S I X T E E N    W O R D S
F O R    W A T E R


A play about Ezra Pound

by
Billy Marshall Stoneking


Copyright © 1991
Billy Marshall Stoneking
http://ezrapound.cjb.net

Website: http://www.wheresthedrama.com
Blog: http://www.billystoneking.blogspot.com
Mobile 0437 864 487
Email: stoneking31@yahoo.com


Characters


Ezra Pound:	     	The American poet. Early 70s.


Woman:		        An attractive, well-dressed, middle-aged 
			psychiatrist from the Justice Department, 
			Washington, D.C. Articulate, firm, humane.

Betsy:		        A university student from New York. 
     			Early 20s.

		 



Scene

Ezra Pound’s room, Chestnut Ward
St Elizabeth’s Hospital
Washington, D.C.


Time

Late winter/early spring, 1958.



____________________________________________________




 		
				ACT ONE



SETTING:	A private room in Chestnut Ward,  St Elizabeth’s
                Hospital, Washington, D.C. - the bowels of a derelict 
                submarine: wadded-up paper, trampled books, battered 
                cardboard boxes, old paint tins, tools and discarded 
                newspapers, dirty clothes, a couple of tennis 
                rackets, a few dusty oil paintings, etc. - the cargo 
                hold on a voyage to the dead.

		Suspended over the chaos are several strands of twine 
                (like clotheslines) to which clippings, letters, 
                charts and sheaves of manuscripts have been attached: 
                an extravagant if not highly eccentric filing system 
                that can be raised or lowered at will by the 
                manipulation of a number of pulleys.

AT RISE:	Elvis Presley’s Heartbreak Hotel blares out of the 
                shadows, then slowly recedes into the body of a 
                chunky “Bakelite” radio. The room is dark. A hopeful 
                beam of light shines through a tiny window in the 
                room’s only door. More of a peephole than a window.

		A gray-haired old man, dwarfed by a larger-than-life 
                desk, hunches over an antique typewriter, asleep. His
                clothes are disheveled; his hair, uncombed. HE is the
                poet - EZRA POUND. 

		The music continues…

		The door to the room opens, and an attractive, well- 
		dressed WOMAN, briefcase in hand, steps into the
		door frame. SHE pauses for a moment, then enters.
		SHE flicks on the lights, switches off the radio, and
		gazes round the room. SHE peruses the filing system,
		notes the unmade bed, runs her index finger along
		the top of the dresser, checking for dust.


				POUND
			(In his sleep)
		“They will come no more…  the old men with the 
		beautiful manners.”

			(The WOMAN removes her 
			overcoat. SHE takes a pad 
			and pencil from her briefcase 
			and turns to POUND) 

				POUND (Continued)
		“O!  O god! Our god is a gallant foe that 
                playeth behind the veil.”
			(HE emits a drawn-out moan, 
			then raises his head. HE runs 
			his fingers through his hair. His 
			eyes dart over the topography 
			of the desk, as if HE might
			be searching for something HE 
			has misplaced. HE sighs)

			(The WOMAN moves closer. 
			Sensing her presence, POUND 
			turns in his chair. Their eyes 
			meet. POUND blinks, as if trying 
			to dispel an apparition. HE 
			reaches out, tentatively, as if 
			to test whether or not SHE
			is real. SHE pulls away)

				POUND (Continued)
		A dream?

				WOMAN
		The Department of Justice.

				POUND
		Ah! A nightmare, then.

				WOMAN
		Doctor Overholser suggested the corridor, 
                but I thought it might be more comfortable 
                if we met in your room.
	
			(POUND glances round at the mess)

				POUND
		Gives new meaning to the word “digs”, 
                wouldn’t you say?
			(Beat)
		Where’s the other one?

				WOMAN
		The other one?

				POUND
		The man. They usually send a man.

				WOMAN
		Oh! You mean Doctor Steiner. 

				POUND
		That’s the one! Gawd, that guy can talk. Never 
		can get a word in edgewise.

				WOMAN
		You made quite an impression on him.

				POUND
		He likes the way I listen. We almost know each 
		other.

				WOMAN
		He had quite a lot to say about you.

				POUND
		Always brings a bottle of whisky with him. The 
		cheap stuff. Usually finishes it, too.
			(Suspiciously)
		Why isn’t he here?

				WOMAN
		Doctor Steiner won’t be coming.

				POUND
		Why not!

				WOMAN
		He’s not with the Department anymore.

				POUND
		Found another line of work, did he?

				WOMAN
		He retired.

				POUND
		Pity.  Lasted much longer than the others.

				WOMAN
		I’ll be handling your case from now on. 
                My name is…

				POUND
		Must be the catalyst.

			(Beat)

				WOMAN
		Pardon me?

				POUND
		Waal, I don’t normally see people on 
                Tuesdays, y’know. Busy schedule.

				WOMAN
		Today is Friday, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		Friday!  Well, there you have it! Three 
                days lost already.

				WOMAN
		Doctor Overholser told you I was coming, 
                didn’t he?

				POUND 
		Overholser!

				WOMAN
		He said he’d spoken to you about me.

				POUND
		Who else is here?
			(Peering at the audience)
		You’ve brought someone with you.

				WOMAN
		No. 

				POUND
		Don’t lie to me. I can hear ‘em. 

				WOMAN
		Mr Pound, there’s no one here… 

				POUND
		Shush! Listen.
			
			(They listen)

				POUND (Continued)
		Sometimes I have the distinct impression 
                I’m in a theatre. Everything’s so goddamned 
                unreal.

				WOMAN
		A theatre?

				POUND
		Yeah.

				WOMAN
		What sort of theatre?

				POUND
		Oh, I don’t know. An ordinary theatre. An 
                ordinary theatre with an ordinary audience.
			(Waving to someone in the 
			audience)
		Hell-lo!  Hello, Doctor Overholser! I can 
                see you!
			(To WOMAN)
		Two-way mirror. Part of their therapy  
                program. Can’t scratch your ass without the 
                feeling someone’s watching.
			(HE moves to his dresser, 
			opens a drawer and takes out 
			a large sweater with bright, 
			geometrical designs on it)

				WOMAN
		You think Doctor Overholser is spying 
                on you?

				POUND
		The man’s a virtual peeping tom. Bloody 
                unnerving. Everyone’s so goddamned preoccupied 
                with my private affairs. Voyeurism! It’s all 
                the go these days.

				WOMAN
		I’m sure Doctor Overholser respects your 
                privacy.

				POUND
		Don’t bullshit me. The man hangs on 
                every word. The thought he might actually  
                miss something terrifies him.

				WOMAN
		I’m sure he enjoys having you on the ward.

				POUND
		Oh yes, if lost me his entire social life 
                would evaporate. The man is voracious. 	Last 
                week, he wanted to know everything I could 
                tell him about Georgian poetry. Yesterday
		it was Byzantine art. And tomorrow…  tomorrow…?
			(Referring to his diary)
		Ah yes! Tomorrow he’s pencilled in Confucius. 
                Egad! There’s no rest from it.  I must be 
                the only person on the planet the man can 
                have a serious conversation with.

				WOMAN
		Perhaps he thinks your ideas are worth 
                listening to.

				POUND
		Anyone who listens that closely can’t be 
                trusted. 

				WOMAN
		He trusts you.

				POUND
		To a point, my dear, to a point. Only 
                because he knows where he can find me. 
                Why, just the other day he was convinced 
                Bill Williams was trying to sneak in 
                contraband. Can you imagine it?

				WOMAN
		Contraband?

				POUND
		Oh yes!
		So much depends
		upon
		a sharpened hacksaw,
		glazed with cherries,
		inside the homemade 
		fruitcake.
			(Beat)
		The man knows absolutely nothing about 
                poets. And even less about me.
			(Goes on picking lint)

				WOMAN
		Thinks you’re going to escape, does he?

				POUND
		You’ve heard! Yes! Over-hauler’s little 
                wager. He’s betting Frost is going to spring 
                me. I believe he has five bucks riding on it.

				WOMAN
		Really!

				POUND
		Five bucks, I know. A real gambler.
			(HE slips into the sweater.
			Holds out his arms)
		So, whaddaya reckon? A bit loud?

				WOMAN
		No. No, not at all.  It’s  very becoming.  
                It’s… it’s you.

				POUND
		A spinster in Schnectady, New York, made it 
                for me. Knitted it herself. Blind since birth. 
                Took her three and a half years. A real fan.

			(Goes on picking lint, 
                        then looks up)

				POUND (Continued)
		What’re you staring at?

				WOMAN
		Was I staring?

				POUND
		I don’t care what you call it. You were 
                looking at me.

				WOMAN
		I’m sorry. It’s just that, well… I would’ve 
                taken you to be a much bigger man.

				POUND
		Everyone’s a critic. Actually, I am not as 
                short as I look. It’s just that the ceilings 
                are a mite high.
			(HE gathers up a stack of 
			newspapers and magazines 
			from a chair and drops it on 
			the floor)
		Take a seat, my dear. Make yourself at mental 
                home.

				WOMAN
		Thank you.
			(SHE crosses to the chair)

				POUND
		Ignore the mess. It’s always like this.

			(SHE sits)

				WOMAN
		I’d like to ask you a few questions… if you 
                wouldn’t mind.

			(POUND picks up a plate of
			leftover paté. HE sniffs it)

				POUND
		Dammit! I thought paté lasted forever.

