[identity profile] elenbarathi.livejournal.com
Song

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
and how the wind doth ramm,
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm,

Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

~by Ezra Pound
[identity profile] elenbarathi.livejournal.com

Song

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
and how the wind doth ramm,
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm,

Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

~by Ezra Pound

[identity profile] cantahar.livejournal.com
If on the tally-board of wasted days
They daily write me for proud idleness,
Let high Hell summons me, and I confess,
No overt act the preferred charge allays.

To-day I thought what boots it what I thought?
Poppies and gold! Why should I blurt it out?
Or hawk the magic of her name about
Deaf doors and dungeons where no truth is bought?

Who calls me idle? I have thought of her.
Who calls me idle? By God's truth I've seen
The arrowy sunlight in her golden snares.

Let him among you all stand summonser
Who hath done better things ! Let whoso hath been
With worthier works concerned, display his wares!
--Ezra Pound
[identity profile] veronica-milvus.livejournal.com

PHYLLIDULA

Phillidula is scrawny but amorous,
Thus have the gods awarded her,
That in pleasure she receives much more than she can give;
If she does not count this blessed
Let her change her religion.

Ezra Pound

[identity profile] evilstorm.livejournal.com
Ballad of the Goodly Fere
by Ezra Pound


Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion.


HA’ we lost the goodliest fere o’ all
For the priests and the gallows tree?
Aye lover he was of brawny men,
O’ ships and the open sea.

When they came wi’ a host to take Our Man
His smile was good to see,
“First let these go!” quo’ our Goodly Fere,
“Or I’ll see ye damned,” says he.

Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears
And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
“Why took ye not me when I walked about
Alone in the town?” says he.

I ha' seen him eat o' the honeycomb )

Ezra Pound

Feb. 2nd, 2009 10:01 am
[identity profile] madamevoilanska.livejournal.com
The Garret

Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are;
come, my friend, and remember
that the rich have butlers and no friends,
and we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.

Dawn enters with little feet
like a gilded Pavlova,
and I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
thank this hour of clear coolness,
the hour of waking together.
[identity profile] roxy15joe.livejournal.com
In a Station of the Metro
-Ezra Loomis Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

The Rest

Jul. 8th, 2008 11:14 pm
[identity profile] epicstarshine.livejournal.com
The Rest
by Ezra Pound

O helpless few in my country,
O remnant enslaved!

Artists broken against her,
A-stray, lost in the villages,
Mistrusted, spoken-against,

Lovers of beauty, starved,
Thwarted with systems,
Helpless against the control;

You who can not wear yourselves out
By persisting to successes,
You who can only speak,
Who can not steel yourselves into reiteration;

You of the finer sense,
Broken against false knowledge,
You who can know at first hand,
Hated, shut in, mistrusted:

Take thought:
I have weathered the storm,
I have beaten out my exile.
[identity profile] rainolive.livejournal.com
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.


-Ezra Pound
[identity profile] leaporlepor.livejournal.com
I think that I have fallen in love with this poem

Child of the grass
The years pass Above us
Shadows of air All these shall Love us
Winds for our fellows
The browns and the yellows
Of autumn our colors
Now at our life's morn. Be we well sworn
Ne'er to grow older
Our spirits be bolder At meeting
Than e'er before All the old lore
Of the forests & woodways
Shall aid us: Keep we the bond & seal
Ne'er shall we feel
Aught of sorrow


Let light flow about thee
As a cloak of air

Ezra Pound (1885-1972)
[identity profile] binahboy.livejournal.com
March has come to the bridge head,
Peach boughs and apricot boughs hang over a thousand gates,
At morning there are flowers to cut the heart,
And evening drives them on the eastward-flowing waters.
Petals are on the gone waters and on the going,
And on the back-swirling eddies,
But to-day's men are not the men of the old days,
Though they hang in the same way over the bridge-rail.
The sea's colour moves at the dawn
And the princes still stand in rows, about the throne,
And the moon falls over the portals of Sei-jo-yo,
And clings to the walls and the gate-top.
With head gear glittering against the cloud and sun,
The lords go forth from the court, and into far borders.
They ride upon dragon-like horses,
Upon horses with headtrappings of yellow metal,
And the streets make way for their passage.
Haughty their passing,
Haughty their steps as they go in to great banquets,
To high halls and curious food,
To the perfumed air and girls dancing,
To clear flutes and clear singing:
To the dance of the seventy couples;
To the mad chase through the gardens.
Night and day are given over to pleasure
And they think it will last a thousand autumns.
Unwearying autumns.
For them the yellow dogs howl portents in vain,
And what are they compared to the Lady Ryokushu,
That was cause of hate!
Who among them is a man like Han-rei
Who departed alone with his mistress,
With her hair unbound, and he his own skiffsman!

