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Best Famous Ezra Pound Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Ezra Pound poems. This is a select list of the best famous Ezra Pound poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Ezra Pound poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Ezra Pound poems.

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Written by Dylan Thomas | |

A Letter To My Aunt

 A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry

To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see No genius in David G.
, No elemental form and sound In T.
S.
E.
and Ezra Pound.
Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you how To elevate your middle brow, And how to scale and see the sights From modernist Parnassian heights.
First buy a hat, no Paris model But one the Swiss wear when they yodel, A bowler thing with one or two Feathers to conceal the view; And then in sandals walk the street (All modern painters use their feet For painting, on their canvas strips, Their wives or mothers, minus hips).
Perhaps it would be best if you Created something very new, A dirty novel done in Erse Or written backwards in Welsh verse, Or paintings on the backs of vests, Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.
But if this proved imposs-i-ble Perhaps it would be just as well, For you could then write what you please, And modern verse is done with ease.
Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes With 'strumpet' in these troubled times, And commas are the worst of crimes; Few understand the works of Cummings, And few James Joyce's mental slummings, And few young Auden's coded chatter; But then it is the few that matter.
Never be lucid, never state, If you would be regarded great, The simplest thought or sentiment, (For thought, we know, is decadent); Never omit such vital words As belly, genitals and -----, For these are things that play a part (And what a part) in all good art.
Remember this: each rose is wormy, And every lovely woman's germy; Remember this: that love depends On how the Gallic letter bends; Remember, too, that life is hell And even heaven has a smell Of putrefying angels who Make deadly whoopee in the blue.
These things remembered, what can stop A poet going to the top? A final word: before you start The convulsions of your art, Remove your brains, take out your heart; Minus these curses, you can be A genius like David G.
Take courage, aunt, and send your stuff To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff, And may I yet live to admire How well your poems light the fire.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

Salutation

 In one salutation to thee, my God, 
let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet.
Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee.
Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee.
Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

Before Sleep

 I was in love with anatomy
the symmetry of my body
poised for flight,
the heights it would take
over parents, lovers, a keen
riding over truth and detail.
I thought growing up would be this rising from everything old and earthly, not these faltering steps out the door every day, then back again.


More great poems below...

Written by Ezra Pound | |

Song in the Manner of Housman

 O woe, woe, 
People are born and die, 
We also shall be dead pretty soon 
Therefore let us act as if we were 
dead already.
The bird sits on the hawthorn tree But he dies also, presently.
Some lads get hung, and some get shot.
Woeful is this human lot.
Woe! woe, etcetera .
.
.
.
London is a woeful place, Shropshire is much pleasanter.
Then let us smile a little space Upon fond nature's morbid grace.
Oh, Woe, woe, woe, etcetera .
.
.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

The Fault of It

 Some may have blamed us that we cease to speak
Of things we spoke of in our verses early,
Saying: a lovely voice is such as such;
Saying: that lady's eyes were sad last week,
Wherein the world's whole joy is born and dies;
Saying: she hath this way or that, this much
Of grace, this way or that, this much
Of grace, this little misericorde;
Ask us no further word;
If we were proud, then proud to be so wise
Ask us no more of all the things ye heard;
We may not speak of them, they touch us nearly.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

Notes for Canto CXX

 I have tried to write Paradise

Do not move
Let the wind speak
that is paradise.
Let the Gods forgive what I have made Let those I love try to forgive what I have made.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

Before Sleep

 The lateral vibrations caress me, 
They leap and caress me, 
They work pathetically in my favour, 
They seek my financial good.
She of the spear stands present.
The gods of the underworld attend me, O Annubis, These are they of thy company.
With a pathetic solicitude they attend me; Undulant, Their realm is the lateral courses.
Light! I am up to follow thee, Pallas.
Up and out of their caresses.
You were gone up as a rocket, Bending your passages from right to left and from left to right In the flat projection of a spiral.
The gods of drugged sleep attend me, Wishing me well; I am up to follow thee, Pallas.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

A Virginal

 No, no! Go from me.
I have left her lately.
I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness, For my surrounding air hath a new lightness; Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitly And left me cloaked as with a gauze of æther; As with sweet leaves; as with subtle clearness.
Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her.
No, no! Go from me.
I have still the flavour, Soft as spring wind that's come from birchen bowers.
Green come the shoots, aye April in the branches, As winter's wound with her sleight hand she staunches, Hath of the trees a likeness of the savour: As white as their bark, so white this lady's hours.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

The Plunge

 I would bathe myself in strangeness:
These comforts heaped upon me, smother me!
I burn, I scald so for the new,
New friends, new faces,
Places!
Oh to be out of this,
This that is all I wanted
- save the new.
And you, Love, you the much, the more desired! Do I not loathe all walls, streets, stones, All mire, mist, all fog, All ways of traffic? You, I wold have flow over me like water, Oh, but far out of this! Grass, and low fields, and hills, And sun, Oh, sun enough! Out, and alone, among some Alien people!


Written by Ezra Pound | |

Francesca

 You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hand,
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 see-pod and be swept away, So that I might find you again, Alone.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

Cantico del Sole

 The thought of what America would be like
If the Classics had a wide circulation
 Troubles my sleep,
The thought of what America,
The thought of what America,The thought of what America would be like
If the Classics had a wide circulation
 Troubles my sleep.
Nunc dimittis, now lettest thou thy servant, Now lettest thou thy servant Depart in peace.
The thought of what America, The thought of what America, The thought of what America would be like If the Classics had a wide circulation.
.
.
Oh well! It troubles my sleep.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

A Pact

 I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman-- 
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child Who has had a pig-headed father; I am old enough now to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood, Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root-- Let there be commerce between us.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

Ione Dead the Long Year

 Empty are the ways, 
Empty are the ways of this land 
And the flowers 
Bend over with heavy heads.
They bend in vain.
Empty are the ways of this land Where Ione Walked once, and now does not walk But seems like a person just gone.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

Invern

 Earth's winter cometh
And I being part of all
And sith the spirit of all moveth in me
I must needs bear earth's winter
Drawn cold and grey with hours
And joying in a momentary sun,
Lo I am withered with waiting till my spring cometh!
Or crouch covetous of warmth
O'er scant-logged ingle blaze,
Must take cramped joy in tomed Longinus
That, read I him first time
The woods agleam with summer
Or mid desirous winds of spring,
Had set me singing spheres
Or made heart to wander forth among warm roses
Or curl in grass next neath a kindly moon.


Written by Ezra Pound | |

Masks

 These tales of old disguisings, are they not
Strange myths of souls that found themselves among
Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,
Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot
The star-span acres of a former lot
Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,
Or carnate with his elder brothers sung
Ere ballad-makers lisped of Camelot?

Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,
Old painters color-blind come back once more,
Old poets skill-less in the wind-heart runes,
Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:

All they that with strange sadness in their eyes
Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse?