A poem for Baz.

Barry, or Baz, is the minister at my local kirk. This morning he was discussing how to give a sermon, how real life intrudes, and how we went to home group Grumpy because Trump. The new reader should recall that I live in Dunedin, which considers the People’s Republic of Bezerkley as quite fascist.

But the poets have a correction. For they lampoon the pomposity of empire, while aware of their place and role.

As fools.

Abu Salammamm—A Song of Empire

Being the sort of poem I would write if King George V should have me chained to the fountain before Buckingham Palace, and should give me all the food and women I wanted.
To my brother in chains Bonga-Bonga.

GREAT is King George the Fifth,
for he has chained me to this fountain;
He feeds me with beef-bones and wine.
Great is King George the Fifth—
His palace is white like marble,
His palace has ninety-eight windows,
His palace is like a cube cut in thirds,
It is he who has slain the Dragon
and released the maiden Andromeda.
Great is King George the Fifth;
For his army is legion,
His army is a thousand and forty-eight soldiers
with red cloths about their buttocks,
And they have red faces like bricks.
Great is the King of England and greatly to be feared,
For he has chained me to this fountain;
He provides me with women and drinks.
Great is King George the Fifth
and very resplendent is this fountain.
It is adorned with young gods riding upon dolphins
And its waters are white like silk.
Great and Lofty is this fountain;
And seated upon it is the late Queen, Victoria,
The Mother of the great king, in a hoop-skirt,
Like a woman heavy with child.

Oh may the king live forever!
Oh may the king live for a thousand years!
For the young prince is foolish and headstrong;
He plagues me with jibes and sticks,
And when he comes into power
He will undoubtedly chain someone else to this fountain,
And my glory will
Be at an end.

Ezra Pound

e-m-forster-novelist-i-hate-the-idea-of-causes-and-if-i-had-to-choose

Pound was a fascist later: he chose the nationalist form of progressivism. But he went there clear-eyed: he was more of an ideologue than Orwell or Forster. They would have not betrayed their friends. Pound did. And,eventually, it drove him mad. But this was in the future: this was written before the first war. And he wants glory above all: even if that means chains, already.