			(HE chucks the plate of paté
			into a wastepaper basket, and
			begins tidying up)

				WOMAN
		Mr Pound?

			(HE continues to tidy up)

				WOMAN
		Mr Pound!

				POUND
		What?
			
				WOMAN
		I was thinking we might have a little chat… 
                you know, about some of your ideas.

				POUND
		I loathe chats.

				WOMAN
		There’s no reason to think of me as the 
                enemy. I assure you, that’s not my role.

				POUND
		Now I’m worried.

				WOMAN
		I can imagine what you must be feeling…

				POUND
		I don’t think so. But what about you? 
                What’re you feeling?	
			(Moving closer)
		Ah yes… I see. It’s all over your face.

				WOMAN
		What?

				POUND
		Don’t be so coy. Look in the mirror. Go 
                on. There’s no use trying to hide it. You 
                can’t hide it!

				WOMAN
		Hide what?
		
				POUND
		I’m used to it. Believe me… it’s okay.
 
				WOMAN
		I’m not hiding anything, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		I can take it. Doesn’t bother me in the 
                slightest.

				WOMAN
		What’re you talking about?

				POUND
		You think I’m paranoid, don’t you?

				WOMAN
		Paranoid?

				POUND
		See!  It just rolls off the tongue!

				WOMAN
		A little over-sensitive maybe, but…

				POUND
		You bet I’m sensitive! I’ve watched ‘em. 
                I know all about ‘em.

				WOMAN
		Who?

				POUND
		The people in charge here. The clipboard 
                brigade. The way they huddle in corners. 
                They don’t think I notice, but I do. The 
                Inquisition was organized by people like 
		that.

				WOMAN
		Why do you think you’re here, Mr Pound?

				POUND
		They didn’t tell you!
			(In utter disgust)
		Bureaucrats!

				WOMAN
		I’d like to know what you think.	

				POUND
		Well, that certainly puts you in the minority.
			(Beat)
		Have you read my poems?

				WOMAN
		No.

				POUND
		Essays?
				
				WOMAN
		I’m afraid not.

				POUND
		What about my Guide to Kulchur? 

				WOMAN
		Sorry.

				POUND
		Not a scrap?

				WOMAN
		Not yet.

				POUND
		And you’re interested in what I think?

				WOMAN
		I’m interested in what you have to say.

				POUND
		What about the translations?  Or…  the play?

				WOMAN
		I diagrammed sentences in high school English, and 
		studied math and science at college.

				POUND
		What do you read, then?

				WOMAN
		Well, let me see. There’s, uh, American 
                Medicine, and… uh,  The New England Medical 
                Journal… Psychiatry And Health… and… oh yes, 
                I just finished Gone With The Wind.	

				POUND
		Gone With the Wind!
					
				WOMAN
		By Margaret Mitchell. 

				POUND
		Stepped in front of a bus, didn’t she?

				WOMAN
		I think it was an automobile.

				POUND
		That’s right. Hit and run. Some people 
                have all the luck. 

			(POUND moves away from the 
			WOMAN, then, in a bizarre display 
			of fatigue, stretches out on the floor. 
			HE twists and turns, trying to make 
			himself as flat as possible)

				WOMAN
		Mr Pound?
			(Pause)
		Mr Pound?

			(Pause)

			(HE sits up)

				POUND
		There it is again! Did you hear that?

				WOMAN
		What?

				POUND
		Someone laughing. 

				WOMAN
		Where?

				POUND
		Sort of…
			(Gesturing)
		Sort of there.

			(SHE listens)

				WOMAN
		I can’t hear anything.

				POUND
		Shush!

				WOMAN
		It was probably one of the other patients…

			(POUND gets to his feet)

				WOMAN (Continued)
		Or termites.

				POUND
		Termites don’t laugh.

				WOMAN
		It’s a very old building.

				POUND
		They laugh in old buildings?

				WOMAN
		No one’s laughing, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		I bet we’d be able to see them if I turned 
                out the lights. Shall I turn out the lights?

				WOMAN
		I don’t think that’ll be necessary.

				POUND
		But you won’t be able to see them with 
                the lights on, not unless they light a match, 
                and they’re not allowed to smoke.

				WOMAN
		No. Not in a theatre.

				POUND
		Now you’re catching on.
			(HE switches the lights off.
			Darkness)

				WOMAN
		Mr Pound!
			(Beat)
		Ouch!

				POUND
		Sorry.

				WOMAN
		Mr Pound, where have you gone?

			(Chair noises, banging)

				WOMAN (Continued)
		This is ridiculous.

				POUND
		Can you see them?

				WOMAN
		Who?

				POUND
		The people.

				WOMAN
		What people?

				POUND
		Give it a minute. Let the eyes adjust. 
                Extraordinary what you can see once the 
                eyes adjust.

				WOMAN
		I can’t see a thing.

				POUND
		Patience, my dear.

				WOMAN
		Please turn on the lights, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		Oh yes, yes…  I’m starting to see something 
                now… over there… on the left.

				WOMAN
		I’m going to call the orderly, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		Wait! Can’t you see that? 

				WOMAN
		Where?

				POUND
		You’ve got eyes, don’t you?

				WOMAN 
		There’s nothing to see.
			(SHE switches on the light)

			(POUND is standing on top 
			of his desk, staring out at the 
			audience. HE turns to the 
			WOMAN)

				POUND
		What’re you doing?

				WOMAN
		Would you mind coming down.

				POUND
		What for?

				WOMAN
		I want to talk to you.

				POUND
		Did you see them?

				WOMAN
			(Angrily)
		Would you please come down!

				POUND
		But there’s a whole group of ‘em.

				WOMAN
		I know.

			(POUND steps on to a chair)

				POUND
		And they’re watching us. Both of us!

				WOMAN
		Maybe if we mind our own business they’ll 
                go away.

				POUND
		No, I’ve tried that. It only encourages 
               ‘em.

				WOMAN
		Well, then we’ll just have to encourage 
                them a little more.

				POUND
		It’s not like you think.

				WOMAN
		Please, Mr Pound.

				POUND
			(To audience)
		Maggots!
			(HE steps from the chair to the
			floor)

				WOMAN
		Sit down!

			(HE sits)
				
				WOMAN (Continued)
		Thank you.
			(SHE sits)
		As you probably know, the Justice Department 
                has been reviewing your case for the purpose 
                of ascertaining your mental competency. 
                They’ve asked me to make an assessment of 
                your mental competency. Based on my findings 
                and the doctors’ reports, a recommendation will 
		be made about your fitness to answer the charges 
                against you…

				POUND
		Usual bureaucratic balls-up, eh?

				WOMAN
		Routine procedure.

				POUND
		Probably would’ve been easier if I’d hung 
                myself.

				WOMAN
		The government wants your case settled one 
                way or the other. That’s why I’m here.

				POUND
		Well, what’s it been now? Eleven, twelve 
                years? And still no sign of a trial. I’d 
                say you haven’t come a moment too soon.

				WOMAN
		You were the one who pleaded insanity.

				POUND
		Bad legal advice. Do I look like I have a 
                screw loose?
			(HE smiles stupidly)

				WOMAN
		Treason is punishable by death, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		So is life, my dear.

				WOMAN
		They can still send you to the electric 
                chair, you know.

				POUND
		I ain’t skeerd.

				WOMAN
		You understand what I’m saying?

				POUND
		Oh yes, I understand plenty. It’s all the 
                other crap the law doesn’t cover that  
                confuses me.

				WOMAN
		Such as?

				POUND
		The sanctified stupidities! The whole 
                structure of what we so glibly refer to as 
                modern civilization. What about all that?

				WOMAN
		The committee is judging you, Mr Pound. 
                Society isn’t part of the brief.

				POUND
		Oh, I see. Yes. That explains it. Of course.   
                The memo mentality. Cogs in the wheel. Right. 
                I almost forgot. "Whom God would destroy, he 
                first puts into the hands of the public service!” 
                Silly me. Silly old fart. For a moment there 
                I almost thought poetry could make a difference 
                in the world. My mistake. It is obviously the 
                brief writers who have all the power in this 
                country. I was merely succinct.

				WOMAN
		This hasn’t anything to do with poetry, 
                Mr Pound.
		
				POUND
		No, goddammit!  It’s about usury. And decay! 
                The destruction of everything Adams and 
                Jefferson stood for. The nation’s wealth 
                reduced to interest payments, and managed by 
                a few individuals for private profit without 
                any kind of production whatsoever. Greed 
		before bread, Mediocrity cloaked in graft.

				WOMAN
		The question is: are you capable of defending 
                yourself.

				POUND
		You mean am I crazy!

				WOMAN
		If it’s decided your mental faculties are 
                such that you can mount a reasonable defense,  
                then you’ll have your day in court.

				POUND
		And if I’m nuts?

				WOMAN
		Then you will have to remain here.

				POUND
		For the rest of my life.

				WOMAN
		Or until such time as you are able to 
                answer the charges.
				
				POUND
		Well I ain’t guilty, and the bastards 
                know it. The only reason they keep me 
                cooped up here is so I can’t tell the 
		truth about ‘em.

				WOMAN
		Your descriptions of President Roosevelt 
                were pretty extreme. People aren’t likely 
                to forget that sort of thing.

				POUND
		I only said what was true.

				WOMAN
		Over the radio.

				POUND
		And what about freedom of speech? Or don’t 
                that apply to poets no more?

