This week has had some gems amongst the coal, including meeting Roger Haywood, whose paths have crossed mine on many occasion during the years past. And Desert Island Discs was a real treasure on BBC Radio 4 this week (look it up on www.bbc.co.uk). On top of which The Guardian has been running a great series on poets see: www.guardian.co.uk.
So what can I leave you with? How about this? A piece I wrote to celebrate the eightieth birthday of Ezra Pound (so that means it was 1985). It's not very joyous, but EPs life, particularly at the end was pretty grim.
Taken, until the green fathers die
Stones make cottages and shadows from the sun; young children assemble at the shore, throwing yellow balls from hand to hand. Their eyes squint, too strong is the ray that reflects brightly from moving water. On hills roam sheep, each day free, each night the pen. But beside these animals is a Shepherd, whether it rains or becomes overtly dark, the guardian stays with them. It is to him that the children today play with a yellow ball.
The minister, a chaste man, gives forth his sermon. The sermon for harvest; he deliberates upon the goods for man from seed and earth. Praises the farmers for worthy time and courage against the elements. But alone is his word when the young children watch wielding hands, from the splicing of rope and endurance of storms.
From Stoic, the green fathers arrive, they see that the course of undisputed farming is adhered to. Oppression is their dearest friend; the Shepherd stands upon the hill with his crook guiding the sheep. As they approach him he continues tending and educating the young lambs. One of the animals will not feed its young and so the Shepherd takes milk from the teat and gives it to the lamb. He carries scars, deep creases that set his face as bracken, whatever forces he has tackled, the end has been mostly his. Green fathers arrive and single him out from the community, he is led to an awaiting wagon. Manacles fit his arms and legs, assigning his body to a figure four position.
Prosperous men talk in the darkness of the trees, their conversation is dulled: of the Shepherd who once kept sheep here and was taken away. Taken to be burnt, not to death but slowly limb by limb. Now, they say, he moves from hovel to hovel pursued by friends whom he is now unable to distinguish from enemies. As the light enters and trees move from them, they soften their voices and quickly change the subject. The shore is quiet, people no longer look at the curls of bright water.
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