So why aren't you reading the GREATEST American poet?

fyi this guy is "Maul" from the lit discord. he's a bipolar dude who makes all the "books for my mommy porn fetish" threads

Give me reason to merit poetry other than melopeia, logopeia and phanopeia.

Imagine that...!

classic Maul

when there's something he doesn't like his line is "so this is the power of....[person who likes thing i dont like]

he's literally on anti-depressants

>imagine
Nice

I don't know what the fuck you're talking about but the fact you post on a gay little /v/eddit chat is sad

I thought you introduced yourself in this thread as a gay little redditor, actually

>N-no u

Profound emotional content. Something Pound and his autismo kin don't seem to be able to experience so they try to turn art into a sad little linguistic minecraft

the dude paints his nails...this is who you're arguing with

I preferred him when I didn't know that.

I haven't posted a single thing so far in this thread. Lemme guess, Spaft? Stfu, you retarded haggis fucker.

Hey you like dicks?

>emotional content
Sou you like YA?

He likes dicks

I would unironically respect someone more if they said they were a fan of YA than Pound

Why so com-POUND, dude?

I don't understand a thing. To me, it sounds like an incoherent collection of images. I even understand the Italian and the French but it's not helping much. This kind of poetry makes me feel so stupid. Won't a kind user help a brainlet out?

>This kind of poetry makes me feel so stupid. Won't a kind user help a brainlet out?

I'm a certified genius and English grad, I can tell you there is literally nothing there. Save your insecurity and respect for real writers like Joyce, this guy is just all smoke and mirrors

>real writers like Joyce
Kekaroo! Pseudonerdo certified!

hey canuck dishwasher, go suck talebs dick

I am

>like an incoherent collection of images
you're ahead of the curve
just make the final leap and it'll all be clear

Wow, that's fucking gay! Aren't you gay, you little homofag, right?

>H.D.
she was a woman (man) how can she hold up to Pound?

Pound was pretty much a woman

i don't agree with you but 'sad little linguistic minecraft' is a fucking hilarious phrase and i applaud it

>fascist
>against the Jews
>intelligent
>white
>American
he's all but a w*man

By a powerful and methodical layering of symbolism and narrative combined with her stately music to reach a singularity Pound failed to see and Eliot failed to put to paper.

There was something incredibly womanly about him, aside from of course his homosexuality. The way he seemed to have a fascination with dressing up and losing himself in new identities.
Even his interest in Italy reminds me of the way American women would go over to Europe and start riding guinea dicks and suddenly fool themselves into thinking they're European.
He was borderline transexual frankly

>aside from of course his homosexuality
now I'll need to see a source.

Well you're a shit lol

*blocks your path*

Pound was obnoxiously bisexual. He may or may not have repressed it but its so clearly present in his flamboyance and masculine-erotic obsessions

He's def better than Pound, but lack the directness of a 'Great' poet.

Stop posting this pseud here.
Saged.

>saged
>bumps the thread

Bash the fash

I read it and enjoyed it before I knew it was Ezra Pound

>doesn't understand post-modernist semiotic idea transference

I thank Pound every day for Eliot & Joyce, but I could really do without his poetry.

And Fletcher was 19 when he went to it,
And his major went mad in the control pit,
about midnight, and started throwing the ‘phone about
And he had to keep him quiet
till abut six in the morning,
And direct that bunch of artillery.

And Ernie Hemingway went to it,
too much in a hurry,
And they buried him for four days.

yeah fuck that fat fuck mate, his music taste slurps cum off my dick

Thats a fairly poor example of Pound's genius.

And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly seas, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas,
Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,
Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day’s end.
Sun to his slumber, shadows o’er all the ocean,
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever
With glitter of sun-rays
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven
Swartest night stretched over wretched men there.

Canto I is easy mode.
It does have a strange ending for someone that doesn't read much poetry, that's why I chose canto CXVI.
Another Canto I really do like is LXXV -- simple and melopeic.

Canto LXXV

Out of Phlegethon!
out of Phlegethon,
Gerhart
art thou come forth out of Phlegethon?
with Buxtehude and Klages in your satchel, with the
Standebuch of Sachs in yr/ luggage
---not of one bird but of many.