				WOMAN
		The Constitution applies to everyone, Mr 
                Pound.

				POUND
		Well, freedom of speech is mockery if 
                it don’t include free speech over the radio.

				WOMAN
		It doesn’t mean you can say anything 
                you like. 

				POUND
		The theatre was on fire, my dear!

				WOMAN
		You said the country was run by pigs.

				POUND
		I gave ‘em the facts.

				WOMAN
		As you saw them.

				POUND
		As an American citizen.

				WOMAN
		You defended Fascism.
					
				POUND
		My talks gave pain to the enemy - the 
                real enemy.

				WOMAN
		I’ve read the transcripts.

				POUND
		Then you had better read them again.

				WOMAN
		You said what you said during wartime, 
                Mr Pound.

				POUND
		To save the Constitution.

				WOMAN
		By undermining the government?

				POUND
		By trying to bust a racket! 
			(Beat)
		You think we elect the people who run 
                this country? Political bug-wash! It’s 
                private interest that runs this country.	
                I’m telling you, there’s a conspiracy 
                against decency and justice going on out 
                there, and it’s going on right now.	 

				WOMAN
		Hitler and Mussolini were the conspirators.

				POUND
		Bilge!

				WOMAN
		You think they cared about decency…  and 
                justice?  The history of America was made 
                by people who gave their lives to fight 
                that kind of hatred and intolerance.

				POUND
		The history of this country was made 
                by men who kept their names out of it     
                so’s they wouldn’t get caught. Believe 
                what you like, my dear. A man still has 
                the right to defend himself, to have 
                his ideas examined one at a time.

			(The WOMAN stares back)

				WOMAN
		I understand you’re a close friend of 
                the novelist, James Joyce.

				POUND
		Joyce?
			(Beat)
		Ah yes. Joyce and I speak regularly.

				WOMAN
		He lives in Washington, does he?

				POUND
		No. No, as a matter of fact, he’s dead.

				WOMAN
		Oh. I’m sorry.

				POUND
		These things happen.

				WOMAN
			(Consulting her notepad)
		Nevertheless, there seem to be a number 
                of living writers who see you as the most 
                important literary figure of the twentieth 
                century.

				POUND
		And who believes ‘em!

				WOMAN
		Ernest Hemingway says you taught him 
                everything he knows about writing. T.S. 
                Eliot refers to you as a genius.

				POUND
		Where’s it say that?

				WOMAN
		They’ve signed a petition. The one 
                Robert Frost is sending round. They’re  
                calling you the father of modern poetry.

				POUND
		It does have a ring about it.
				
				WOMAN
		You like that, don’t you?

				POUND
		And what damn good has it done me?

				WOMAN
		You’re famous.

				POUND
		Infamous, my dear! That’s what my wife says.

				WOMAN
		Practically a household name.

				POUND
		A smidgen of a reputation.  Nothing to get 
        	excited about. Nothing approaching that of 
                Mr Eisenhower’s in any case.

				WOMAN
		President Eisenhower isn’t a writer.

				POUND
		No. No, not yet. But I’m sure he’s working 
                on it. Least he can get to a good library 
                when he needs one. By the way, how’s the 
                golf game? Still shooting in the low 90s?
			(Pause)
		Great game, golf. Impossible, though, in 
                a room this size.
	
			(The WOMAN scribbles a note 
			in her pad. POUND cranes his 
			neck to read it)

				POUND (Continued)
		Getting it all down?
			(Reminding her)
		“… room this size.”

				WOMAN
		Thank you.
				
				POUND
		Don’t mention it.
			(HE moves to his bed, lies
			down)
				
				WOMAN
		Doctor Barnes has been a little disturbed…

				POUND
		You’ve noticed!

				WOMAN
		He says you talk in circles.

				POUND
		Graphic imagination, that boy.

				WOMAN
		He believes you’re suffering from some 
                kind of severe self-deception.

				POUND
		Cat-piss.

				WOMAN
		You don’t like Doctor Barnes, do you?

				POUND
			(With accent)
		Waal, let’s jus’ say he ain’t as entertainin’ 
                as Elvis Presley.

				WOMAN
		He’s assembled an impressive amount of data 
                concerning your case.

				POUND
		Barnes is a scientist. He has an abiding 
                faith in the proposition that everything 
                can be reduced to numbers.
				
				WOMAN
		He is also a highly qualified doctor.

				POUND
		He equates health with servility.

				WOMAN
		He was telling me you talk in your sleep. 
                He said you do it almost every night.

				POUND
		Last bastion of free speech in this 
                country, my dear.

				WOMAN
		At first he thought it was only gibberish, 
                but now he isn’t so sure. He has the 
                impression you’re mumbling names.

			(POUND sits up)

				POUND
		Names? What sort of names?

				WOMAN
		He thought they sounded foreign. You 
                speak several languages, don’t you?

				POUND
		I can ask for the bathroom in Latin, if 
                that’s what you mean.
			(HE pulls an apple from the
			bedclothes, polishes it on his
			sleeve)

			(The WOMAN consults her 
			notepad. SHE thumbs through
			the pages until SHE finds what
			SHE’s looking for)

				WOMAN
		What does Wool-long-gong mean to you?

				POUND
		Come again?

				WOMAN
			(Reading from pad)
		“Wool-long-gong”.

				POUND
		Is it s’pose to mean something?

				WOMAN
		You tell me.
		
				POUND
		Woolen-gong… Woolen gong. Hmm. What a strange 
		concept.

				WOMAN
		Why’s that?

				POUND
		A woolen gong. You wouldn’t be able to hear it!

			(The WOMAN stares back, 
			then consults her pad again)

				WOMAN
		What about… 
			(Reads)
		“Warr-nam-bool”?

				POUND
		Warr-nam-bool… Warr-nam-bool. No, I don’t 
                think I know this language.

				WOMAN
			(Reading)
		“Wand-jina.”

				POUND
		Wand-jina?

				WOMAN
		That’s what it says…
			(Spelling it)
		W-A-N-D-… 

				POUND
		What is this? Verbal ink blots?

				WOMAN
		They’re some of the words you’ve mumbling 
                in your sleep. The orderly, Mr Brierson, 
                wrote them down.

				POUND
		Brierson!

				WOMAN
		He thought they might be part of a code.

				POUND
		Gawd, I wish he’d find a hobby!

				WOMAN
		They’re not code words?

				POUND
		My dear woman, our greatest problem is 
                that almost everything is a goddamned code. 
                We do not know what is real any more. Every 
                gesture is symbolic. A man cannot shit 
                short of some pundit finding hidden meaning 
		in it. Even having children is a metaphor. 
                Hence, we cannot trust ourselves; and, 
                therefore, we do not trust anybody. No my 
                dear, I do not believe in codes, and even 
                if I did I certainly would not use one in 
                my sleep!
			(HE takes a bite from the
			apple, chews vigorously)

				WOMAN
		Doctor Barnes thinks they may be the names 
                of places in Australia.

				POUND
		Auss’ralia?

				WOMAN
		That’s what he said. You made several 
                references to Australia in the radio broadcasts. 
                You suggested selling it to the Jews, I believe.

				POUND
		Barnes has been to Auss’ralia, has he?

				WOMAN
		I don’t think so.

				POUND
		Well, how the hell would he know?

				WOMAN
		I believe he found them in his crossword 
                puzzle dictionary.

				POUND
		That’d be right. Mind like a steel trap.

				WOMAN
		Do you do crosswords?

				POUND
		Not if I can help it. Although now that 
                you mention it, I do remember Barnes asking 
                me for a six-letter word beginning with “B” 
                – the name for an Auss’ralian wild horse.

				WOMAN
		And?
				
 				POUND
		I called him a “bastud”…  and he wrote 
                that down!

			(Pause)

				WOMAN
		You correspond with several Australians, 
                don’t you?

				POUND
		I read The Edge.

				WOMAN
		The edge?

				POUND
		It’s an Auss’tralian literary journal.

				WOMAN
		Really!

				POUND
		It’s not all kangaroos and beer, y’know. 
                They can read!

				WOMAN
		I’m sure they do. It’s just that, well… 
                whenever I think about Australia, it seems 
                so large and empty and faraway. 

				POUND
		Idaho is worse.

				WOMAN
		But Idaho is connected to something bigger.

				POUND
		So is Auss’ralia! Under the ocean.
			(POUND places his apple 
			on the edge of the desk, and 
			picks up a pair of binoculars)
		Damn things are permanently out of focus. 
			(Holds them to his eyes)
		Government issue. What is far is near. And what
		is near is far.  Have a captain, my dear.
			(Beat)
		Captain Cook.  Look!
			(HE holds the wrong end of
			the binoculars to her eyes)
		The illusion of vistas.

			(SHE takes the binoculars 
			from him and puts them down)

				POUND (Continued)
		Maybe it was something I ate. This talking 
                in my sleep…  maybe it’s the food.

				WOMAN
		Or something from your past.

				POUND
		You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

				WOMAN
		Tell me about Australia. What do you know 
                about it?

				POUND
		Not much.

				WOMAN
		What have you heard, then? What have you read?

				POUND
		I can’t see what this has to do with my 
                mental competency.

				WOMAN
		It is interesting, though. The names you’ve 
                been saying.

				POUND
		What comes out of the mouth doesn’t necessarily 
		explain anything…  although…

			(Beat)
	
				WOMAN
		What?

