Seeing several references to Ezra Pound in other threads, I was reminded of this weird poem. I've never been sure whether I liked it (or him), but I was sufficiently taken by it to write a piece of music about it, years ago.

The Alchemist
Chant for the transmutation of metals

Saîl of Claustra, Aelis, Azalais,
As you move among the bright trees;
As your voices, under the larches of Paradise
Make a clear sound,
Saîl of Claustra, Aelis, Azalais,
Raimona, Tibors, Berangèrë,
'Neath the dark gleam of the sky;
Under night, the peacock-throated,
Bring the saffron-coloured shell,
Bring the red gold of the maple,
Bring the light of the birch tree in autumn
Mirals, Cembelins, Audiarda,
                 Remember this fire.

Elain, Tireis, Alcmena
'Mid the silver rustling of wheat,
Agradiva, Anhes, Ardenca,
From the plum-coloured lake, in stillness,
From the molten dyes of the water
Bring the burnished nature of fire;
Briseis, Lianor, Loica,
From the wide earth and the olive,
From the poplars weeping their amber,
By the bright flame of the fishing torch
                 Remember this fire.

Midonz, with the gold of the sun, the leaf of the popIar, by the light of the amber,
Midonz, daughter of the sun, shaft of the tree, silver of the leaf, light of the yellow of the amber,
Midonz, gift of the God, gift of the light, gift of the amber of the sun,
                 Give light to the metal.

Anhes of Rocacoart, Ardenca, Aemelis,
From the power of grass,
From the white, alive in the seed,
From the heat of the bud,
From the copper of the leaf in autumn,
From the bronze of the maple, from the sap in the bough;
Lianor, Ioanna, Loica,
By the stir of the fin,
By the trout asleep in the grey green of water;
Vanna, Mandetta, Viera, Alodetta, Picarda, Manuela
From the red gleam of copper,
Ysaut, Ydone, slight rustling of leaves,
Vierna, Jocelynn, daring of spirits,
By the mirror of burnished copper,
                 O Queen of Cypress,
Out of Erebus, the flat-lying breadth,
Breath that is stretched out beneath the world:
Out of Erebus, out of the flat waste of air, lying beneath the world;
Out of the brown leaf-brown colourless
                 Bring the imperceptible cool.

Elain, Tireis, Alcmena,
                 Quiet this metal!
Let the manes put off their terror, let them put off their aqueous bodies with fire.
Let them assume the milk-white bodies of agate.
Let them draw together the bones of the metal.

Selvaggia, Guiscarda, Mandetta,
                 Rain flakes of gold on the water,
Azure and flaking silver of water,
Alcyon, Phaetona, Alcmena,
Pallor of silver, pale lustre of Latona,
By these, from the malevolence of the dew
                 Guard this alembic.
Elain, Tireis, Alodetta
                 Quiet this metal.

What worries me is that having been listening to Pound reciting the Cantos, I now hear this poem with the same sort of rhythm. It's not my favourite flavour of Pound and I prefer what I see as his more conversational style, but it's very striking. I see that it's an early work from Ripostes in the Imagist/Vorticist period.

I'm fully aware that I'll be preaching to several of the converted here but I'll press on in any case.  Prompted recently by a discussion on here, I finally ordered a full copy of Tom Phillips' A Humument, which arrived this morning and I took it for lunch with me to enjoy with a bowl of soup (I found the bread more absorbent, incidentally.)

I'm already impressed with the poetry of some of it, and I don't know why that surprised me but never having seen very much of it close up, always as reproduced images on the net, I had always considered it to be art above poetry.  Now I'm veering in the opposite direction.  Take this for example:

for
j--- and
you
, if you care
England ;

here is
art

reason
under a ruined
hat

and a little white
opening out of
thought

I think it reminds me of a couple of things.  One is e e cummings, whose work I'm very fond of.
Another is a little scrap of interest that I found a year or two ago, skimming through a rough book from school (I've no idea why).  I had torn the corner off the page after some notes I'd make for an Art History essay and at a later date copied out what I could read through the torn corner. It read:

He is nothing but a bright library, a shelf of brick, his look arduous devotion.

...and it struck me as nicely poetic.  I hadn't heard of A Humument at the time, although it had already been in print for about 10 years.

There's something comforting in the method I think.  It's a way around the agonisingly vast options that face anyone trying to create anything vaguely artistic - by limiting yourself sometimes, you free yourself up - like evading writer's block. Does that make sense? 

My Poems...

My poems, written early, when I doubted
that I could ever play the poet’s part,
erupting, as though water from a fountain
or sparks from a petard,

and rushing as though little demons, senseless,
into a sanctuary, where incense spreads,
my poems about death and adolescence,
--that still remain unread! --

collecting dust in bookstores all this time,
where no one comes to carry them away,
my poems, like exquisite, precious wines,
will have their day!

