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sabato 2 novembre 2013

Ezra Pound dixit, 1

Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,
And drawing sword from my hip
I dug the ell-square pitkin*,
Poured we libations unto each the dead,
First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour
Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads,
As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best
For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods,
A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep
Dark blood flowed in the fosse,
Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides
Of youths and of the old who had borne much,
Souls stained with recent tears, girls tender,
Men many, mauled with bronze lance heads,
Battle spoil, bearing yet dreory arms,
These many crowded about me, with shouting,
Pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts,
Slaughtered the herds, sheep slam of bronze,
Poured ointment, cried to the gods,
To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine.,
Unsheathed the narrow sword,
I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead,
Till I should hear Tiresias

(Cantos, I)

* Stupidi lettori che non apprezzano: "All the characteristic early pathologies are there in this later piece - the pointless inversions - 'poured we', the invented archaisms - 'the ell-square pitkin', the invented words which add no extra meaning or force to what they evidently mean - 'swart', and words which have not been used outside 'poetry' in English for generations - 'unto'. This is what makes Pound a case for diagnosis rather than a poet for understanding or appraisal."

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