				POUND
		Never mind. It’s not important.

				WOMAN
		What were you going to say?

				POUND
		Nothing.  I’ve talked too much.

				WOMAN
		But we’ve only just started.

				POUND
		We have?

				WOMAN
		Tell me what you were going to say.

				POUND
		I don’t think so.

				WOMAN
		Why not?

				POUND
		Why should I?

				WOMAN
		It might be useful.

				POUND
		For whom?

				WOMAN
		For me.

				POUND
		More grist for the note pad, eh?

				WOMAN
		I want to understand you.

				POUND
		Uh-huh.

			(Pause)

				POUND (Continued)
		All right, then.
			(POUND sits down next to the
			WOMAN)
		Ever walked naked in a desert?

				WOMAN
		Pardon me?

				POUND
		You know… taken off your clothes and walked 
		naked in a desert.
			(HE waits for her a reply, 
			but there is none)
		A desert.
			(Beat)
		I knew you wouldn’t understand.

				WOMAN
		You’re not making yourself very clear.

				POUND
		Words cannot do everything, my dear. That’s 
                the problem. You would’ve had to have been 
                there.

				WOMAN
		Where?

				POUND
			(Sighs)
		Find a desert, take off your clothes, 
                and walk! The sense of vulnerability is 
                exhilarating. To feel the wind on your 
                skin; the hot sand on the soles of your 
                feet. 
			(Beat)
		Well? 

				WOMAN
		I’m a Methodist. I mean, I was raised 
                Methodist. My parents were Methodists.

				POUND
		Methodist… Jew…  Taoist… it hardly matters, 
                my dear.
				
				WOMAN
		I had a grandmother who was a nudist.

				POUND
		Good Gawd!

				WOMAN
		Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. We 
                promised not to tell anyone outside the 
                family. I mean, we all thought of her 
		as the black sheep, but…

				POUND
		Don’t apologize.

				WOMAN
		I’m not!
				
				POUND
		Sounds like it.

				WOMAN
		Well I wasn’t.

				POUND
		Good.
			(Beat)
		You wouldn’t happen to be against the 
                death penalty by any chance?

			(Pause)

				WOMAN
		We’re not here to talk about me, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		No. Quite right. How rude of me. It’s just 
                that when you mentioned your grandmother…

				WOMAN
		We were talking about Australia.

				POUND
		Yes. Auss’ralia.
			
				WOMAN
		Well?

				POUND
		Well what?

				WOMAN
		Tell us about it.

				POUND
		Us?

				WOMAN
		Me.

				POUND
		Whaddaya wanna hear?

				WOMAN
		Whatever you like.

				POUND
		Auss’ralia, eh?
			(HE thinks)
		Waal., uh… let’s see… it’s the, uh, oldest 
                piece of dry land on earth.

				WOMAN
			(Taking notes)
		Yes.

				POUND
		And, uh… it has a parliamentary democracy.

				WOMAN
		Uh-huh.

				POUND
		Gave women the vote years before the 
                Americans even thought of it… and, uh…  uh…
				
				WOMAN
		Go on.

				POUND
		It’s the home of the Pintupi.

				WOMAN
		The what?

		                POUND
		Did I say that?

				WOMAN
		You said home of the… Beenobee?

				POUND
		Pintupi. An obscure Aboriginal tribe. You’ll 
                find a reference or two in  The Pisan Cantos.

				WOMAN
		You’ve written about them!

				POUND
		Oh yes.

				WOMAN
		How peculiar. There’s no mention of that 
                in your file.
			(SHE makes a note in her pad)

				POUND
		There is now.

				WOMAN
		So how did you come to write about the
                Aborigines when you’ve never been to 
                Australia?

				POUND
		After they arrested me, they chucked me 
                in a cage no larger than a dog kennel. Six 
                weeks on a concrete floor with the wind 
                and the rain. And Mount Taishan my only 
		friend. When one is alone one remembers 
                the strangest things.

				WOMAN
		You read about them?

				POUND
		It’s not all in books, my dear.

		         	WOMAN
		So?

				POUND
		So imagine: no books, no libraries, no 
                bank accounts, no clothes! You wanna know 
                where civilization screws up? It wears 
                clothes when it should be naked, and is 
		naked when it should be wearing clothes. 
                Europe, for example.

				WOMAN
		Europe?

				POUND
		Ah yes!
		Yoo-rup! How wonderfully plump!
		Gluttonous to the core!
		Force-fed and filled up
		from early infantry to Murder in the Cathedral.
		Conceived out of cave men and cave women.
		Terrorized by saber-tooth and frost;
		devoid of pulchritude.
		Familiar and strange as the parts
		of one’s body one never sees.
		Or the eyes of eagles lost
		in machines evolved from earth
		and trees in the heartland
		of indolent factories…

				WOMAN
		Mr Pound…

				POUND
		Vast armies of sculptures,
		bastion-like with retinues of scribes,
		chanting. Crowded in	
		backs against the weather.
		Crowding - a goad for competition.
		Fighting makes the blood hot, you know.
		And makes the bankers even richer.
		Two thousand years of kulchur
		to make a habit of Art!
			(Beat)
		And what have we actually produced?
		Corruption. Bankruptcy. Wars. 
		The higher maggotry! 
		Not like the Aborigines!
			
			(Pause)

				WOMAN
		Was that one of your own compositions?

			(POUND picks up the apple,
			snaps off another chunk.

				POUND
		You liked it?

				WOMAN
		Not particularly. Was it a poem?

				POUND
		No.
			(Tosses the unfinished apple
           		over his shoulder)

			        WOMAN
		It sounded like a poem.

				POUND
		I make it a point never to write poems 
                while I’m being interviewed.

				WOMAN
		It was very passionate.

				POUND
		Thank you.

				WOMAN
		And a little frightening.

				POUND
		You’re fishing!

				WOMAN
		Australia was a prison colony, wasn’t it?

				POUND
		The English sent their children there 
                for stealing loaves of bread. The British 
                have always had an interest in prisons. 
		Building them, I mean. Industrious little 
                buggers with an obsession for security.

				WOMAN
         	Maybe that’s the connection.

				POUND
		What?

				WOMAN
	        Maybe you see some parallel between Australia 
                and your time here.

			        POUND
		No. Too obvious.

				WOMAN
		But not impossible.

				POUND
		Nothing’s impossible, my dear.

				WOMAN
		Do you ever dream?

				POUND
			(With suspicion)
		Why?

				WOMAN
		You were having a dream when I came in.

				POUND
		After you came in.
			(Beat)
		This part of the investigation?

				WOMAN
		Does it make you nervous?

				POUND
		Should it?  Reckon I might let something 
                slip, eh?

				WOMAN
		I shouldn’t think so.

				POUND
		You following all this?

				WOMAN
		Avidly.

				POUND
		Good.

				WOMAN
		So… can you remember any of your dreams?

				POUND
		How do you know I won’t just make something up?

				WOMAN
		I don’t.

			(Pause)

				POUND
		Waal… there is one, one that recurs. 

				WOMAN
			Is it always the same?

				POUND
		Always the same, more or less. Quite odd, really.

				WOMAN
		Tell me about it. 

				POUND
		Waal… there’s red earth… and, uh,  stone 
                implements. Axe-heads, that sort of thing, 
                on the ground. And, uh… a mountainous horizon… 
                strange-looking trees… silence.  Oh yeah, 
                and rabbit shit.

				WOMAN
		Pardon me?

				POUND
		Well, I’m no expert, but it’s about the right size.
			
				WOMAN
		Is it vivid?

		   		POUND
		The rabbit shit?

				WOMAN
		The dream.

				POUND
		Oh! No, no, not vivid. More like seeing 
                everything through a smoke haze. Where do 
                you s’pose they come from? Dreams.
	
				WOMAN
		That’s a difficult question. 

				POUND
		I’m not going anywhere.

				WOMAN
		Oh!  I thought you said you were busy.

				POUND
		You’ve changed my mind.

				WOMAN
		I see.

				POUND
		So tell me.
				
				WOMAN
		Dreams.  Well…  I tend to see them as 
                expressions of an individual’s unacted 
                desires and urges. Repressed emotions and 
                drives are symbolically lived out in dream 
		states. 

			(POUND becomes increasingly
			restless as SHE continues)
	
				WOMAN (Continued)
		The entire history of the human race, 
                theoretically, can be understood in terms of 
                repression. The conscious mind is only a 
                small part of the total picture. In civilized 
		societies, we find these repressed urges bubbling 
                up in dreams. They may not be…
			(Beat)
		Are you listening, Mr Pound?

				POUND
		The Freudian angle, eh?

				WOMAN
		You don’t agree with Freud?

				POUND
		We spend twelve hundred generations developing 	
                so-called civilization to the point where it 
                produces an expert who can offer us salvation 
                from our superstitions, and all we end up with 
                is another superstition! If it takes someone 
                like Freud to save us from our neuroses, what’s 
		it gonna take to save us from Freud?

				WOMAN
		You don’t like Freud?

				POUND
		Viennese sewerage! America’s been up Freud’s asshole
		for twenty years! 

				WOMAN
		Oh I get it. Freud.

				POUND
		I thought we were talking dreams.

				WOMAN
		Freud’s Jewish.

