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Tag Archives: Ezra Pound
Rejoyce. It’s Bloomsday.
Some men send flowers to commemorate an anniversary. James Joyce wrote Ulysses. Overachiever. On June 15, 1904, young James Joyce sent a note to Nora Barnacle, who was a waitress at Finn’s Hotel. Barnacle (what an apt name) was a … Continue reading
Posted in Books, James Joyce, On This Day, writers
Tagged Bloomsday, E.M. Forster, Edna O'Brien, Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, Ford Madox Ford, Frank McCourt, George Bernard Shaw, Gertrude Stein, Ireland, John Banville, Katherine Mansfield, Stefan Zweig, Sylvia Beach, T.S. Eliot, Ulysses, Vladimir Nabokov, W.B. Yeats, William Carlos Williams
54 Comments
“Fear adjective; they bleed nouns. Hate the passive.” — poet Basil Bunting
It’s his birthday today. By all accounts, including his own, Basil Bunting was some kind of genius prodigy. Along with everything else, he was also Iran correspondent for the London Times for a bit, and was very interested in Persia … Continue reading
Posted in Books, On This Day, writers
Tagged Basil Bunting, England, Ezra Pound, Iran, Michael Schmidt, poetry, W.B. Yeats
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2020 Books Read
What a year, huh. What a dumpster-fire year. I read a lot, mostly in the mornings, and it helped create rituals for the days, which often seemed endlessly the same, interchangeable. I read a lot of long and challenging books … Continue reading
Posted in Books
Tagged Austria, ballet, Ballets Russes, Belfast, Biography, books read, Croatia, Czechoslovakia, Czeslaw Milosz, dance, Dubravka Ugrešić, Elinor Lipman, Elizabeth Bishop, Eminem, essays, Ezra Pound, fiction, H.D., Hannah Arendt, Hitler, Ireland, Jane Austen, Jean Arthur, Marcel Proust, Nick Tosches, nonfiction, Olivia Laing, poetry, Poland, politics, Rebecca West, Robert Kaplan, Roman empire, Russia, Ryszard Kapuściński, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Shirley Jackson, Stalin, true crime, Ukraine, war, WWII, Yugoslavia
38 Comments
My Social-Distancing “#StayTheFHome” Reading List
Have a lot of writing to do, plus my day job, which I already do remotely (so hanging around in my apartment with my cat is not all that big an adjustment), although having three weeks of perishable food lined … Continue reading
Posted in Books
Tagged Austria, Biography, D.H. Lawrence, Elizabeth Bishop, Ezra Pound, H.D., Marcel Proust, Nick Tosches, Russia, Stefan Zweig, stuff I've been reading, true crime, war
8 Comments
Happy Birthday, H.D.
The poet Hilda Doolittle (known as H.D.) was born in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania on September 10, 1886. It is difficult for me to really realize that she was born in Pennsylvania and not Liverpool, her name sounds so My Fair Lady-ish. … Continue reading
Posted in On This Day, writers
Tagged D.H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound, H.D., poetry, Sergei Eisenstein
4 Comments
The Books: “The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry” – H.D.
Daily Book Excerpt: Poetry: The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry, Volume 1: Modern Poetry, edited by Jahan Ramazani, Richard Ellmann, and Robert O’Clair The woman’s name was Hilda Doolittle. I can’t help but think about My Fair Lady … Continue reading
Posted in Books
Tagged Ezra Pound, H.D., Norton Anthology of Poetry, poetry, Sergei Eisenstein
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The Books: “The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry” – Ezra Pound
“Do not retell in mediocre verse what has already been done in good prose.” – Ezra Pound I grew up hearing stories of Ezra Pound, not just of his fascism and his time in a cage in Italy, or being … Continue reading
Posted in Books, James Joyce
Tagged Ezra Pound, Norton Anthology of Poetry, poetry, politics, Walt Whitman, war
7 Comments
The Books: “The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry” – William Carlos Williams
Daily Book Excerpt: Poetry The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry, Volume 1: Modern Poetry, edited by Jahan Ramazani, Richard Ellmann, and Robert O’Clair For me, William Carlos Williams was one of the poets where my first response to … Continue reading
Posted in Books
Tagged Ezra Pound, Norton Anthology of Poetry, poetry, William Carlos Williams
5 Comments
Occupation
[I am working on] a poem of immeasurable length which will occupy me for the next four decades, unless it becomes a bore. — Ezra Pound, 1915