A blown husk that is finished
but the light sings eternal
a pale flare over marshes
where the salt hay whispers to tide's change.

- famous late Cantos lines. faintly, New Englandly. I can identify with the sentiment. can't get no traction these years. but maybe My Siena be another start. (the motion toward Siena has many sources, some which I don't feel like mentioning at the moment)

Ol Ez, the long poems... guys talking about Olson & Zuk again... Olson, Zuk... then another 40 years? (per M. Scroggini). ya missed sumpin' there, boys.

This long poem thing, the whole grandeurosity... kind of a throwback to an archaic sort of poet's Authority. Has its authoritarian aspect. which is part of the reason I tried to throw Hart Crane & Mandelstam & thems two's inimitable negative capabilities into the mix.

Mandelstam had that old birch cane kind of old-poet mana. Me-ums vs. Stalin. & boy he done it too, in 12 rounds. but he & Crane had such utterly different personality-atmospherics from Pound Ol'Wmszuk.

The only real authority is that "light sings eternal". Granted to the poet who penetrates to it & lets it shine.

I'm looking at Pound's search, search... & at what he missed (hidden in plainest sight).

& here I am, & I gets no respeck, not from the flitterati, nor the scholastic ham-jambons.

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