				POUND
		PussyKIKEeatrists! The conspiracy of Jews is the
		cause of everything wrong with the world, 
                including the publishing business! Read The
                Protocols, dammit!  The Ten Commandments 
                is “Chewlaw”. A lot of regulations not based 
                on any ethic whatsodam but merely aimed at imposing 
		fines for the benefit of priests and levys. The 
                jew book has been filling bughouses with nuts 
                ever since they set up such institutions.

	 		        WOMAN
		That’s a very harsh assessment.

				POUND
		What they’ve done to mankind is worse.

				WOMAN
		Do you really hate them that much?

				POUND
		Hate them! No! No, on the whole I have a 
                bigger quarrel with the Irish.  But I can’t 
                see what any of this has to do with the 
                indictment.

			        WOMAN
		You had a lot to say about them in the radio
                broadcasts.

			        POUND
		I wouldn’t hurt a fly.

			(The WOMAN consults her note
			pad)

				WOMAN
		On the ninth of April, 1942, you said that
                “… the United States has been invaded by vermin, 
                meaning the Jews, and that Roosevelt belonged 
                in an insane asylum…”

				POUND
		Too good for him!

				WOMAN
		On the twenty-third of April, you told 
                your audience that if the American public 
                had had the sense to eliminate Roosevelt 
                and his Jews or the Jews and their Roosevelt at 
		the last election, America would’ve never 
                gone to war.

				POUND
		They’ve known for years what I think!

			        WOMAN
		You have signed letters with “Heil Hitler” 
                and swastikas. You’ve even described Hitler 
                as a saint and a martyr. 

				POUND
		I wasn’t indicted for anti-Semitism.

	          		WOMAN
		No.

		        	POUND
		Well, I’m glad we agree on that.

		         	WOMAN
		But you knew what you were saying, didn’t you?

				POUND
		No one understood a damn thing!
							
				WOMAN
		But you knew what you were saying.

			(A SIGNIFICANT PAUSE)

				POUND
		Yes!

				WOMAN
		Do you really hate them that much?

				POUND
		One must take them individually, my dear.

				WOMAN
		Not like they were taken at Auschwitz, you mean.

				POUND
		There weren’t any gas ovens in Italy.

          			WOMAN
		And not very much justice, either.
 
				POUND
		Ask the Rothschilds about justice.

				WOMAN
		And what about the Cohens… and the Blums… and 
		the Goldsteins?

	        		POUND
		Friends of yours, are they?

		        (The WOMAN moves to the desk)
				
		        	WOMAN
		You know how Hitler dealt with traitors, 
                don’t you?
			(Beat)
		He hung them with piano wire.

			(SHE plucks a string of the
			mandolin lying on the desk as 
			SHE recites each victim’s name)

				WOMAN (Continued)
		Von Witzleben

				POUND
		A-Flat.

				WOMAN
		Hase
	
				POUND
		C-Major.

				WOMAN
		Von Stauffenburg.

		         	POUND
		No, my dear!  Stauffenburg was shot. Nothing 
                to do with piano wire.
			(Snatching the mandolin away
			from her)
		Wonderful imagination. Taken by music, are we?

				WOMAN
		You can’t see it, can you?

		         	POUND
		And what about Vivaldi?  Or don’t he count?

				WOMAN
		Lucky for him he wasn’t Jewish.

				POUND
		Think I would’ve left him unheard?

				WOMAN
		It seems you have a preoccupation with tribal people.

				POUND
		My mind wanders. Nomad.
			(More emphatic)
		No mad!

				WOMAN
		You think life would’ve been more bearable 
                if the brown shirts had taken over?

				POUND
		That’s got nothing to do with it. And stop 
                telling me what I think!

				WOMAN
		I’m trying to understand you.

				POUND
		Well, you’ll not understand a damn thing 
                until you understand the money system.    
                How many times do I have to say it?
		“Five million young people without jobs!
		One hundred thousand violent crimes!
		FOUR million adult illiterates!
		3rd term of FDR:
		CASE for the prosecution!”

				WOMAN
		You can say that about a lot of countries.

				POUND
		But not the richest country in the world.

				WOMAN
		It’s not as simple as that.

				POUND
		The truth is always simple. It is only the 
                Lie that is complicated.

				WOMAN
		And who is to say what is lie and which is 
                the truth?

				POUND
		No country can suppress truth and live well.

		        	WOMAN
		What about decency… loyalty… patriotism? 

				POUND
		Oh, I’m all for national pride, my dear. You 
                know me. But you’re a fool if you think you 
                can have loyalty to something you don’t 
                understand. The horror is: those in power 
                know even less about what’s going on than 
                you do! Or I do! So long as the papers arrive 
                every morning and the toast don’t burn, we 
                are quite content to believe it all has 
                meaning. Life in the monkeyhouse.

				WOMAN
		You’re very lucky, you know, being an 
                American citizen. In another country, they 
                would’ve thrown away the key.

				POUND
		Yes, in a free country they keep dangling 
                it in front of your face, just out of reach. 
                America should’ve lost the war. Look how 
                the Japs prosper!

				WOMAN
		You are unhappy about the result of the war?

		         	POUND
		The trouble with modern warfare is that 
                it never gives you a chance to kill the 
                right people. And yes, I am unhappy.
			
			(Beat)
			
				POUND (Continued)	
		You fancy a cup of tea?

	 	        	WOMAN
		No, thank you.

				POUND
		Good. Nothing so undramatic as a cup of tea.
			(Beat)
		What about a bagel, then?

		        	WOMAN
		Nothing.

				POUND
		Provolone?

				WOMAN
		I’m not hungry.

				POUND
		For anything?

				WOMAN
		I’ve eaten.

			(Pause)

				POUND
		Maybe there is nothing to do but give 
                up speaking altogether. 
			
			(The WOMAN makes a note 
			in her pad. POUND gazes down 
			at her)

				POUND (Continued)
		Your pen’s leaking.
			(Hands her a tissue)

				WOMAN
		Thank you.

				POUND
		Don’t mention it.

			(SHE wipes her fingers and her
			pen as POUND moves to his
			bed and sits down)

				WOMAN
		So… are you satisfied with the treatment 
                you’ve been receiving here?

				POUND
		What treatment? The bastards haven’t 
                even arrived at a diagnosis!

				WOMAN
		You have feelings of melancholia?

				POUND
		In abundance.

				WOMAN
		Fits of depression?

				POUND
		Unmitigated!

				WOMAN
		A sense of isolation?

				POUND
		It’s not exactly the YMCA

				WOMAN
		You don’t feel at home in America.

				POUND
		I live in an insane asylum. Of course I 
                feel at home.

		        	WOMAN
			That’s not what I meant.

				POUND
		Well, you can spend a lifetime getting 
                clear about what you mean.

			(Pause)
				
				WOMAN
		What do you want, Mr Pound?

			(Pause)

				POUND
		A new civilization!

			(A PROFOUND SILENCE)

				WOMAN
		If you were tried, and they acquitted, 
                would you stay in the United States?

				POUND
		And go to football games? And the World Series?

				WOMAN
		Well…

				POUND
			(Warming up)
		And sing The Star-Spangled Banner… and eat 
                turkey and cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving… 
                and television?

				WOMAN
		I suppose.

				POUND
		Oh!
			(Rising)
		“Oh, the thought… the thought of what 
                America would be like if the Classics had 
                a wide circulation, oh well, it troubles 
                my sleep!”

			(The WOMAN stares back, nonplussed)

				WOMAN
		I take it that means no.
	
				POUND
		I don’t see that it’s any one’s damn 
                business what I do when I get out.
	
				WOMAN
		There’s been some concern that your 
                criticisms about the United States might 
                be exploited by a foreign power.

				POUND
		Which goes to show how little they know 
                about history. I should’ve taken my day 
                in court when I had the chance. And I 
                ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til I’ve had my say!

				WOMAN
		You can say whatever you like.

				POUND
		In court!

				WOMAN
		You pleaded insanity.

				POUND
		I hadn’t realized before what a compliment 
                it was to be hanged.
			
			(Pause)	

				WOMAN
		You really don’t want this to go to court, 
                do you? You thought you’d plead insanity and 
                they’d slap you on the wrist and let you go.

				POUND
		The question is: am I right?

				WOMAN
		The question is: are you sane? I don’t 
                think you’re as crazy as everyone thinks.

				POUND
		Oh, they’re going to love hearing that 
                down at the Justice Department. Locking up 
                a sane man in an asylum 
		for nearly thirteen years. Yes, that sounds 
                like the American Way.
				
				WOMAN
		I’d say you’ve done rather well for yourself. 
                You have everything you need right here. Wine, 
                chess, caviar, tennis, a constant stream of 
                visitors…

				POUND
		Yes. Everything except freedom, my dear.

				WOMAN
		Doctor Barnes says you’re writing more than 
                ever. It’s not so very different from being on 
                a literary fellowship, is it?

		        	POUND
		I’ve always said America owed its ten best 
                poets a living, but this wasn’t exactly what 
                I had in mind. You’d like to see me get the 
                chair, wouldn’t you?

				WOMAN
		No.

		        	POUND
		Think I’ve got it coming, eh?

		         	WOMAN
		It’s not up to me.

				POUND
			(Framing the words)
		She always gets her man.

				WOMAN
		I abhor what you’ve done, and what you’ve 
                had to say about the Jews I find completely 
                despicable, but the thought of sending you 
                to the electric chair…  I don’t believe in 
		capital punishment, Mr Pound. I never have. 
                That’s what makes it so difficult. 

