The whipping boy of western poetry deserves betterby Robert Chandler / October 20, 2001 / Leave a comment
Published in October 2001 issue of Prospect Magazine
The tone and title of Michael Lind’s “Poetical Correctness” in the July Prospect give the impression that he is attacking an entrenched orthodoxy. There is nothing daring, however, about criticising Ezra Pound-no major poet of the last century is less fashionable. Pound’s place in our culture is a little like Sigmund Freud’s: Pound also suffers from being simultaneously over-familiar and unknown. Nine tenths of the advice offered at creative writing workshops is taken third-hand from Pound’s ABC of Reading; too few people, however, read Pound himself.
Many of Lind’s criticisms of Pound are justified. Pound’s work is often incomprehensible, and much is viciously fascist and anti-Semitic. I can’t help wondering, however, whether Lind has actually read Pound. Does he not realise that Pound also wrote poetry of remarkable clarity and simplicity? Like this famous early lyric:
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.
Pound’s early work is delicate and ethereal. By 1915, however, when he published the adaptations from Chinese collected in Cathay, Pound had become capable of a directness and conversational brio that brought new rhythms to poetry. For all his inaccuracies, Pound is also one of the greatest translators in the history of English verse. Even when he chooses to use archaic diction, his rhythms are alive and fresh. If I read any other translator of Homer, contemporary or not, and then turn to Pound’s first Canto-his version of Odysseus’s descent into the underworld-I feel as if I am looking for the first time at an old masterpiece that has been cleaned of centuries of grime and excessive varnish. And compared with Cathay, the often-praised translations of Arthur Waley seem prosaic and dilute.
One of our difficulties in approaching Pound is perhaps that we have grown mistrustful of beauty. In an age of plasti…