Metaphor Is, As A Common Feature Of

When Modernist Poetry, Or What Not So Long Ago Passed For Modernist Poetry, Can Reach The Stage Where The Following Piece By Mr. Ezra Pound Is Seriously Offered As A Poem, There Is Some Justification For The Plain Reader And Orthodox Critic Who Shrinks From Anything That May Be Labelled 'modernist' Either In Terms Of Condemnation Or Approbation. Better He Thinks, That Ten Authentic Poets Should Be Left For Posterity To Discover Than One Charlatan Should Be Allowed To Steal Into The Temple Of Fame.

The Rhythmic Pattern Of The Poem, Which Forces Continuity Of Attention - Incites A Pleasurable Compulsion To 'follow' - Is Either A Tried Metrical Suasion-contrivance Or A Specially Invented Pattern Of Physical Insistences, Equally, If Not More, Binding In Its Effect On The Reader. From A Straight Linguistic Point Of View, There Is Room For Wonder If There Is Not Latent Vice In This Environment In Which Pleasurable Physically-compelled Responses, Produced By Incidents Of Poetic Utterance, Are Identified With The Good.

... Whatever Is Not Happening Now Is Unimportant; It Is Merely Curious.

We Wait, All, For A Story Of Us That Shall Reach To Where We Are. We Listen For Our Own Speaking; And We Hear Much That Seems Our Speaking, Yet Makes Us Strange To Ourselves.

The Problem Of Good And Evil Is Not The Problem Of Good And Evil, But Only The Problem Of Evil. In Opposition To Good There Are Evil Characters, But There Are No Good Characters In Opposition To Evil. Evil Is Arguable, But Good Is Not. Therefore The Devil Always Wins The Argument.