Ezra Pound came into his life with ABC of Reading. Caught by the pink, yellow and white cover, he immediately purchased it and ran home.
After opening the first page he realized he couldn't just read this. There was something more to it, something far beyond him. Change was necessary, so he decided to change.
He slowly got through the introduction. Little made sense to him. Gradus ad Parnassum? All that would turn up in Google was a long essay in Latin concerning counterpoint. He wrote a note about it, deciding he'd have to read that too, then continued.
Agassiz, sunfish, Ernest Fenollosa, and a (seemingly) countless number of Bach and Ravel pieces. So many names unfamiliar to him. He wrote each down, not really sure why. He thought the kind of person who reads books like this might write stuff down. Or at least do a shitload of underlining. He decided to do all of that. Whenever he didn't understand a reference he noted it, and planned on reading it, watching it, listening to it, or whatever else being able to understand this book might entail.
His adventures with Mr. Pound were often interrupted by old friends, not realizing he was on a ultra-romantic, super-fantastic journey into intellectualism, filled with champagne, incense, and whatever else smart people like. They would ask him to do such common things, like go to the mall or a pub. However he would humble himself to the level of these lesser beings and do whatever they asked of him. "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."
On one of these pointless excursions he decided to make this time useful. He began brainstorming, "what is the one common element of every intellectual who has ever lived?" After about an hour of walking with his mongrel of a friend he came to the answer: a beret.
He came by a thrift store, entered, and searched the entire building. It seemed he spent days on this holy quest of his, trying to find the sacred garment which would ultimately complete him. After some time, dejectedly, he headed for the exit. At that moment, his cretin of a friend called out, he had found one. He payed and put it on.
Returning home, he looked up photos of Ezra Pound. Not in a single picture of him was there a beret.
In time, he finished the book, then read it two more times. Each read-through the book made a little more sense. He started to understand the fundamental ideas Mr. Pound was expressing. Something about Dichten equaling Condensare, and how poetry's supposed to be 'musical.' Whatever that meant.
He did the exercises repeatedly. When finished, he would look at them, struck by how much of genius he was. Such genius, he thought, ought not be hidden from the world. The next day he set up to read his work at an open mic night.
Wearing his beret, a cardigan, and a cravat he found at a thrift store, he got on stage and read his masterpiece:
I walk outside and see a tree
I think it is an oak.
It's time to clap for me,
I assure you I do not joke.
The crowd was stunned. Never before had they heard such lyrical genius. After he got off stage five different people handed him their phone numbers and emails written on napkins, asking to see more of his work. All sorts of other people gave him the fascist salute and told him how meta his poem was. He wasn't sure what any of that meant, but smiled and thanked them.
He asked other people about their work. They would tell him about their epics written in Sapphic stanzas chronicling the life of a Japanese porn star. He would say that's very interesting, and ask to see some of it. His interlocutor would then admit of having not written anything yet, but always would add that it's still being planned, and these things write themselves once you get the ideas straightened out, don't you know?
A few months later after memorizing the majority of ABC of Reading he felt he should move on to something else. He got a copy of the Iliad because he related very much with the whole being unanimously praised thing Homer had going on. His edition was entirely in ancient Greek. This couldn't stop him. He figured he was Homer reincarnated anyways, and learning Greek would be no problem.
After three years he finished the twenty-fourth book of the Iliad, only having a general idea about what the Greek was saying. By this time he gained an intimate familiarity with Wordsworth, Keats, Coleridge, and above all Byron. He also had quite a number of his poems published in magazines, and was universally praised. Critics called him a Neo-Romantic.
His image was carefully designed. He made sure to always mention that he never went into his work with a plan, he just wrote and ecstasy popped out. His beret was fastened securely upon his head and he donned a cravat at all times.
He had a book of poems published, receiving perfect reviews by almost all who read it. Almost. A single reviewer pointed out that his poems said nothing not already made into clichés. The reviewer claimed the contents of any poem could be guessed with fair accuracy after looking at just the title.
The guy's an idiot, he thought. "Avoid accepting opinions from men who haven't themselves produced notable work." Who said that? Ezra Pound. He'd forgotten all about Mr. Pound. It was years since he had read ABC of Reading. He looked through his shelf and found his copy. In the next few days he read through the entirety of the book. After finishing it, he set it down, astounded that he was ever so interested in this guy. The book was just an elaborate insult to all of those blessed with intelligence.
"And what notable work has Ezra Pound produced?" he thought. It occurred to him there that he had never actually read any of Mr. Pound's verse. The next day he checked out a book of Ezra Pound's selected poems from the library. He carried it home, hardly able to wait for it to be terrible. He opened it up at random, and read the first thing he saw:
You were praised, my books,
because I had just come from the country;
I was twenty years behind the times
so you found an audience ready.
I do not disown you,
do not you disown your progeny.
Here they stand without quaint devices,
Here they are with nothing archaic about them.
Observe the irritation in general:
‘Is this’ they say, 'the nonsense
that we expect of poets?’
'Where is the Picturesque ?'
‘Where is the vertigo of emotion?'
‘No! his first work was the best.’
'Poor Dear! he has lost his illusions.’
Go, little naked and impudent songs,
Go with a light foot!
(Or with two light feet, if it please you!)
Go and dance shamelessly!
Go with an impertinent frolic!
Greet the grave and the stodgy,
Salute them with your thumbs at your noses.
Here are your bells and confetti.
Go! rejuvenate things!
Rejuvenate even 'The Spectator.’
Go! and make cat calls!
Dance and make people blush,
Dance the dance of the phallus
and tell anecdotes of Cybele!
Speak of the indecorous conduct of the Gods!
(Tell it to Mr. Strachey)
Ruffle the skirts of prudes,
speak of their knees and ankles.
But, above all, go to practical people
go! jangle their door-bells!
Say that you do no work
and that you will live forever.
Needless to say, he was amazed. Over the next week he made sure to read every poem in the collection at least five times. How could the words of someone as well know as Ezra Pound be so ignored today? Poetry has atrophied, and he knew his own work contributed to that.
From that point on he was done with imitation. Done with trying to be poetic. He wanted to be honest. The beret and cravat came off. He would spend hours sitting in front of a blank page with a pen full of ink trying to come up with just the perfect words to express every experience life presented to him. After doing this he would look at what he had written, tear it apart, and try harder and harder to produce something worthy of Mr. Pound.
Two years passed, and he arranged for something new to be released. He expected the critics to look at what he made and have revelations of their own, having never seen anything like it. They would come to detest the state of modern poetry and desire to change it. Desire to make something new and beautiful.
Pitchfork Media ended up giving his collaboration with Michael Bolton a 5.2 out of 10.
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