Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham
Damm you; Sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, ’tis why I am, Goddamm,
So ’gainst the winter’s balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm,
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.
Ezra Pound. I never could stand that old communist son-of-a-bitch and I'll wager that the Devil has had plenty of opportunity to tell him just how lousy his "poetry" is.
Posted by: Jack at November 20, 2015 3:48 PMInteresting insight. The poem is, actually., one of his very earliest and from his more accessible and influential period before he descended into the dementia of The Cantos.
In addition, this poem is actually a parody of what is possibly the oldest poem in English albeit in Middle English
Svmer is icumen in
Lhude sing cuccu
Groweþ sed
and bloweþ med
and springþ þe wde nu
Sing cuccu
Awe bleteþ after lomb
lhouþ after calue cu
Bulluc sterteþ
bucke uerteþ
murie sing cuccu
Cuccu cuccu
Wel singes þu cuccu
ne swik þu nauer nu
Sing cuccu nu • Sing cuccu.
Sing cuccu • Sing cuccu nu
U lost me there bub
Posted by: Mhf at November 20, 2015 8:16 PMWhen I lived in Breuklen I had an associate who was a Pound devotee. I was never much for the prose but was intrigued about his incarceration.
Posted by: Will at November 21, 2015 6:53 PM
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