Pound's Oysters
I
And, in the spirit of others before
a great journey was to unfold.
Being in the eye of the mind
it had a splendour of its own.
More than that;
but how to show it.
How to describe such a majesty:
you'll have to trust what I say
in describing it to you,
as though you were the lids of my eyes
opening up to what I see.
But because it is only between us
there will be the need
of some interpretative signs,
save others may stumble upon this
and the beauty be bountiful.
Let the colours be unsaid
for who knows what red is blood
what sea is blue
what grass is green,
if they all suffer from the same name.
It must be a new experience
sepulchral in its importance
for that is what Pound saw
by opening the ancient oyster shell
and finding a pearl where there was no pearl.
On such a deity will this be fixed
for if you look you see
and if you don't you have not;
it is a colour of a different kind.
II
Time itself, was not to be as slow
measured in men's muscles
and death's most often. Not now.
Of that there were many oysters
we had cracked in newness filled.
Each was a capsule of memories
conveniently skimming waves
leaving the wrecks of their crafts
as fascinating rafts, if needed.
Lifting the lid shows a journey
of another hue.
Pure paste, eye wash -
hardly enough to warrant
such a description.
Sure there were some small islands,
not a levant among them
more of a turmoil from within,
a spur kicked to sea
their people left to mercy.
But this was no fossil turn
and for that the journey was shallow,
unworthy of Circe's craft
or another oyster shell.
But more would come.
III
When my Father croaked
a last gasp of breath
he was in the death position:
Pound dozed off, one eye closed
one eye deeply, sapphirically blue
remained open.
Eyes looking at the world
eyes looking from the world.
Their journeys crossing
in the night of the day.
That last gasp intrigues,
although we are less like a snail
more of a bird between seasons
flying against the turbulence of the wind,
throwing salt into the air
that can eat away at oil,
absorbing us into the wave
and the depths below.
It seemed like that now -
grave news threatened the West
and all the gentle rocks on two legs
came down with a shudder,
in villages and valleys
well above the sea line.
It was a time that death pondered;
addressing itself with some contempt
a mere chastisement was not enough
there was going to be a sea change
and almost everyone was into it:
at best a new journey was beginning.
IV
When history provides a sacrifice
it's a notch on the time scale.
That you can rant and rave
was for poetry a sacrifice of sorts,
what you left behind in verse
you gave in influence.
The wranglings and communication
of you and Eliot al
were stirrings of a melting pot
that laid to rest the sterility
of Georgian poetry and worse.
But now is a scene of another time
a poet takes the podium as President,
elsewhere broadcasts, such as those
in Rome, are common place.
Now prisoners walk with presidents
or become presidents themselves.
Ever moving closer if not in time
in the scales that cover the body,
leaving the edges exposed
and the whole not covered.
It's a position without design
unlikely to sustain history.
Over on the sea a net was cast
crossing the surface quicker than reflections
but coming back breaking with fish,
so small only the mass stopped escape
their number pressed hard upon them
running off the deck quicker than sea.
V
Will man establish man in this?
Surely not one held on an altar!
Immense times, a bumper harvest
of proportions truly not seen before.
Masses able to go, and to stop,
almost at the click of a finger.
Communication held the key to this.
If there was a time to come
this was it. A void formed.
A powerful platform of opportunity.
Before such an encounter could be joined
masses were regrouping.
And, as with the sea eel, mass was needed
to hold them together.
Without it they slipped away
unable to hold onto anything.
Here Pound came into his own
for one could hear him cry:
Make it New! Make It New!
They ran with great speed at that
like Moses' masses.
Although awe inspiring it was frightening
it could change as with the tide.
What journey was this before us?
It was difficult to read the signs
or choose which direction:
rabbit holes or prehistoric caves
there was a temptation
to imagine it was not happening.
VI
A mere happen-stance
a weakening of the earth's crust,
to explain this more was needed
than simply recitation.
Arrow-sharpeners had arrived
and were needed more than usual,
there was going to be much of this
before the treaties had been signed.
It seemed that blood would out
and if the ground wasn't marked
there was no territory to be had.
Simple stuff to understand
but it made you look over your shoulder
and run for your birth certificate.
In that empty space inside the head
people were running in all directions,
unsure of themselves and their position
it was a hawk to a yard of chickens.
Here was where the journey came unstuck,
floundered on the rocks
tied-up in its own nets of uncertainty,
caught out by the freshness of it all.
The historians slept quietly
and left the commentators to run the show,
people were queuing up to see the spectacle
it was a new style Roman arena.
VII
So to bind themselves they chose
singular steel about their heads and minds,
sweat bands against ideas
each with a palm upstretched, an invisible wall.
No more Rapallos maketh Rome,
ideas bounced around the globe,
the boxed-in new bother boys
from this botched-up world
would see to that, O yes.
Screen-in, screed-out. A new turn
of an old handle of opportunity.
Until the opportunities played-out
leaving an untapped intelligence,
an unstoppable virus
snapping-back, faster than we dare think.
VIII
The old man was nearly played-out too,
too many beatings about his feet
pulling at his waisted gut
expecting him to spin his yarn.
Well there's a whole lot more,
in saying nothing than saying something
you could almost hear him say,
damn right too, you could answer.
What's in an oyster?
Hold it in your hand
and spin it to the sea,
it will not change what's inside.
The rough times, the rough surface
the sweet within, none more lyrical,
try getting a knife in that
you could hurt yourself more than you know.
IX
The world that wouldn't listen
fell silent,
a crack opened-up in the crust
big enough to take us all.
The knife was in position
it had found a soft target,
and everyone opened their mouths
in disbelief.
What now, you could hear them say
as the soothsayers dusted their books
and people polished their mantras.
If so familiar, why such surprise?
Old Uncle Ez knew,
he knew so damn much
he knew he knew nothing
so he became the voice of silence.
X
Tap, tap, anyone there,
as he lay a trail in the dust
and birds that once sung
now choked in the choking fall.
I am the word of the past,
and the past that is
the beginning, the life hereafter.
Amen.
Look me in the eye:
it ain't that bad, really.
Just listen next time, OK.
I said, it's not such a bad place after all.
Go find the nacre in yourself,
as you see in the shimmering surface
him, you, and the world around us:
careful most are chalk, not pearls.
So there you have it. My major work. My homage to Ez. I hope you liked it, or found something within it. If so, please do let me know.
Until next time.....
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