The curse of the intellectual (poem)

One of the troubles of reading a lot, writing a lot and spending most of your time in your brain is that it does not switch off that much. Kea can be content looking at a sunset more frequently than I: but for both of us the brain is so often busy. I do confess to reading myself to sleep more often than not.

This curse of the poet is the curse of anyone who has to write: papers, reports, poetry, fiction. It takes considerable effort. In most times, it pays poorly, and Blogging does not pay.

But it did not get Pound into trouble. Radio Broadcasts for the Fascisti running Italy during a time of war did.

The Lake Isle

O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Give me in due time, I beseech you, a little tobacco-shop,
With the little bright boxes
piled up neatly upon the shelves
And the loose fragment cavendish
and the shag,
And the bright Virginia
loose under the bright glass cases,
And a pair of scales
not too greasy,
And the votailles dropping in for a word or two in passing,
For a flip word, and to tidy their hair a bit.

O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Lend me a little tobacco-shop,
or install me in any profession
Save this damn’d profession of writing,
where one needs one’s brains all the time.

Ezra Pound