Ezra Pound
Ezra Pound
Ezra Weston Loomis Poundwas an expatriate American poet and critic, and a major figure in the early modernist movement. His contribution to poetry began with his development of Imagism, a movement derived from classical Chinese and Japanese poetry, stressing clarity, precision and economy of language. His best-known works include Ripostes, Hugh Selwyn Mauberleyand the unfinished 120-section epic, The Cantos...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth30 October 1885
CityHailey, ID
CountryUnited States of America
Learn of the green world what can be thy place In scaled invention or true artistry
There is no topicmore soporific and generally boring than the topic of Ireland as Ireland, as a nation.
install me in any profession Save this damn'd profession of writing, where one needs one's brains all the time.
The jargon of sculptors is beyond me. I do not know precisely why I admire a green granite female, apparently pregnant monster with one eye going around a square corner.
Somebody said that I am the last American living the tragedy of Europe.
Almost any fool can paint an academy picture, and any imbecile can shoot off a Kodak.
Artists are the antennae of the race, but the bullet-headed many will never learn to trust the great artists.
See, they return; ah, see the tentative Movements, and the slow feet, The trouble in the pace and the uncertain Wavering! See, they return, one, and by one, With fear, as half-awakened; As if the snow should hesitate And murmur in the wind, and half turn back;
Utter originality is, of course, out of the question.
'Tis the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting, bid the world's hounds come to horn!
A man's hope measures his civilization. The attainability of the hope measures, or may measure, the civilization of his nation and time.
With Usura With usura hath no man a house of good stone each block cut smooth and well fitting.
No picture is made to endure nor to live with but it is made to sell and sell quickly with usura, sin against nature, is thy bread ever more of stale rags is thy bread dry as paper.
I have tried to write Paradise Do not move Let the wind speak that is paradise. Let the Gods forgive what I have made Let those I love try to forgive what I have made.