Re Joyce (James) O happy days Ireland does re joyce A gnol a devol a nur reviv Upfinnegan w/ (s)laughter He hung up St Jimmy O’Sinner of Dublin, O fella no Bloom- Ing flower, petals crushed In Molly’s coddled bed His ruptfirm godlike (Ya, H C E) Twicer he hollowed onaphone Linguefiction’s penman is Shaun to a quill, Sing T, even stephen She Anna runs along the river lippy yes now Here she comes here comes everybody Now Is yes

Before the Clocks Struck Three (Mr. Eliot Had an Apparition in Salford and It Was Very Foggy) Salford is the rainiest place, getting Inside my shoes, wetting Tired feet in undarned socks. Yesterday, before the clocks Struck three, three old horses Munched wet grass Among the relics Of Clifton’s Wet Earth Colliery: Which on reflection, Were beautiful objects Of rust, time and toil. Fog swirls, curls Around the clock tower, The quays, the trees —

Ezra Pound's Apparition When I called for the Direct treatment of the thing, Ezra Pound saw at once that if Words are to be as things, Language must be man-made. And when I called for the Other sex to be remade as Objects, Pound went further and Converted an entire crowd into a Bough with blossoms. But why 'apparition,' I asked. It's hardly a thing at all. And ‘petals on a wet, black bough’ Sounds too pastoral, unmanly even, Not what I expected at all.