Ezra Weston Loomis Pound was an American expatriate poet and critic and a major figure in the early modernist movement in poetry. He became known for his role in developing Imagism, which, in reaction to the Victorian and Georgian poets, favored tight language, unadorned imagery, and a strong correspondence between the verbal and musical qualities of the verse and the mood it expressed. His best-known works include Ripostes (1912), Hugh Selwyn Mauberley (1920), and his unfinished 120-section epic, The Cantos, which consumed his middle and late career, and was published between 1917 and 1969.
Pound was born in Hailey, Idaho Territory, the only child of Homer ... more »
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Ezra Pound Poems
The tree has entered my hands, The sap has ascended my arms, The tree has grown in my breast - Downward,
In a Station of the Metro
And the days are not full enough
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;
As cool as the pale wet leaves of lily-of-the-valley She lay beside me in the dawn.
Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land,
Winter is icummen in, Lhude sing Goddamm. Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm!
The lateral vibrations caress me, They leap and caress me, They work pathetically in my favour, They seek my financial good.
And then went down to the ship, Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and We set up mast and sail on that swart ship, Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Ballad for Gloom
For God, our God is a gallant foe That playeth behind the veil. I have loved my God as a child at heart
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
For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses: Rain; empty river; a voyage, Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight Under the cabin roof was one lantern.
The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter
After Li Po While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
A Song Of The Degrees
I Rest me with Chinese colours, For I think the glass is evil.
Quotationsmore quotations »
''Good writers are those who keep the language efficient. That is to say, keep it accurate, keep it clear.''Ezra Pound (1885-1972), U.S. poet, critic. The ABC of Reading, ch. 3 (1934).
''I dunno what my 23 infantile years in America signify. I left as soon as motion was autarchicI mean my motion.''Ezra Pound (1885-1972), U.S. poet, critic. Letter, October 29, 1940. The Letters of Ezra Pound 1907-1941, ed. D.D. Paige (1950).
''Mass ought to be in Latin, unless you cd. do it in Greek or Chinese. In fact, any abracadabra that no bloody member of the public or half-educated ape of a clargimint cd. think he understood.''Ezra Pound (1885-1972), U.S. poet, critic. Letter, March 7, 1940. The Letters of Ezra Pound 1907-1941, ed. D.D. Paige (1951).
''If a patron buys from an artist who needs money (needs money to buy tools, time, food), the patron then makes himself equal to the artist; he is building art into the world; he creates.''Ezra Pound (1885-1972), U.S. poet, critic. Letter, March 8, 1915. The Letters of Ezra Pound 1907-1941, ed. D.D. Paige (1951). Pound urged U.S. col...
I consider criticism merely a preliminary excitement, a statement of things a writer has to clear up in his own head sometime or other, probably antecedent to writing; of no value unless it come to fr...Ezra Pound (1885-1972), U.S. poet, critic. Criterion (London, Jan. 1923).
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast -
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.