Ezra Pound is one of the modern masters of poetry. Ezra Pound was a dismal failure. Ezra Pound was a genius. Ezra Pound was a madman.
These readings of the man, or readings of the man from his Cantos, I can understand. I can understand each of them, collectively as well as individually, and I can even affirm them collectively as well as individually. You might say that Ezra Pound transformed poetry forever, and I would not be inclined to disagree with you. On the other hand, you might be inclined to say he inflicted terrible wounds on poetry and that it has yet to recover; and there, I may agree with you as well.
It’s so difficult to keep away from the man himself when reading the poems. You get these flashes of him, images like when he made a fascist salute on his return to Italy, after so many years in the nut ward at St. Elizabeth’s. You get flashes of his voice as it might have sounded over the radio, and you read things about his fascination with the occult. You think about his the kind of mind that constructs an opening like this:
Eleanor (she spoiled in a British climate)
Έλαγδ