thou wert a beaten dog

thou wert a beaten dog
beneath the hail
an Imagist who hailed failure
as late as 1963
after all those decades getting to say
"I know nothing".
Books piled upon books but spreading a handful
on the cutting-room floor
"these few, no more"
old better workman
(fade walking downstairs)
you wound up in the cage
because you though you were God-
but all of us artists think we are God
(I myself think I am Ezra Pound)
and we're no doubt right.
Knowing that fashion lasts only for a moment
a predilection for bizzarity nuovo,
weird sentiments, bravado calligraphy,
dee dah dee dah, things more eternal
stand better with God. I will treat first of the sun
because it shines
so unconvincingly this week,
a few feeble fitful rays to chase
the otherwise entrenchedly endless
rainy weather, I have not forgotten
nor am I likely to forget
the gruesome details of Tuesday.

written early 1981

© John Close