencing this month.

Ezra Pound, an American who spent some serious time in Europe, mainly London, and was greatly influenced by some of his contemporaries, but more so, influnced many more himself. A few of whom he influenced was H. D. (Hilda Doolittle), and William Carlos Williams. I’ve read some William Carlos Williams, but very little H.D.

The book that I selected to buy, concerning the poetry of Ezra Pound, is Selected Poems of Ezra Pound (in its fourteenth printing by A New Directions Publishing). The first poem that Mr. Pound chose to place in his book was CINO Italian Campagna 1309, the open road. Here it is:

CINOItalian Campagna 1309, the open road

Bah! I have sung women in three cities,
But it is all the same;
And I will sing of the sun.

Lips, words, and you snare them,
Dreams, words, and they are as jewels,
Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement:
And they are not;
Having become the souls of song.

Eyes, dreams, lips and the night goes.
Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for wind-runeing
They dream us-toward and
Sighing, say, “Would Cino,
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter,
Cino, of the dare, the jibe.
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light,
Would Cino of the Luth were here!”

Once, twice, a year-
Vaguely thus word they:
“Cino?” “Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi
The singer is’t you mean?”

“Ah yes, passed once our way,
A saucy fellow, but …
(oh they are all one these vagabonds),
Peste! ‘tis his own songs?
But you, My Lord, how with your city?”

But you “My Lord,” God’s pity!
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you
Were Lack-land Cino, e’en as I am,
O Sinistro.

I have sung women in thee cities.
But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.

“ ‘Poll Phoibee, old tin pan, you
Glory to Zeus’ aegis-day,
Shield o’ steel-blue, th’ heaven o’er us
Hath for boss thy luster gay!

‘Pollo Phoibee, to our way-fare
Make thy laugh our wander-lied;
Bid thy ‘fulgence bear away care.
Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet!

Seeking e’er the new-laid rast-way
To the gardens of the sun …
. . . . . .
I have sung women in three cities
But it is all one.

I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.”

This poem is not included under my copyright!


Needless to say, spell check had a field day with that one. So I look at this poem and I think to myself, “Huh?” I mean, I really don’t get it. I thought that even by writing it down I might get some insight into it. As much as my poetry might say regarding the pedestal that the educated poet stands on, it is times like these that that I envy them. I understand that this is talking about an event, but without the knowledge of Italian history, I am clueless. Mr. Pound has quite a few poems in this collection that I just can’t understand.

This is not anything new. I’ve been accused of having the same thing happen to my poetry as well. Here is something I wrote in 2001, while recovering from the great tragic challenge of 2000:

Waiting Room for the Deceived

Just a slight lift
Caught unaware
Only arrival on video
Departure blacked out
Charcoal dust basting
The ceiling sky
Pooling on no granulated tile
Exchanging cordialities with
The black horizon
Waiting with similar discontent
Masked reflection disguising
No true heart
Time in a pocket lost in transit
Honesty and truth waiting for
Their introduction
The faces seen here are pylons of
Names and lives misdirected
Landmark storms of memories mislead
The switch was out of reach
GE is of no avail
Edison walks here too
Tuxedoed in futility
Waiting, waiting for the
Bright exposure of purity
Unbeknownst
Waiting…


I had a fellow poet tell me that she completely understood this poem, and could relate, and said that she has had known many people like that. I had no idea what she was talking about. This poem was a psychological release that was much needed due to the lack of therapy. It was a description of the hallucinogenic world I lived in during my 17 week induced coma, induced by morphine and Adivan. She obviously was reading something into it. But that is okay by me! But with CINO, I can’t even read anything into it (not that I’m anywhere close to Ezra Pound, although my ego would like to say so, obviously haven’t read much Pound.)

But there is some Pound that I can read and like. The Seafarer and The Return are two such examples. I must admit that this collection of selected poems is my first real exposure to Pound; other than what I have forgotten from my freshman year in college. My first impression is one that I am confident that Mr. Pound wanted me to have, due to the fact that he picked this particular poem himself. Mr. Pound was probably not writing for me as an audience either. I can only assume that he may have been writing for an Italian audience. It is hard to say. I know that has writ his own biography in the first page of this collection, and it makes apologetics as to why he spent time in Italy during WWII. Basically he was defending the American Constitution on Italian radio; interesting.