~Ezra Pound
[identity profile] the-grynne.livejournal.com
from Shih Ching

[PINE BOAT A-SHIFT]

Pine boat a-shift
on drift of tide,
for flame in the ear, sleep riven,
driven; rift of the heart in dark
no wine will clear,
nor have I will to playe.

Mind that's no mirror to gulp down all's seen,
brothers I have, on whom I dare not lean,
angered to hear a fact, ready to scold.

My heart no turning-stone, mat to be rolled,
right being right, not whim nor matter of count,
true as a tree on mount.

Mob's hate, chance evils may, gone through,
aimed barbs not few;
at bite of the jest in heart
start up as to beat my breast.

O'ersoaring sun, moon malleable
alternately
lifting a-sky to wane;
sorrow about the heart like an unwashed shirt, I
clutch here at words,
having no force to fly.


ANONYMOUS

Translated by Ezra Pound


J. P. Seaton's translation of the same poem.
[identity profile] ex-allenb.livejournal.com

"The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter"
(from Cathay, 1915)
by Ezra Pound (1885-1972)

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chōkan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-tō-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
                      As far as Chō-fū-sa.

                                 By Rihaku (Li Po)

[identity profile] redheartleaf.livejournal.com
The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter


While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
Played I about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you,
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into fat Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noises overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early in autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet tou
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.


(by Rihaku - translated by Pound)


Pound, Ezra. 1916. Lustra.

Ezra Pound (1885-1972) was an American-born poet and critic,
who greatly shaped 20th-century English writing. He
graduated from Hamilton College in Clinton, N.Y., in 1905,
earning a M.A. from the University of Pennsylvania the
following year. After a one- year stint teaching in
Indiana, Pound traveled to Europe, publishing his first book
of poetry in 1908.

Having published several books of poetry, including
Personae, Pound became European correspondent for Poetry
magazine. He became involved with the Imagist movement,
which focused on concrete language and figures of speech
(avoiding romantic themes), editing the first Imagist
anthology, Des Imagistes, in 1914.

Pound lived in Paris for four years before moving to Italy,
where he would live for the next 20 years. At around the
same time, he began publishing the first volumes of The
Cantos, a series of poems that he would continue to write
for the rest of his life.

In the midst of a worldwide economic crisis, Pound became
interested in monetary reform, aligning himself with the
politics of Italian dictator Benito Mussolini. Pound made
several anti-American statements during radio broadcasts
aired over Rome between 1941 and 1943, which culminated in
his arrest by U.S. forces in 1945.

A panel of physicians declared Pound "insane and mentally
unfit" for trial on grounds of treason upon his return to
the United States. While the decision spared Pound's life,
he would spend 12 years at Saint Elizabeth's Hospital before
being released. Once he was released, Pound returned to
Italy where he remained until his death.
[identity profile] scarlett-berrie.livejournal.com
The Garret

Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
Come, my friend, and remember
that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.

Dawn enters with little feet
like a guilded Pavlova,
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of coolness,
the hour of waking together.
[identity profile] lydiacoffin.livejournal.com
by Ezra Pound

Francesca

You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hands,
Now you will come out of a confusion of people,
Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I who have seen you amid the primal things
Was angry when they spoke your name
In ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,
Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again,
Alone.
ext_157608: (Default)
[identity profile] sfllaw.livejournal.com
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the lookout?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fo-Sa.
[identity profile] spiritualorchid.livejournal.com
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass


~Ezra Pound
[identity profile] desolateangel83.livejournal.com
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.


On a side note, why did Ezra speak in that messed-up Scottish accent?

favourite

Jun. 26th, 2005 04:50 am
[identity profile] caitashley.livejournal.com
In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
-Ezra Pound

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