Marina Tsvetaeva

You are absolutely correct, Mr. Sydney Grew. I know nothing about Mrs. Eldon and I did not really understand the poem I posted.
I withdrew the poem and substituted it to a poem by M. Tsvetaeve. I know much more about this poet, than I will ever know about Mrs. Eldon.
Tsvetaeva is one of my favourite Russian poets. I read number of books about her poetry and about her life. I have at least three books here with her poetry.
Thank you for pointing it out to me.

While I was reading your beuatiful poem by Bradford I noticed that you have the following words at the end of your posts:
"We are absolutely, i.e., we are absolutely BECAUSE we are; and are absolutely WHAT we are; both FOR THE SELF." (Fichte, 1795)

I know nothing about Fichte, but I was thinking a lot on the subject of this message. Also I remember reading a book about Kant where the subject was discussed.
I like the quote very much.
I disagree with the statement of the quote somewhat. Yes we are absolutely for the self, but we also have altruistic tendencies, we need companionship and stimulating friends, we need interactions with others, we learn from others and we teach them too.

Vysotsky is the most loved Russian bard. Here is his song from a movie. Everyone knows this song. People put words from it in their conversations.

A song about a friend

If your friend just became a man,
Not a friend, not a foe,- just so,
If you really can't tell from the start,
If he's strong in his heart, -
To the peaks take this man - don't fret!
Do not leave him alone, on his own,
Let him share the same view with you-
Then you'll know if he's true.
If the guy on the peak got weak,
If he lost all his care - got scared,
Took a step on the frost - got lost,
Tripped and screamed in exhaust, -
Then the one you held close is false,
Do not bother to yell- expel, -
We can't take such aboard, and in short
We don't sing of his sort.
If the guy didn't whine nor pine,
He was dull and upset, but went,
When you slipped from the cliff,
He heaved, holding you in his grip;
If he walked right along, seemed strong,
On the top stood like he belonged, -
Then, whenever the chances are slim
You can count on him!

Translated by Andrey Kneller

Mayakovsky

    I'd root out
       bureaucracy
       once and for ever.
       I have no respect
       for formalities.
       May every paper
       go to the devil
       But for this...
       
       
       A courteous official
       passes through
       The maze of compartments
       and halls.
       They hand in passports,
       And I,
       too,
       Hand in
       my red-skinned pass.
       
       Some passports
       arouse an obliging smile
       While others
       are treated as mud.
       Say, passports
       picturing
       the British Lion
       Are taken
       with special regard.
       
       
       A burly guy
       from the USA
       Is met
       with an exorbitant honor,
       They take his passport
       as if they
       Were taking
       a gift of money.
       
       
       The Polish passport
       makes them stare
       Like a sheep might stare
       at a Christmas tree:
       Where does it come from,
       this silly and queer
       Geographical
       discovery?
       
       Without trying
       to use their brains,
       Entirely dead
       to all feelings,
       They take
       quite coldly
       passports from Danes
       And other sorts of
       aliens.
       
       Suddenly,
       as if he had burnt
       his mouth,
       The official
       stood
       stock-still:
       It's my red passport
       fall this bound
       Into the hands
       of his majesty.
       
       
       He takes my pass,
       as if it were
       A bomb,
       a blade
       or those sorts of things,
       He takes it
       with extraordinary
       caution and scare
       As if it were a snake
       with dozens of stings.
       
       The porter
       meaningly
       bats his eyes
       Ready to serve me
       for free.
       The detective
       looks at the cop
       in surprise,
       The cop
       looks at him
       inquiringly.
       
       I know
       I'd be fiercely slashed and hanged
       By this
       gendarmerie caste
       Only because
       I have got in my hand
       This
       hammer-and-sickle pass.
       
       
       I'd root out bureaucracy
       once and for ever.
       I have no respect
       for formalities.
       May every paper
       go to the devil
       But for this...
       
       
       This little thing,
       so dear to me,
       I withdraw
       from my loose pantaloons,
       Read it and envy me:
       I happen to be
       A citizen
       of the Soviet Union.
       
       1929
       

SAYING GOOD-BYE  TO THE MOUNTAINS
       To the bustle of streets, flow of cars, traffic blocks
       To city life we return, we come back, as it happens.
       We descend from the conquered high mountaintops
       And we leave our hearts,
       and we leave our hearts in the mountains.
       
       There is no use to argue about it,
       I have known for a very long time:
       There is one thing that's better than mountains,
       And it's mountains that we haven't climbed.
       
       Who would want to be left in the lurch, with no hopes?
       Who would want to give in, his heart disobeyin'?
       We descend from the conquered high mountaintops...
       Nothing doing: gods, too, used to come down from heaven.
       
       There is no use to argue about it,
       I have known for a very long time:
       There is one thing that's better than mountains,
       And it's mountains that we haven't climbed.
       Many beautiful songs, many hopes, words of love
       Are inspired by mountains, they eternally call us.
       Yet we have to descend, for a year or for life
       For we have to return from the mountains... always.
       
       There is no use to argue about it,
       I have known for a very long time:
       There is one thing that's better than mountains
       And it's mountains that we haven't climbed.