Wet

[rejectomorph]

Rain fell straight and, where it pooled and drowned the straggling edge of the lawn, drops made patterns as they pierced the brown shine of it. All the windless afternoon their splashing shivered the air, and grey light rippled the unsteady ponded surface. Dusk brought a lowering of the clouds and a rising breeze. Drifting vapors found beams the porch lights sent to make the raindrops glitter, so fog-drifts and bright streaks revealed the air's restless motion. Gust-caught drops drummed windows and walls, while downspouts gurgled the roof's waters into streams the darkness swallowed. The whole night will be like this, with any luck, and tomorrow even more. Welcome, rain.



Sunday Verse

Francesca

by Ezra Pound


You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hands,
Now you will come out of a confusion of people,
Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I who have seen you amid the primal things
Was angry when they spoke your name
In ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,
Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again,
Alone.

Comments

[daisydumont.livejournal.com]

wow. i was reading some of pound's poems a week or so ago in an anthology and was surprised, though i shouldn't have been, by how beautiful they are. he was so repellant personally, you know?

[rejectomorph]

Oh look, I misspelled his name! Ezra Pund? D'Oh!

But he was indeed a superb poet and an odious man.