				POUND
		Yes. A bitch of a situation.

		        	WOMAN
		I am talking about your life.

				POUND
		We are talking about the rights of the 
                individual! What’d they have to do to buy 
                you off?

				WOMAN
		No one’s bought me.

				POUND
		Then why’re you going against what you believe?

				WOMAN
		I love my country, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		A human being has a duty to avoid servility.

				WOMAN
		You threatened the United States.

				POUND
		Only the cranks who are running it.

				WOMAN
		People can abuse freedom, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		Only when they ain’t free.
				(Beat)
		What’re you afraid of? What is it? The gentle 
                nudge of oblivion, or merely politics?

				WOMAN
		You aren’t a political prisoner.

				POUND
		No, I’m here for committing accuracy. C’mon, 
                open your eyes. They should’ve hung me in 
                1946 - it would’ve been easier. Or maybe 
                fixed it to look like a suicide.
			
				WOMAN
		The Department isn’t out to get you, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		No. It’s you they’re after!  Sending you 
                down here to this dreary rat trap, making 
                you listen to a crazy old fool. 
		A good bureaucrat never makes a decision. 
                Rule number one, two and three, my dear. 
                Think about it. Say I’m mad, and they’ll 
                have to leave me here. America’s skeleton in 
		he closet, the national treasure it deserves. 
                Not such a good option. But if you say I’m 
                sane, well, they’ll have to give me the 
                forum of a courtroom. They’ll have to let me 
		speak. And maybe, even, the firing squad. 
                You wouldn’t like that now, would you dear? 
                No, we’re both on trial here.

				WOMAN
		You don’t know what you’re talking about. 
	
          			POUND
		Of course I don’t! I’m depressed and 
                paranoid and untrustworthy. But you’re 
                the sucker who’s making the recommendations.
			(Beat)
		You never should’ve got involved. You 
                should’ve stayed right out of it.
	
				WOMAN
		I think I’m capable of looking after myself.

				POUND
		Bet nobody else wanted it.

				WOMAN
		Nobody else was asked.

				POUND
		Right!  Cos this situation - this forgotten 
                piece of the war, this demented old porcupine - 
                is a bitch of an embarrassment to them. And 
                it has nothing to do with my mental health. 
                This is about the abuse of language. It’s an 
		exercise in scapegoating and, I’m afraid, 
                you’re it!

				WOMAN
		I don’t believe that for a moment.

				POUND
		And that’s exactly what will allow them 
                to get away with it.

				WOMAN
		Get away with what?

				POUND
		Lies. Hypocrisy and lies. 

				WOMAN
		It’s your mental condition the Department 
                is interested in.

				POUND
		Like shit it is! This is about justice 
                and injustice. The right to confide or 
                not to confide. To decide what we 
		keep and what we give away.
	
				WOMAN
		Stop confusing the issue, Mr Pound!

				POUND
		I want to know what is mine! How far do 
                you people go?
			
				WOMAN
		You know, I think you like it here. The 
                noble victim. The abused visionary. The 
                genius in the madhouse. That offers a 
                lot more scope than the role of the elderly, 
		almost-forgotten poet in exile, doesn’t it?

				POUND
		It’s heartening to see you’re not letting 
                objectivity obscure the facts.
	
				WOMAN
		You’re the centre of attention. Living 
                proof of the injustice of the system. You 
                don’t really want to be released at all, 
		do you? You’ve been using us all along.

				POUND
		I certainly have not dropped an atom bomb 
                on anyone.

				WOMAN
		The bomb was used to stop the war.

				POUND
		The bomb was used so’s they’d have something to 
		show for the twenty million bucks they spent.

				WOMAN
		If you hadn’t been a poet - if you’d been 
                factory worker, or a teacher, or even a 
                doctor - no voice would’ve been raised in your   
                defense. But if the court finds you guilty, 
                you’re guilty twice. For treason as a citizen, 
                and for the poet’s betrayal of everything 
		that is  decent in human civilization.

				POUND
		Go on, say it. Say it! Old Ez is as nutty 
                as a fruitcake. That’s what you think.

				WOMAN
			(Calmly)	
		Stop acting like a child.

				POUND
		Maybe we can organize a guillotine instead 
                of a hanging.

				WOMAN
		I have a job to do.

				POUND
		Oh yes… a real team player.

				WOMAN
		A loyal citizen.

				POUND
		Loyal to fragments.

				WOMAN
		Loyal to my government… to democracy… to the 
		values America stands for.

				POUND
		To have allegiance to what is scattered is 
                usury, my dear.
			(Beat)
		By god, how they tempt us! Why, they’re 
                probably not even paying you what you’re 
                worth.

				WOMAN
		Money has nothing to do with it.

				POUND
		Money has everything to do with it!

				WOMAN
		Not for me.

				POUND
		No?

				WOMAN
		Not at all.

				POUND
		Positive?
	
				WOMAN
		Absolutely.


				POUND
		All right, then, sling us fifty bucks.
			(HE smiles)
		Bottom of the totem pole, eh?
		New kid on the block.
		Think you can win them over?

				WOMAN
		It’s not a competition. 

				POUND
		No, not with my odds!

			(Pause)	

				WOMAN
		So what should I do?  Tell them you’re 
                sane and give you a chance to speak, 	
                knowing they won’t listen, knowing they’ll 
                probably execute you?  Or lie about 
		your mental state and leave you here?

				POUND
		You wouldn’t lie about something like that.

				WOMAN
		I’ve never lied in my life.

				POUND
		Yes… a Methodist.

			(The WOMAN turns away. SHE
			stuffs the note pad into her 
			briefcase, snaps the case 
                        shut, and reaches for her 
                        overcoat)

				POUND (Continued)
		Where are you going?

				WOMAN
		Home.

				POUND
		Home! But what about my questions?

           			WOMAN
		What questions are those?

				POUND
		Well, it’s been a bit one-sided, don’t 
                you think? A bit of a one-way street.

				WOMAN
		Maybe next time.

		        	POUND
		But there may not be a next time. I may 
                never see you again. There are things you 
                can tell me.

				WOMAN
		I doubt it.

			(SHE turns to leave)

				POUND
		You call this justice?
			(Beat)
		Wait!

			(SHE stops)

				POUND (Continued)
		All right. All right then. I, I know 
                I’ve been a little difficult, but…

				WOMAN
		You’ve been abysmal!
			(Beat)
		You have no idea what it’s like. I don’t 
                have to prove I can do this job. Not to 
                you, not to anyone. 

				POUND
		You take them too seriously.

				WOMAN
		And you don’t?

			(Pause)
		
				POUND
		I am sure we will remember the Fifties 
                with a great deal more fondness than we 
                felt while living through them.

				WOMAN
		They said you’d be difficult. They warned 
                me. But I came along today with an open mind.
			(Beat)
		You have every right to despise what you think I 
		represent, Mr Pound, given the fact you’ve been 
                locked away here all these years. But that doesn’t 
                give you the right to insult me. You think 
                you’re the only person who’s ever been 
                persecuted? Do you really believe that 
		the poetry legitimizes what you’ve done and said?

				POUND
		I’ll wager the Department doesn’t know what 
                it’s got, having you on the payroll.

				WOMAN
		That’s why I got your case.

				POUND
		I’m honored.

			(The WOMAN stiffens, trying
			to control her anger)

				WOMAN
		You smug, self-congratulating old fascist. 
                You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Even 
                after twelve years in this hole, you still 
                think you know more than everyone else. 
                The poor, misunderstood genius. The helpless 
                victim who believes he has all the answers 
                if only the world will listen to him. But 
                a coward’s still a coward no matter what 
                he hides behind, and poetry won’t change 
                that. You’re wrong, and you know you’re wrong. 
                Mussolini was a tyrant. Hitler was a butcher! 
                And there are probably just as many poor 
                Jews out there who have been done in 
		by the banks as anyone else. But in your 
                world you only use the ingredients that suit 
                you. Well, as far as this public servant is
                concerned, you can go straight to hell!
			(SHE moves to the door)

			(POUND sits on the edge of his
			bed, drained. The WOMAN stops,
			and turns to him)

         			WOMAN (Continued)
		Mr Pound?
			(Silence)
		Mr Pound?
			(Silence)
		Mr Pound, this won’t help you, you know. 
                Sooner or later you’ll have to speak.
			(Silence)
		Mr Pound?
			(SHE crosses to him, 
                        and sits beside him on 
                        the bed)
		Mr Pound!
			(Beat)
		Mr Pound, where are you?

			(Pause)	

				POUND
		Why, in hell, my dear.  In  hell.

			(They regard each other)

				WOMAN
		I guess there’s nothing more to say.

				POUND
		Everyone is alone. That is what our 
                culture has produced - a pain deeper than 
                politics.

				WOMAN
		What am I supposed to do?
	
				POUND
		That’s the wrong question.

				WOMAN
		What’re we supposed to do? 

				POUND
		Let’s not turn this in to a farce.

				WOMAN
		I agree.
			
				POUND
		We’re not ignorant people. We’re not dumb 
                animals.

				WOMAN
		You are a very difficult man, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		Yes, my dear, I know. A real challenge.
			(HE moves closer)
		So… tell me about Gone With The Wind.

			(Stage lights out)



				END ACT 1
	




 
		ACT TWO



SETTING:	POUND’S room. Messier than before.


