‘Pound’s Mr. Gandhi’
No one liked him especially, I think
Since all saints are great destroyers
Imagine the poor, with a painted paradise at the end of it
without a painted paradise at the end of it
Once there was Cathay
Once there was the Great Moghul
Once and only once
Now all roads lead to London
Now all roads lead out of London
Now and forever…
Is that expansion or constriction, I ask
Old Ez ever and forever on a voyage
Sometimes irate, sometimes sweet
What is water but liquid fire, ask the alchemists
Poverty but the base-metal for sainthood
Did Esau like his potage? Mr. Gandhi his poor cottage?
Did Mr. Gandhi love his irrigated colon…
All the muslins of Cathay All the brocades of Persia:
A bonfire of vanities…
What do Gandhi, Chaplin and Mickey Mouse have in common?—
They entertained the poor of London’s East End…
All of Manchester’s might be taken up by a mere spinning wheel
Did old Ez care? Did Tagore?
They looked to Ferrara’s Ducal logia frescoes:
The peasant at base
Upon his shoulder the landlord
Above him the king and lords
Above them the angels and god
And somewhere thereabouts, a poet…!
But Jiddu Krishnamurty, Besant’s dull boy, simply
Look at the tree
Strong at root
Beautiful after…
Yes, but the leaf is related to the tree-trunk
And Asia presses at the borders of Europe
Africa presses at the borders of Europe
The new hordes will breakdown the visa checkposts:
Something even Mr. Gandhi did not foresee
in his sweetness and light…
Europe a delicate leaf in the wind
Asia its root
Pull down ‘thy vanity, pull down!
When Icarus soared too high
he fell into the Tyherrian Sea
Lenin and Mao lead the new Mongol and Tartar hordes
Truth shall prevail from sea to sea
But, whose truth?
Water too is a liquid quality of the mind
Wind is of the process
Rain is of the process
The impossible dream on the peasants’ shoulders
And Il Duce dead
Dolce
Lux
et
Decorum…
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tagore Meets Pound
It is in an English garden
(Gone is the summer and every English rose…)
That Tagore gets up his Indian courtesy
for Mr. Pound of Idaho
Son of the Master of the Mint
Let there be new coinage!
But what does the Ganges babble on
About births, this and others
(Give me my chattering, babbling, country brook)
This old English lady in grey wig
and Cashmere shawl!
(It is autumn already)
From their hands fall, leaves and leaves…
—of a book!
Where the mind is without fear
… … … … … … … …
And the head is held high…
[Gone is Boleyn and every English rose…]
And the Po goes lazily
As the Padma this hazy morning
(The marshes waiting to be drained
Since the time of Julius Caesar)
‘This liquid is certainly a / property of the mind…’
‘To study with the white wings of time passing
is not that our delight
to have friends come from far countries
is that not pleasure
not care that we are untrumpeted?….
(Thus, ol’ Wuz)
