Some wench with eyes of jackal
digs deep into the ruins of my name,
burrowing along the debris of my brain,
A wench with greengage-bosoms
sniffing deep in my ashes
arising me from the dead with a kiss
and gone
He is about to give up his ghost
his last breath nearly
to become a dense mist shrouding La Giudecca.
Ezra Pound melancholy stares
the little finger of Olga Rudge
(tiny little fingers couleur de rose).
There she is as always for the last ten years
near the carcass of the old poet
who lies down in bed by the window
overlooking the canalside, mumbling
snippets of his Pisan Cantos
while the shadows of gondoliers
sing Puccini arias loud
louder the seagulls hovering
over the isle of San Michele,
the belfry of San Giorgio Maggiore
like birds of ill-omen.
The pearly wench, Hebe, has made me
immortal with a kiss
and gone...
J. M. Turner
©Tate Britain
0 comentarios:
Publicar un comentario