Cento IX

Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf
to the little gallery over the gate,
between the towers, making a double

arch, not a patch, not a lost shimmer
of sunlight. They never speak to each
other; for 180 years almost nothing.

Then came the seen, thus the palpable.
Hot wind came from the marshes
in scaled invention or true artistry.

The prefaces, cut clear and hard in
some Wordsworthian, false-pastoral
manner. The limbo of chopped ice &

sawdust rusteth the craft & the crafts-
man, being divided, set out from color.

 

Mark Young, 2018

Remixed work:

The Cantos, by Ezra Pound

Cento I

I slept in Circe’s ingle. Unburied, unwept,
unwrapped in sepulchre. These many
crowded about me, with shouting. & in

the water, the almond-white swimmers.
Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green
cool light. The sunlight glitters, glitters

atop forked branch-tips, flaming as if
with lotus, the bride awaiting the god’s
touch. & beneath the jazz a cortex, a

stiffness or stillness. The angle almost
imperceptible, the calm field, the
grass quiet. The house a shade too solid,

a dryness calling for death, knocking at
empty rooms, seeking for buried beauty.

 

Mark Young, 2018

Remixed work:

The Cantos, by Ezra Pound