AT RISE:  	Vivaldi’s music is playing. 
			
		Stage lights up.
		
		POUND pulls out an old suitcase and throws it
		open on his bed. HE turns, surveying the 
                room. HE picks up his alarm clock from a 
                bedside chair and places it in the suitcase.

		Music fades.

		POUND hums tunelessly to himself as HE sorts
		through the chaos. HE retrieves what HE 
                wants, guided by some kind of inner logic.
                Is HE getting ready for a trial, or preparing
                himself for the death house? HE extracts a 
                few articles of clothing from a dresser 
                drawer: a sweater, shirt and bathrobe. HE 
		places these haphazardly into the suitcase. 
                Moving to his desk, HE stares at a sheet of 
                paper in his typewriter. HE reads it 
                silently, then picks up two books, weighing 
                them appreciatively before crossing back 
		to his bed. HE places the books in the 
                suitcase.

		What next?  HE glances round the room, 
                gathers up his binoculars, his hairbrush, 
                and then, unable to resist the temptation, 
                HE hurries back to his desk. HE sits
		down, scanning the results of his latest re-
                write.


		        	POUND
			(Reading)
		Sic semper tyrannis… 
		A brackish tribulation. 
		The knowledge of plants and birds
		serves better than a stipend.
		A direct feeling…
         		(Weighing the words)
		A direct feeling…
			(Becoming aware of a 
                        presence in the room. 
                        HE turns to the audience,
			squinting, shading his 
                        eyes with his hand)
		What?! Oh. You again.
		Can’t get enough, eh?
		Enjoying the nuthouse, are we?
			(Pulls the paper from the 
			typewriter and wads it up)
		Government by the peep-hole, of the peep-hole,
		for the peep-hole.
			(Tosses the paper over 
			his shoulder)
		“A cage”: the metaphor
		too obvious, too alliterative,
		didactic, humorless; 
		tho’ useful on occasion.
		Leaden diadem of the banking mentality:
		Life in the monkeyhouse.
		Not such a good place for poetry, but. . .
		“no man has perennial fortune,
		slow foot or swift foot, death delays
		but for a season.”
			(HE follows the flight of a fly
			through the air. HE reaches for
			a manuscript and holds it at the
			ready. The fly lights on his
			typewriter. HE observes it for
			a moment before slamming the
	         	manuscript down. HE examines
			the flattened insect, then flicks
			it with his finger)
		Better to say:  Montana is in the air.	
		Big sky ceiling.
		A walk through deserted streets
		of one’s childhood home.
		The joke is on me.
			(HE stands and moves slowly
			downstage. His manner is
			conversational at first, as if
			addressing someone in the
			audience, but becomes more
			dramatic as he warms up)
		How long have you been in?
			(Beat)
		I see. You’re not in.
		That’s what they all say.
		You’re not going anywhere though, are you?
			(Beat)
		I didn’t think so.
		Yes, I understand. Capisce!
		Never the proposals that get in the way,
	 	only the stupid questions
	        and inattention to answers;
	        the blind assent to speed:
	        the headlong rush into untried truth
	        because he said this
	        and she said that,
	        so long as everything is quick,
	        so long as everything is sweet.
		As if life could be conceived and born
		in a night’s sleep;
		toddling by breakfast;
		high school on the way to work;
		college and a perfect marriage by noon;
		old age for lunch; and a palsied decline
		in time for tea.
		Setting for an early hour
		the alarm clock by Death;
		and Heaven: another sleep.
		So how is it that Men and Women
		make it through another day
		with such velocity,
		with so little deliberation?
			(Beat)
		Freedom is a wishbone
		caught up in the hand of a child who
		believes in magic and cannot speak,
		for speaking does not make wishes happen.
		What is closest to us must always remain a secret,
		and there is tragedy in this.
		Syntax cannot change this room.
		Something more is required. . .
		or something less.
		Courage: the rudimentary ingredient.
		Better to reflect the world without a word
		than talk ourselves to death.
		But make no mistake –
         	this is no theatre of ideas,
		only lucid dream.
		In here, the passing show
		lacks the usual requisite action,
		but should do in any case.
		The anticipation of a long journey
		is still possible,
		even when there is no horizon.				
			(Vivaldi’s music fades up as the
			stage lights fade down, giving the
			impression that the play is over.
			POUND glances round)

		         	POUND (Continued)
	        Wait!

			(The music stops, stage lights
			fade up)

				POUND (Continued)
		But how? How did I begin
		to leave this place where the dead walk
		and the living are made of cardboard?
			(Beat)
		Bring it back!
			(Beat)
		A second time?

			(The voice of a tormented, human
			soul can be heard howling in another
			ward. It is joined by other voices. 
			POUND takes everything out of his
			suitcase, putting back each item
			exactly where HE found it. The last
			item - the alarm clock - stops him.
			HE pauses over it, his finger drawing
			a slow, deliberate circle over its face,
			as if turning back its hands. The
			howling subsides)

				POUND (Continued)
		The other day, two women came to visit. Yes, two. 
		One, who did most of the talking;  and one who was
		so quiet it was like she wasn’t here at all. They 
                looked 	like perfect candidates for the Ez-uversity… 

			(BETSY, a university student 
			in her early 20s, enters with a 
			load of books and papers, and 
			a portable tape recorder. SHE 
			deposits these on the desk)
	
				BETSY
		Mr Pound?

				POUND
			(Looking up)
		Hullo!

				BETSY
		I brought the research.

				POUND
		Research?

				BETSY
		From the library… at Columbia.

				POUND
		How did you get in?

				BETSY
		The, uh, orderly. He… he said it would be okay.

				POUND
		He did?

				BETSY
		I hope we haven’t come at a bad time.

				POUND
		We?
			(Beat)
		Who are you?

				BETSY
		Betsy.

				POUND
		Betsy?

				BETSY
		Don’t you remember?

				POUND 
		What?

				BETSY
		Me. Being here.

				POUND
		When?

				BETSY
		Mr Pound!

				POUND
		What did we talk about?

				BETSY
		All sorts of things.

				POUND
		That narrows it down.
	
				BETSY
		You were trying to tell me about the Australian 
		Aborigines. You were complaining that the library 
		here at the hospital was no good.

				POUND
		And the orderly let you in.

				BETSY
			(Nodding)
		Mr Brierson.

				POUND
		And he didn’t warn you about me?

				BETSY
		No.

			(Pause)
				
				POUND
		C’mere.
			
			(BETSY hesitates)

				POUND (Continued)
		C’mon, c’mon!

			(SHE moves closer. POUND 
			gives her the once-over)

				POUND (Continued)
		What did Brierson say?

				BETSY
		He said you were feeling depressed. He 
                thought you might not speak to us.

				POUND
		Yup, that’s Brierson. Always splendidly 
                candid about my condition.

				BETSY
		He wasn’t mean about it or anything.

				POUND
		No, no, of course not. The man’s a saint.

				BETSY
		He said he didn’t think you should be 
                here, that you were only confused.

				POUND
		The guy has no concept of anything at all.

				BETSY
		He was critical of the Justice Department. 
                He…  he said the State was barbaric.

				POUND
		Barbaric, eh? Quite a likeable chap, really.

				BETSY
		He said that if you’d just kept quiet you 
                probably wouldn’t…

				POUND
		Kept quiet! Nonsense! “The man of understanding 
		can no more sit quiet while his country lets its 
                literature decay than a good doctor could sit 
                quietly watching some ignorant child infect 
                itself with tuberculosis under the impression 
                it was merely eating jam tarts.”

				BETSY
		It doesn’t make any sense, does it?

				POUND
		What?

				BETSY	
		Calling ourselves modern, and then locking our poets
		away in insane asylums.

				POUND
		“Modern” ended with Hiroshima.

				BETSY
		But you’re a great poet, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		I’m also a helluva tennis player. So what!

				BETSY
		It’s wrong. What they’re doing to you.

				POUND
		You’re not from the Department, are you?

				BETSY
		No. Margaret and I are from New York. From Columbia 
		University.

				POUND
		Margaret?

				BETSY
			(Gesturing)
		My friend.

			(POUND looks but sees nothing)

				BETSY (Continued)
		We caught the Greyhound from New York last night.

				POUND
		And people wonder why I’m paranoid.

				BETSY
		Are you sure you don’t remember me, Mr Pound?

				POUND
		Maybe it’ll come to me. You’re… you’re a teacher, 
		right?

				BETSY
		Students. English majors.

				POUND
		Ah!
			(Beat)
		Well… uh… make yourself comfortable.

			(BETSY sits on the edge 
			of the desk, letting her feet 
			swing free)

				POUND
		From, uh, New York?

				BETSY
		Both of us.

				POUND
			(Confidentially)
		Let’s leave her out of it, shall we?

				BETSY
		We can’t do that, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		Why not?

				BETSY
		It wouldn’t be right.

				POUND
		Oh. Yes, of course.
			(Beat)
		And the orderly let you in.

				BETSY
		I think he felt sorry for us. We’d come such a long 
		way.

				POUND
		And you didn’t have to bribe him? 

				BETSY
		We didn’t have anything to bribe him with.

				POUND
		Uh-huh.
			(Beat)
		I doubt that.

			(BETSY glances down at the 
			desk. SHE reaches for the 
			typewriter)

				POUND (Continued)
		Don’t fiddle!

