O, Ezra .. Where has the art gone?

O, Ezra .. Where has the art gone?

I will not rant on for another second,
Or wasted description, for pictures are not pure,
Muddled only .. when fighting with nonsense.

O Ezra, memories of your trip to us could
Not be Analyzed
Not be Discussed
Talked on about, talked around about, the sounds of how,
You were misplaced on
Our campus walls -- we walled you in.

But that is home to you?
And that is important to you?
For Paris was not the cultural center, and neither was Crawfordsville, how true!

Even today.
Enough already,
with draining your dead corpse of its thoughts,
I am sick of hearing mongrels discuss (with smirks!!) your talented limitations.

And who can compare to you, manifested in your red scarlet robe of Images and
Language, Rhythm and Rhyme,
For even you said,
"Pay no attention to the criticism of men who have never themselves written a notable work."


-- This poem was in response to the gentleman's speech about Pound. I know that he was not critical of Pound or his work, but nevertheless I was deeply disturbed by his blather, critics in general, and their misplacement of the artistic valor of others.