Et ma foi, vous savez,
tous les nerveux. Non,
Y a une limite; les bêtes, les bêtes ne sont
Pas faites pour ça, c’est peu de chose un cheval.
Les hommes de 34 ans à quatre pattes
qui criaient “maman.” Mais les costauds,
La fin, là à Verdun, n’y avait que ces gros bonshommes
Et y voyaient extrêmement clair.
Qu’est-ce que ça vaut, les généraux, le lieutenant,
on les pèse à un centigramme,
n’y a rien que du bois,
Notr’ capitaine, tout, tout ce qu’il y a de plus renfermé
de vieux polytechnicien, mais solide,
La tête solide. Là, vous savez,
Tout, tout fonctionne, et les voleurs, tous les vices,
Mais les rapaces,
y avait trois dans notre compagnie, tous tués.
Y sortaient fouiller un cadavre, pour rien,
y n’serainet sortis pour rien que ça.
Et les boches, tout ce que vous voulez,
militarisme, et cætera, et cætera.
Tout ça, mais, MAIS,
l’français, i s’bat quand y a mangé.
Mais ces pauvres types
A la fin y s’attaquaient pour manger,
Sans orders, les bêtes sauvages, on y fait
Prisonniers; ceux qui parlaient français disaient:
“Poo quah? Ma foi on attaquait pour manger.”

C’est le corr-ggras, le corps gras,
leurs trains marchaient trois kilomètres à l’heure,
Et ça criait, ça grincait, on l’entendait à cinq kilomètres.
(Ça qui finit la guerre.)

Liste officielle des morts 5,000,000.

I vous dit, bè, voui, tout sentait le pétrole.
Mais, Non! je l’ai engueulé.
Je lui ai dit: T’es un con! T’a raté la guerre.

O voui! tous les homes de goût, y conviens,
Tout ça en arrière.
Mais un mec comme toi!
C’t homme, un type comme ça!
Ce qu’il aurait pu encaisser!
Il était dans une fabrique.
What, burying squad, terrassiers, avec leur tête
en arrière, qui regardaient comme ça,
On risquait la vie pour un coup de pelle,
Faut que ça soit bein carré, exact…

Dey vus a bolcheviki dere, und dey dease him:
Looka vat youah Trotzsk is done, e iss
madeh deh zhamefull beace!!
“He iss madeh de zhamefull beace, iss he?
“He is madeh de zhamevull beace?
“A Brest-Litovsk, yess? Aint yuh herd?
“He vinneh de vore.
“De droobs iss released vrom de eastern vront, yess?
“Un venn dey getts to deh vestern vront, iss it
“How many getts dere?
“And dose doat getts dere iss so full off revolutions
“Venn deh vrench is come dhru, yess,
“Dey say, “Vot?” Un de posch say:
“Aint yeh heard? Say, ve got a rheffolution.”

That’s the trick with a crowd,
Get ‘em into the street and get ‘em moving.
And all the time, there were people going
Down there, over the river.

Pound actually published Ulysses in a literary magazine of which he was editor. He also gave critical comments on the manuscript, many of which Joyce accepted. Think of that the next time you are drooling over those beautiful sentences in Ulysses, asshat.

I only like Poetry because of how it sounds. That is why I think it is untraslatable. You can translate meaning, not sound.

Poem about an arrow crossing the sky with many windy sounding sibilant consonants is something that cant be translated successfully in most cases.

a warlike martial poem with many aggressive rolled and thrilled Rs is something that cant be translated into English.

>tfw can't speak french
at least it sounds nice.

That's Canto XIV, right?

I can't either, I had to get my French girlfriend to translate it, apparently uses a lot of slang terms and isn't exactly 100% fluent, but she said to a French speaker, it'd be quite comedic

It is, one of his best I believe
poetryfoundation.org/poems/54317/canto-xvi-56d234860e2a1

>Hurr he was a parasite and gatekeeper to an actual genius's work whatdya think of that!?

I guarantee none of those critiques were either good or unobvious

Joyce himself acknowledged the value of Pound's help. Try to read about it before spouting nonsense.

I know well about it thank you. Joyce was a great writer, not so much a great reader. Far too cowardly and convictionless of a spirit

Poetry is not good or bad based on the ease or difficulty of reading it, but the aesthetic value and meaning.

Just read it aloud and feel the meter. Poetry is song, not philosophy, although it can be.

It's abstract, but it's still beautiful.

>mfw
youtu.be/syfkpTqkx5I

Don't even bother trying, brainlets like him do not want to understand, they just want to feel smarter than a second ago when reading a book