(via youngmanhattanite) A quick surf thru my internets confirmed that I wasn’t the only one who found the sky over Manhattan last Friday nite (6/26) to be astoundingly beautiful—perhaps supernaturally so—with thick dabs of clouds gathered together in a sunset set of purple and pink.  When I look at them I think of the Ezra Pound poem, “In a Station of the Metro”: The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough. The first version of that poem was several pages long, but it didn’t convey the image that Pound wanted, and so he cut it back to a page, which he eventually whittled down to 14 words and a single silhouette with all of existence glowing against it.

(via youngmanhattanite)

A quick surf thru my internets confirmed that I wasn’t the only one who found the sky over Manhattan last Friday nite (6/26) to be astoundingly beautiful—perhaps supernaturally so—with thick dabs of clouds gathered together in a sunset set of purple and pink.  When I look at them I think of the Ezra Pound poem, “In a Station of the Metro”:

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;

Petals on a wet, black bough.

The first version of that poem was several pages long, but it didn’t convey the image that Pound wanted, and so he cut it back to a page, which he eventually whittled down to 14 words and a single silhouette with all of existence glowing against it.