Miltonic sonority and iambic pentameter were to them as important as the Monarchy to a Conservative.
“It appears to me,” said a young lady named Lola, whose accent seemed Australian, “that poetry is invocation. If it does not
invoke
, then no matter what style it employs, it is not poetry.”
“Invocation,” Pound cried, “belongs in churches. Poetry should present a precise image, in the fewest possible words, so that reading it is like being hit by an April breeze. That’s what leaves an impression in the mind. Invocation and repetition are all blather that detracts from the red-hot intensity of the poetic flash itself, which only lasts a moment.”
“Oh, come, Ezra,” Yeats protested mildly. “Repetitious rhythm is the essence of the act of love, which poetry is always, consciously or unconsciously, trying to simulate.”
Before Pound could reply, the young lady named Lola brazenly replied, without a blush, “Exactly the point, Mr. Yeats. Do you know what I consider the greatest modern poem? Captain Fuller’s ‘Treasure House.’ Do you know it?” And she quoted:
O thou brave soldier of life sinking into the quicksand of death! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!
O thou laughter resounding from the tombs! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!
O thou goat-dancer of the hills! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!
O thou red cobra of desire that art unhooded by the hands of maidens! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!
Sir John started violently and almost dropped his coffee cup. Once again the question “Another of us?” had animmediately affirmative answer.
Evoe
and
IAO
, according to Golden Dawn teachings, were two of the most secret Gnostic names to invoke divinity. He looked at Lola with astonishment, both because of these esoteric names she had quoted so casually and because nice young ladies simply did
not
speak so openly of the rhythm of the act of love. But she was looking at Yeats, awaiting a response, and her face was simply open and innocent; Sir John could not quite catch her eye.
“Captain Fuller certainly has his great moments,” Yeats said, with equal innocence, as if he were not aware that two of the most secret words of Power in occultism were being casually quoted in public. “However, while a few stanzas of that are fine, the whole poem does grow a bit wearisome after three hundred stanzas. There I must agree with Ezra that brevity would have been better.”
“Who—who is this Captain Fuller?” Sir John asked, trying also to sound casual.
“A great authority on military strategy, I’m told,” Pound said. “Lately, he has taken to writing quite a bit of mystical verse of that sort, all of it too damned long-winded and rhetorical for my taste.”
But Sir John was remembering, his pulses racing: “O thou red cobra of desire that art unhooded by the hands of maidens! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!” The phallic double meaning was too overt to ignore, especially in the context of Yeats’ remark about the rhythm of poetry being the rhythm of Eros. Was Lola, then, involved with one of the forbidden, lefthand lodges (“Cults of the Shadow,” Jones called them) that had split from the Golden Dawn and gone off in the direction of diabolism? He looked at her again and this time he did catch her eye, but what he read there was a most enigmatic humor. Was it friendly, mocking or dangerously malign? Or was his imagination merely fevered by the fact that he was under a two-year Oath of celibacy and yet knew, for the first time,a sensual yearning strong enough to conquer both his timidity with women and the stern Victorian ethics instilled in him by his family? Was this attraction strong enough, he thought in fear, to conquer his Oath? He turned his eyes to the other side of the room, feeling a rush of blood to the face, and found himself suddenly engulfed in suspicious thoughts. Yeats, obviously, was a member of the Golden Dawn. How many others at this poetry
“It appears to me,” said a young lady named Lola, whose accent seemed Australian, “that poetry is invocation. If it does not
invoke
, then no matter what style it employs, it is not poetry.”
“Invocation,” Pound cried, “belongs in churches. Poetry should present a precise image, in the fewest possible words, so that reading it is like being hit by an April breeze. That’s what leaves an impression in the mind. Invocation and repetition are all blather that detracts from the red-hot intensity of the poetic flash itself, which only lasts a moment.”
“Oh, come, Ezra,” Yeats protested mildly. “Repetitious rhythm is the essence of the act of love, which poetry is always, consciously or unconsciously, trying to simulate.”
Before Pound could reply, the young lady named Lola brazenly replied, without a blush, “Exactly the point, Mr. Yeats. Do you know what I consider the greatest modern poem? Captain Fuller’s ‘Treasure House.’ Do you know it?” And she quoted:
O thou brave soldier of life sinking into the quicksand of death! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!
O thou laughter resounding from the tombs! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!
O thou goat-dancer of the hills! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!
O thou red cobra of desire that art unhooded by the hands of maidens! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!
Sir John started violently and almost dropped his coffee cup. Once again the question “Another of us?” had animmediately affirmative answer.
Evoe
and
IAO
, according to Golden Dawn teachings, were two of the most secret Gnostic names to invoke divinity. He looked at Lola with astonishment, both because of these esoteric names she had quoted so casually and because nice young ladies simply did
not
speak so openly of the rhythm of the act of love. But she was looking at Yeats, awaiting a response, and her face was simply open and innocent; Sir John could not quite catch her eye.
“Captain Fuller certainly has his great moments,” Yeats said, with equal innocence, as if he were not aware that two of the most secret words of Power in occultism were being casually quoted in public. “However, while a few stanzas of that are fine, the whole poem does grow a bit wearisome after three hundred stanzas. There I must agree with Ezra that brevity would have been better.”
“Who—who is this Captain Fuller?” Sir John asked, trying also to sound casual.
“A great authority on military strategy, I’m told,” Pound said. “Lately, he has taken to writing quite a bit of mystical verse of that sort, all of it too damned long-winded and rhetorical for my taste.”
But Sir John was remembering, his pulses racing: “O thou red cobra of desire that art unhooded by the hands of maidens! I adore thee, Evoe! I adore thee, IAO!” The phallic double meaning was too overt to ignore, especially in the context of Yeats’ remark about the rhythm of poetry being the rhythm of Eros. Was Lola, then, involved with one of the forbidden, lefthand lodges (“Cults of the Shadow,” Jones called them) that had split from the Golden Dawn and gone off in the direction of diabolism? He looked at her again and this time he did catch her eye, but what he read there was a most enigmatic humor. Was it friendly, mocking or dangerously malign? Or was his imagination merely fevered by the fact that he was under a two-year Oath of celibacy and yet knew, for the first time,a sensual yearning strong enough to conquer both his timidity with women and the stern Victorian ethics instilled in him by his family? Was this attraction strong enough, he thought in fear, to conquer his Oath? He turned his eyes to the other side of the room, feeling a rush of blood to the face, and found himself suddenly engulfed in suspicious thoughts. Yeats, obviously, was a member of the Golden Dawn. How many others at this poetry
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