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's arias out 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...
*
Excommunicated by Philistines and laureate bards, alone,
Here I am in the shade of my own shade like Spinoza
not grinding lenses but polishing words
to the most perfect glint,
poeming my way to the last glimpse of Beauty,
hard by Crete,
before the last flight on the white crane
vanishing into the white void.
J. M. Turner
©Tate Britain
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