This poem appears in the book J'Accuse...! (Poem Versus Silence) by George Elliott Clarke, Exile Editions, 2022 |
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But to that tumultuous Panic, I was incognizant—
for moonlight chopped at my silhouette—
on my grape-splattered bib of earth—
with a slop of blush—Rosato—plus mythic giblets—
add-on splashes of white vino and a dash of anisette—
of wallet-shattering Worth—
at spiffy Locanda Montin Antico—
where iffy Pound had sought shelter from Suspicion. * Was not the right thing left for Pound to do only
to confess?
To figure the signature luminary
professing, blaring, his ineffaceable Fascism—
echoing a technique of Candour
(compatible with his truth—
tabulating how the swastika caught him—taut—
in its black, tarantula tentacles)?
Truly was this koan (公案) telegraphed—compassed—
by The Pisan—partisan—Cantos (nothin half-assed).
Meanwhile, I limped—a gimp—about that pirate marsh—
cuttlefish-ink-dark—
scuttling, outfitted with harsh cephalexin and indomethacin,
parked in my jaw, swallowed with phlegm. * (And Pound one more the poet exemplar—since Ovid—
since Lorca—since Mandelstam—since B.C. (Before COVID)—
since Malcolm X—since Aesop (th’Ethiope) —since Sappho—
since Juvenal—since Wilde—since Sade—since Cicero—
since Dante—since Moloise—since Riel—since Euripedes—
since Saro-Wiwa—since Brodsky—since Socrates—
since Chávez Castillo—since Tsvetaeva—since Rushdie—
since Hikmet—since Pushkin—since Jack Mapanje—
since Khashoggi—since Céline—since Ould al-Wahid—
since “Angela” —since Gramsci—since Eddy Said—
since Neruda—since Akhmatova—since Zola—to run afoul
of regime after regime of attempted regimen of the Soul.) |
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