Desolate is the roof where the cat sat,
Desolate is the iron rail that he walked
And in the corner post whence he greeted the sunrise.
– E. Pound, Canto XXXIX
The rest of this canto is about sex as practiced by Greek goddesses and heroes, and maidens dancing to the Vernal Equinox… You’ll have to read it yourself – oh, but maybe just this bit:
Dark shoulders have stirred the lightning
A girl’s arms have nested the fire
Not I but the handmaid kindled
Cantat sic nupta
I have eaten the flame.
Yes, I’ve made it to Canto 42 (out of 117). What’s so odd is that here is this gorgeous canto, and another one (Canto 36) written on the nature of love, plunked down in the middle of poetry – if you can call it that – on the economic and banking structure of the American Revolution, comments on the military campaigns of Europe, and diatribes about taxes, arms-dealers, usury, and the idiocy of the kings and queens of Europe. ???
Never mind that the ATA is in need of rescue again (deja vu), I’m starting a new environmental consulting job tomorrow, and have mediations scheduled all week. As my Friday the 13th cat said to me, “embrace the insanity!” And so I will.