Ezra Pound

Pierrots

From the French of Jules Laforgue (Scene courte mais typique) Your eyes! Since I lost their incandescence Flat calm engulphs my jibs, The shudder of Vae soli gurgles beneath my ribs. You should have seen me after the affray, I rushed about in the most agitated way Crying: My God, my God, what will she say? ! My soul's antennae are prey to such perturbations, Wounded by your indirectness in these situations And your bundle of mundane complications. Your eyes put me up to it. I thought: Yes, divine, these eyes, but what exists Behind them? What's there? Her soul's an affair for oculists. And I am sliced with loyal aesthetics. Hate tremolos and national frenetics. In brief, violet is the ground tone of my phonetics. I a not 'that chap there' nor yet 'The Superb' But my soul, the sort which harsh sounds disturb, Is, at bottom, distinguished and fresh as a March herb. My nerves still register the sounds of contra-bass, I can walk about without fidgeting when people pass, Without smirking into a pocket-looking-glass. Yes, I have rubbed shoulders and knocked off my chips Outside your set but, having kept faith in your eyes, You might pardon such slips. Eh, make it up? Soothings, confessions; These new concessions Hurl me into such a mass of divergent impressions.