If Ezra Pound were alive today (and he is) he'd be teaching at a small college in the Pacific Northwest and attending the annual convention of writing instructors in St. Louis and railing against tenure, saying tenure is a ladder whose rungs slip out from under the scholar as he climbs upwards to
sign up to receive a new poem-a-day in your inbox
Today in 1862
Claude Debussy was born.
I remember where I was and what I was doing
one hundred years and two months later:
elementary algebra, trombone practice,
Julius Caesar on the record player
with Brando as Antony, simple
buttonhook patterns in football,
the French subjunctive, and the use
of "quarantine" rather than "blockade"
during the Cuban Missile Crisis.
It was considered the less belligerent word.
Much was made of it in 1962,
centenary of Debussy’s birth.
And if today I play his Rhapsody
for Saxophone and Orchestra
for the ten minutes it requires of
my undivided attention, who will attack me for
living in Paris in 1908 instead of now?
Let them. I'll take my stand,
my music stand, with the composer
of my favorite Danse Tarantelle.