Author Information
Some Ancient Music
[afte Ezra Pound's poem, "Ancient Music"]
Gout is icummen in---
left foot, second toe.
Lhude sneers, "This is your fault,
"as it has always been,
"as you well know."
The agony---vicious and slow---
turns every pulse beat to a blow,
and makes me lame and halt.
Lhude says, "Punished for your sin,
"you can cry, you prideful lout.
"Do not pray on this to Christ,
"for He was not sacrificed
"to put your suffering to rout.
"If you cannot walk (I doubt
"that) spend some time on bended knees,
"nor does it matter what you please."
And the gout icummen in.
This is not some fitful dream,
but a real, waking nightmare:
and hurts me more than I can bear.
Is this like how the cow might seem
to squirm when the bull starts to ream
her? Thus I writhe and thrash about
and Lhude once more starts to shout
"Be quiet!" as with tears I scream.
Bouncing off the ceiling beam,
even curdling the fresh cream;
hoarse and raw, in steady stream,
with the toe in crimson, swollen gleam,
echoes my scream, and yes, I scream:
and scream and scream---
the gout icumen in.
Starward
