Who hoards the teeth of Pound’s old bitch?

Or: Chronography and callings

The sorcery of words is called language,
the sorcerer poet. Doctrines, out of form
and lineless color, are called anxiety.
Out of anxiety arises the man molded
by his sorceries and affixed by his doctrines.
Analogy acquaints allegory with his spirit
that summons a grammar into being,
his architecture in youth undimmed.
What his tongue despises his hand does not.

Folly this, that when wisdom yields senility
youths align and perish in too-severe
utility, how the artists do designed.
Then he—the old witch him, tame in years
and hog-fattened in the gullet—
fashions out of mere veneer and shade
(for there is nothing noble in heartache)
dooms in the language of his old age
we may sum up thus as “demolition.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Possible edit:

Then—the old witch him, tame in years
and hog-fattened in the gullet—he
fashions out of mere veneer and shade
(for there is nothing nobler than misery)
dooms in the language of his old age
we may sum up thus as “demolition.”

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~ by Jeremy on May 15, 2013.

One Response to “Who hoards the teeth of Pound’s old bitch?”

  1. “What his tongue despises his hand does not.” – I loved this sentence, this is a great,unique and creative poem.

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