per amica silentia lunae

or, across the ferny brae with the evil voodoo celt

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and that's all for that
nola
evcelt
In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.


From Pisan Cantos

What thou lovest well remains,
the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
or is it of none?
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee.

-Ezra Pound

He was a difficult bastard. He made some really poor choices in his life, the worst of which was making pro-Fascist and anti-Semitic speeches during WWII. I can only condemn that. But for the above two poems, and much else of his work, I'm also willing to forgive him.

The first one has the luminescent brilliance of haiku, an image captured completely in a few words, like a sumi-e drawing. The second? Well, think of it as an aid to focusing on what's really important, and a statement of hope.

That closes out National Poetry Month for me.

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