The other collection of poetry that I am reading at this time is Robert Browning, Selected Works (edited by Johanna Brownwell, published by Castle Books). First off, I’d like to ad that this is the hard bound version of this book, and I got a really GREAT price on it at Empire Books & News, 30 Pullman Square, Hunting, WV 25701. I like this book store, and hope to one day own one just like it in our own small town here in Kentucky.

But I digress. I have just started reading this collection several days ago, and am enjoying it. I have read very much of his wife’s (Elizabeth Barrett Browning) work, and love what she has to say, and her poetic voice. But, with him, I have read very little. He writes much different than his wife, and I don’t know why I should expect it to be different. Since I have started reading Mr. Browning, I have developed a quick intellectual crush.

Here is a poem that I like from Robert Browning:

The Boy and The Angel

MORNING, evening, noon and night,
“Praise God!; sang Theocrite

Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he laboured, long and well;
O’er his work the boy’s curls fell.

But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, “Praise God!”

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, “Well done’
I doubt not thou are heard, my son:

As well as if thy voice to-day
Were praising God, the Pope’s great way.

The Ester Day, the Pope at Rome
Praises God from Peter’s dome.”

Said Theocrite, “Would God that I
Might praise him, that great way, and die!”

Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures always,
A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, “Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight.”

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow’s birth,
Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,
Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew:
The man put off the stripling’s hue:

The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:

And ever o’er the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God’s will; to him all one
If on earth or in the sun.)

God said, “A praise is in mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear:

So sing old worlds, and so
New worlds that from mhy footstool go.

Clearer loves sound other way:
I miss my little human praise.”

Then forth sprang Gabriel’s wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

‘T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter’s dome.

In the tiring-room close by
The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,

Since when a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And rising from the sickness drear
He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.

“I bore thee from thy craftsman’s cell
And set thee here: I did not well.

Vainly I left my angel-sphere,
Vain was thy dream of many a year.

Thy voice’s praise seemed weak; it dropped –
Creation’s chorus stopped!

Go back to praise again
The early way, while I remain.

“With that weak voice of our disdain,
Take up creation’s pausing strain.

Back to the cell and poor employ:
Resume the craftsman and the boy!”

Theocrite grew old at home;
A new Pope dwelt in Peter’s dome.

One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.

This poem is not included under my copyright!


This poem not only spiritually inspires me (regardless of the fact that I’m not Catholic), it is easy for me to grip onto and feel in my soul. The concept of loosing that original love for God as we get older, and then getting back to that, it inspires my own relationship with God. I think back of my younger years as a Christian and how zealous I was for Prayer and bible study.

This poem tells a great story. It conveys a one man’s journey in the most important aspect of life, God. I don’t know all the facts about Angelic possession, but it still makes for a great poem. It is powerful, and explanative. Almost anybody can read it and understand what it is saying.

Now, that being said, there are also some Robert Browning poems that make me shake my head in deep question; like Andrea Del Sarto. It looses me a little.

I am enjoying my own venture of reading and discovering poetry. Although I’m in my late thirties, I still feel like a student. One of my going theories in poetry in general, is that in order to deeply discover you, is to discover the masters. It opens up a whole new universe of potential. In order to be great, you must surround yourself in greatness. As I personally read, and read, and read, I continue to grow.

I am at the point in my journey that I read my poetry of five years ago, and see my growth. I also see subtle changes in my passion. I see how my emotional, mental, an physical modifying pharmaceuticals have altered some of my passion. But that is a curse that I have to live with. It’s a life choice and it’s one that I choose to make. I’m sure that one day I will return to the “crazy” days, but not soon, Lord willing.

I look forward to the rest of the month as I expose myself further to the greats. What I have left is T. S. Elliot, D. H. Lawrence, Joyce, and Basho. My month is almost up, so my month of poetry reading will have to continue another month. It will probably be April (National Poetry Month according to the American Academy of Poetry) before that happens. I’m craving non-fiction, so I’m sure I’ll find some soon.