Ezra Pound (in death of)
A foreign sun, leaving his heart
map of navigation, diamond artery,
for oriental destination and fine rivers,
vibrant at the motion of water
and graphic stone like the surfaces of molluscs.
And then, the flourishing notes in modern-ancient alphabet
and the learned swing of page in page
with archaic league
Ezra Pound, the meteor engraving
the venerated and whitened ocean.
And which better funeral ceremony
could give you the Italy’s people,
if not that it’s happened, in Venice,
with the flowered boat guided in lagoon,
the oar of strength beating on the wave,
the decorated wood for the last voyage
between the bridges of the poetry and the Renaissance?
And also, the respecting and the silent people
between the attractive beauties of the architectures
and the homage of the generations that have drunk at your “Cantos”.
The ancient and won ashes of your bones, that are going…
and the usury in use that remains
and against which your anger has hurled
for the vile money kept in the banks.
Omero, Dante and Ovidio, your first readings,
happened in Europe, were holding your oar
and the verses in the waves that by the blow open themselves
making rings that are dilating
towards new resonant horizon.
The diary of the last dreams, the inner sufferings,
the cultures and the races, in your new vision
for which the doctors would see “the incapacity to understand and to want”.
Thomas Eliot told for you “the best smith”,
for the emotional burst and the creative energy,
the moulded language, the extensive culture
in the mosaic of the poetic tesserae, the ancient and the modern of them.
The sublime beauty of Venice, therefore, was
with your invoked pureness in the prayer to God
such as in your “Sacred Nightly Litany”.
The magic atmosphere
where you’ve wished to include yourself, aloof
in the exile of Liguria, comeback foreign wing
to the fury of the world.
River of ecstasy, therefore, and a current
of the conscience and of the consciousness,
a whirl of a feeling and rebellion,
with courageous and troubled word.
The incitation, so,
for persons or masks to resurrect
and to give again a sense to the life,
fallen down “in the rapid grimace” of your present,
and of our continuation,
made languid of intelligence and fruits,
and ready to show you the mistake, to turn you the face
but not to understand the greatness of the poetry
and the projection, from the last fight a time,
that now has new light, revived.
(english translation by Ettore Mosciàno)