I wonder if she marvelled at each letter as she set it, watched the words forming, the lines, the stanzas, and felt the rhythm of the prose as it slipped through the machine sheet by sheet.
The poem itself (in extract here) is a mystery to me. I marvel at what wife Vivian and friend Ezra Pound removed and changed when this is what remains. Such gorgeousness as it opens:
And then through to the end, the sometimes lovely, sometimes opaque prose shifts gears so many times, I'm lost. Damn modernism.
|"...I sat upon the shore|
|Fishing, with the arid plain behind me|
|Shall I at least set my lands in order?|
|London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down|
|Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina|
|Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow|
|Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie|
|These fragments I have shored against my ruins|
|Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.|
|Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.|
|Shantih shantih shantih"|
How does a poet go from "April is the cruellest month" to "shantih shantih shantih"?
Photo source: Hogarth press edition