Αφιέρωμα στον Έζρα Πάουντ

Portrait d' une Femme

Your mind and you are our Sargasso Sea,
London has swept about you this score years
And bright ships left you this or that in fee:
Ideas, old gossip, oddments of all things,
Strange spars of knowledge and dimmed wares of price.
Great minds have sought you- lacking someone else.
You have been second always. Tragical?
No. You preferred it to the usual thing:
One dull man, dulling and uxorious,
One average mind- with one thought less, each year.
Oh, you are patient, I have seen you sit
Hours, where something might have floated up.
And now you pay one. Yes, you richly pay.
You are a person of some interest, one comes to you
And takes strange gain away:
Trophies fished up; some curious suggestion;
Fact that leads nowhere; and a tale for two,
Pregnant with mandrakes, or with something else
That might prove useful and yet never proves,
That never fits a corner or shows use,
Or finds its hour upon the loom of days:
The tarnished, gaudy, wonderful old work;
Idols and ambergris and rare inlays,
These are your riches, your great store; and yet
For all this sea-hoard of deciduous things,
Strange woods half sodden, and new brighter stuff:
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,
Nothing that's quite your own.
Yet this is you.

 

Απάντηση: Αφιέρωμα στον Έζρα Πάουντ

CANTO LXXIII
Cavalcanti
Republican Dispatches


And then I slept
And, waking in the wasted air,
Saw and heard thus –
He whom I saw seemed like a cavalier,
And I heard this:
“Watching my people die
Does not satisfy
even if they broke their word,
Even if they deserve
to be governed by King Turd.
Roosevelt, Churchill and Eden
bastards to a man,
Liar, Jew and glutton
have squeezed the people dry
like sheep!
At Sarzana I lay still,
waiting for the call
from sleep
I am Guido, whom you loved
as a spirit from above
And for the burning-glass of my mind's reason.
I knew the cleansing fire
Of Venus's third sphere
already as I rode
Cavalcanti, the cavalier
(Not a mere follower)
through the squabbling streets
Of our città dolente
(Firenze)
which breeds
Not men, but a vain and touchy
race of slaves!

Passing through Arimino
I met a gallant soul
Singing as though her heart would break
with joy!
A young contadinella
– Big-boned girl, but bella –
with a German on each arm;
And she sang,
she sang of love
without thought of
heaven above.
She had led some Canadians
into a field of mines
Where the Tempio of Ixotta
used to stand.
They were coming in fours and fives
– I felt a wave of passion
steal over me again
as if I were still alive.
That's the way girls are
in the Romagna.
The Canadians had come
to 'mop up' German scum,
To pull down the remains
of Rimini;
They stopped to ask the way
to the Via Emilia
of a girl,
a poor young girl
Raped by the first of that canaille.
– Be'! Bene! soldiers,
follow me.
Let's all go together
to Via Emilia! –
She showed them – where to go.
Her brother had dug the holes
For that mine-field,
there beside the sea-side.
Towards the sea-side, she
(big-boned, but a beauty)
Led the boys.
Brave kid! A real cutie!
She played that prank
for love:
acing 'em all for poise!
Death-threats arrived too late,
Defying Fate
she died –
That big-boned girl –
with pride,
hitting the target straight!
To hell with the enemy!
Twenty of them lay dead
The girl dead, too
in the midst of that canaille.
Everyone except the prisoners.
A real hard-case
that kid
Singing, singing
with joy
Along the road that leads
beside the sea.
Gloria della patria!
Gloria! the glory
Of dying for one's land
in the Romagna!
The dead are not all dead,
Myself I have returned
from the third sphere
to see Romagna,
To see the North reborn
among the mountains,
In this 'morte saison'
to see the home-land,
And yet – that girl ...
what girls,
what boys
wear black!”


Μεταφέρω εδώ (βλ. και νήμα Νίκος Δήμου) το 73ο, απροκάλυπτα φασιστικό Canto του μέγιστου ποιητή.
Δεν με ενδιαφέρει πού γεννήθηκε η συμπεθέρα του, ούτε ποιός πηδούσε τη μητέρα του.

 

Άρχισαν τα όργανα ήδη από το 2ο post. Όπου να 'ναι θα πέσουν στο τραπέζι και άλλα ονόματα, όπως Χάιντεγκερ, Σελίν, ίσως ακόμα και Καραγάτσης ή Χατζιδάκις.
Ο Πάουντ δείχνει να είναι καμμένο χαρτί. Όλοι μιλάνε για τις πολιτικές του αντιλήψεις, αρκετοί μιλάνε για την τρέλα του, ελάχιστοι όμως μιλάνε για την ποιητική του.
Κρίμα για κάποιον who has tried to write paradise.

 

Χαίρομαι που αντιλαμβάνεστε. Ήταν απλό.

 

Εγώ θα ποστάρω ένα από τα αλήτικα ποιήματα του Ezra!

Μιας και ενδεχομένως κάποιοι να μην είναι αγγλομαθείς, το βρήκα στα ελληνικά και μάλιστα όχι γραπτό αλλά με απαγγελία.



Δεν τα σπαέι το ποίημα? Σίγουρα ναι!!!

 

dora educate us  

 

Απάντηση: Αφιέρωμα στον Έζρα Πάουντ

...."L'arte e per noi inseparabile dalla vita. Diventa arte-azione e come tale e sola capace di forza profetica e divinatrice "
Marinetti

(σε ελεύθερη δικιά μου)
" Η τεχνη ειναι για μας αχώριστη απο τη ζωή . Γίνεται τέχνη -δράση και σαν τετοια γίνεται δύναμη προφητική και θεοποιός "

Το αναφέρω μιας και είμαστε στον χώρο

 

Ο Pier Paolo Pasolini απαγγέλει Ε. Pound. Αγαπητοί σαδομαζό κτλ, πέρα από το Salo, υπάρχει το "Θεώρημα" και το "Μικρά και Μεγάλα Πουλιά" και πολλά άλλα αξιόλογα φιλμ.

 

Η Elizabeth Bishop έγραψε αυτό το ποίημα για τον Έζρα Πάουντ, όταν ήταν ακόμη στο Ψυχιατρείο:

Visits to St. Elizabeth's

This is the house of Bedlam.

This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

The is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newsapaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the starting sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round of flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

(Αφιερωμένο)

 

Κάποια αποσπάσματα από την απαγγελία του P.P. Pasolini

What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee.

The ant's a centaur in his dragon world.
Pull down thy vanity, it is not man
Made courage, or made order, or made grace, Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.
Learn of the green world what can be thy place
In scaled invention or true artistry,
Pull down thy vanity, Paquin pull down!
The green casque has outdone your elegance.

"Master thyself, then others shall thee beare" Pull down thy vanity
Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail,
A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,
Half black half white
Nor knowst'ou wing from tail
Pull down thy vanity How mean thy hates
Fostered in falsity, Pull down thy vanity,
Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,
Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.

But to have done instead of not doing This is not vanity
To have, with decency, knocked
That a Blunt should open To have gathered from the air a live tradition
or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame
this is not vanity. Here error is all in the not done,
all in the diffidence that faltered . . . Canto 81 Libretto,1945

 

Και την αφησαν και βγηκε?

 

Ο Πάουντ παιδί μου, ο Πάουντ. Αυτόν μπαγλαρώσανε, για να μην τον τουφεκίσουν για εσχάτη προδοσία. Άνοιξε λίγο το google σου. 

Μετά από αρκετά χρόνια μεσολάβησαν όλοι οι συγγραφείς και ποιητές που τον ξέρανε τι μελό ήταν και τον βγάλανε από το τρελάδικο.