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Hematidrosis

Ezra Pound 1885 (Hailey) – 1972 (Venice)



Long ago there was a battle not for supremacy, but for subservience, a strangely wonderful tale.

Men like us are made for pain and death; death is what we do to others, pain what others do to us. As a fish in water, a bird in flight, death is our element. This man was different.

Put your hand in fire.
Who are you?
Your helper. Put your hand in fire.
I wish to speak to my father.
I speak for him, put your hand in fire.
It’s too far from me. I made the fire, I made the hand.
Then do it for love of what you made.
For my father alone I will do it.
The capillaries burst.

My helper, who is the dark one?
The thing in the desert.
Shut up you, I speak for myself. You waste yourself, bleeding
fool. This filth is lost to you no matter what you do. Save yourself.
The father wills that you do it, to save the few.
For that only I do it.
The blood oozed into the sweat glands.

You drag the woman into your folly.
She cannot breathe with the pain. She faints with it,
then wakes and faints again. Spare her if you be a good son.
She is mother of men, not mine only. She chooses to love them.
The sweat glands exuded the bloody sweat.

The third time the shear line was reached and the universe turned in the cosmic lock. The death grip was broken, a new cascade of loveliness entered the world.

Yesterday at noon the fever left him.
She said yes…to me.
Habemus papam.

The all conquering grace rippled out like a “big bang” through times, peoples, worlds yet to be discovered. Every good thing was achieved in that moment, and forever. It was finished.

The pass was caught, then fumbled, finally held. We won.
The cancer is cured.
He asked me to marry him.
Hold your breath in joy forever.

His father was well pleased and offered a reward to the man. But the man had everything so it was the gain of his friends who believed in him to merit the gift.

Sounds of kisses.
Ice cream for desert.
Mother and baby are doing fine.
Well done, good and faithful servant.

Yet for all that, dogs trot past the pearl of great price to gnaw on a dead mouse.

Something for nothing? Not in this world or any other.
Follow your King closely or die as straggler.
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Submitted on March 01, 2021

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Ezra Pound

Ezra Weston Loomis Pound was an American expatriate poet and critic of the early modernist movement. more…

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