			(SHE withdraws her hand)

				POUND (Continued)
		Quick reactions…  I like that.

				BETSY
		I’m sorry.

				POUND
		So you should be.
			(HE moves to his desk, covering
			the typewriter with a towel)

				BETSY
		Were you working on something?

				POUND
		Between distractions.

				BETSY
		If you’d like us to leave…

				POUND
		No! No, it’ll keep. One of the virtues of 
                poetry... unlike pate.
			(HE picks up a few stray
			sheets paper and pegs them 
			to his clothesline)

				BETSY
		I brought a tape recorder.

				POUND
		A what?

				BETSY
		A tape recorder. The last time I was here you 
                said it would be okay if I made some recordings.

				POUND
		What sort of recordings?

				BETSY
		Of you.

				POUND
		I don’t remember that. In fact, come to think 
                of it, I don’t remember you at all.

				BETSY
		You said if I brought you the information you 
		wanted you’d let me record you reading some of 
		your poems.

				POUND
		Was I awake?

				BETSY
		Mr Pound!

				POUND
		Sometimes I nod off in the middle of conversations, 
		and people think it means I’m agreeing with them.

				BETSY
		We had a long conversation about it.

				POUND
		We did?

				BETSY
		I’m not making it up.

			(POUND is distracted by a 
			sheet of paper on the floor. 
			HE picks it up and examines 
			it)

				BETSY (Continued)
		You said you thought it was a good idea.

			(POUND pegs the sheet of 
			paper to his clothesline)

				BETSY (Continued)
		Mr Pound?

			(POUND continues looking 
			at the paper HE has pegged 
			to the line)

				BETSY (Continued)
		Mr Pound!

				POUND
		Call me “Grampaw”.

				BETSY
		Grampaw?
	
				POUND
		All my young visitors call me Grampaw.

			(BETSY smiles)
	
				POUND (Continued)
		And try being a little less pushy, will you?
			(Aside)
		I have to direct the thing as well.

			(POUND and BETSY look into 
			each other’s eyes)

				POUND 
		Enchanting.

				BETSY
		What?

				POUND
		Your eyes.

				BETSY	
		Thank you.
			
			(POUND lingers, then turns away)

				POUND
		So, you’ve been travelling all night, huh?

				BETSY
		Yes. Margaret and I.

				POUND
		Margaret?
			(HE looks)
		Ah, yes.

				BETSY
		She’s very shy. Sometimes I even forget she’s 
		there, myself. Very self-contained, though.

				POUND
		Yes. Tremendous self-discipline.

				BETSY
		She’s a very good listener, too.

				POUND
		I’ve heard of bit parts, but this is ridiculous.

				BETSY
		Excuse me?

				POUND
		Just talking to myself. One of the fringe 
                benefits of being here. Ought to be more 
                careful, eh? They might think I’m mad.

				BETSY
		I don’t think you’re mad at all. You just 
                see things a little differently from most people.

				POUND
		Is that it?

				BETSY
		I’m sure you’re just as sane as I am.

				POUND
		Well, that’s a relief.
			(Beat)
		How do you feel?

				BETSY
		A little tired, I guess, but…

				POUND
		No, no, no. I mean, how do you feel? Are 
                you sure you’re not from just down the hall?

				BETSY
		No. From New York.

				POUND
		Oh…  good.

			(BETSY gazes round the room)

				BETSY
		Gee, there’s not much light is there?

				POUND
		No. They’re very particular about the light. 
                They don’t want the little there is escaping 
                out the windows, so they keep them closed. 
                Think about it. Bureaucracies understand 
		these things. Would you care for a glass of 
                wine?

				BETSY
		They allow you wine?

				POUND
		Almost everything! Free country, you know.
			 
				BETSY
		Gee. I never knew about the wine.

				POUND
		What about a sandwich? You look like you could 
		use a sandwich.
			(HE bolts to the fridge)
		Lemme see… lemme see… what’ve we got here? 
		Bacon… marmalade… ketchup.  Ah! What about 
		some mayonnaise? 
			(HE turns, holding up a jar)
		From Havana!

				BETSY
		Cuban mayonnaise?

				POUND
		Hemingway.
			(HE takes the lid off 
                        and sniffs)
		Totally eclipsed by his prose, I’m afraid, but then 
		it’s not easy being a Renaissance man these days.
			(HE samples some with 
                        his finger)

				BETSY
		A glass of wine would be nice, thank you.

				POUND
		Wine. Right!
			(HE replaces the lid and 
			returns the jar to the fridge. 
			HE crosses to the desk, 
			opens a drawer and
			rummages through the 
			litter)
		There’s a very passable drop of red here 
                somewhere.
			(HE pulls out several bits 
			of paper, a 45 rpm record, 
			a few playing cards, a 
			crumpled magazine, a couple
			of empty jars, and a tennis 
			ball. The ball 	bounces away. 
			Finally, HE extracts an 
			already-open bottle of red 
			wine. HE holds it up)
		Chateauneuf du Pape, 1953. cummings left it when 
		he was here last week. He knows I loathe red.

				BETSY
		e.e. cummings?

				POUND
		You know cummings, do you?
			(Uncorks the bottle)

				BETSY
		He’s one of Margaret’s favorite poets! He was at 
		Columbia last year reading his poetry, wasn’t he 
		Margaret?

			(POUND glances in the 
			direction of the unseen 
			Margaret)

				POUND
		A devotee, huh?

				BETSY
		She identifies with him.

				POUND
		Uh-huh.

				BETSY
		She’s read everything he’s ever published.

				POUND
		Extraordinary. One is never very sure where the 
		lovers of verse are these days, and then when you
		meet one… well…
			(Beat)
		Is Margaret drinking?

			(BETSY shakes her head)

				POUND (Continued)
		Bad liver?

				BETSY
		Eczema. She breaks out all over.

				POUND
		How irritating!

				BETSY
		Milk has the same effect on her.

			(POUND glances in Margaret’s 
			direction)

				POUND
		Poor thing. You just can’t win, can you?
			(Beat)
		Looks like she’s been a mite heavy-handed with the
		vanishing creme.

				BETSY
		Most people just ignore her.

				POUND
		No wonder.

				BETSY
		My mother doesn’t see her at all.
				
				POUND
		Really!

			(HE pours the wine into the 
			two, empty jars)

				BETSY
		You and Mr cummings are good friends, aren’t you?

				POUND
		We’ve had our spats. Last time he came here it ended 
		in an argument over some confounded notion of his 
		that he knew the language of blue-jays…  and that man 
		is out on the street, mind you!

				BETSY
		Did he mean it?

				POUND
		Course he meant it! Good poets always mean it. 
		Cantankerous old bastard.
			(Beat)
		Here.
			(HE hands the jar of wine to
			BETSY)

				BETSY
		Thank you.

				POUND
		Don’t mention it.
			(Lifting his glass)
		To your health.

				BETSY
		And long life.

				POUND
		Why not!

			(They drink. POUND doesn’t 
			like the taste)

				BETSY
		It’s good.

				POUND
		Hmmm.

			(BETSY has another sip. 
			Silence)

				POUND
			(In unison)
		So what possessed you  to…?

				BETSY
			(In unison)
		If someone had told me….

			(Pause)

				POUND
			(In unison)
		Is this the first time…

				BETSY
			(In unison)
		Margaret and I were…

			(Another pause)

				POUND
		Go ahead.

				BETSY
		No, you.

				POUND
		No, I insist.

				BETSY
		After you.

				POUND
		What did you say your name was?

				BETSY
		Betsy.

				POUND
		Betsy.

				BETSY
		Short for Elizabeth… like the hospital. It was my 
		grandmother’s name. She was from Boston.

				POUND
		Boston!

				BETSY
		She worked on the Sacco and Vanzetti Defense 
		Committee. 

				POUND
			(Ironically)
		Terrific.

				BETSY
		She was so upset when they were executed… she 
		stayed in England for ten years. My aunt says 
                I’m just like her, only she never had an 
                interest in poetry… my grandmother, I mean. 
                She was more of a political animal, I guess. 
                You know, a dreamer. Everyone thought she 
		was terribly eccentric.

				POUND
		Sounds like my father.

				BETSY
		Was he in politics?

				POUND
		Politics? No. No, as a matter of fact, he was 
                an assayer at the Mint, in Philadelphia. Homer. 
                When I was eight he took me down to watch them 
                counting the money. All the silver money in America 
                was counted that year. They didn’t miss a nickel. 
                Men stripped to the waist, sweating under the 
                gas flares, shoveling coins into the counting 
		machines. Money was real in those days, y’know. 
                It meant something.

				BETSY
		Yeah. I had to borrow fifteen dollars for 
                the bus tickets.

				POUND
		That’s how it starts.

			(BETSY places her jar on 
		        the desk and picks up her 
			handbag)

				BETSY
	        Would you mind if I smoked?

				POUND
		Are you getting hot?

			(BETSY looks puzzled)

				POUND (Continued)
		Please… go ahead. I won’t tell.

			(BETSY extracts a packet of 
			cigarettes from her bag)

				BETSY
		Would you like one?

				POUND
		Maybe later.

			(BETSY shakes a cigarette from 
			the packet)

				BETSY
		Margaret thinks I smoke too much. She keeps 
		telling me it’ll stunt my growth.

				POUND
		Yes, well, uh…. Margaret looks like she’d know 
		about that sort of thing.
			(POUND picks up a box 
			of matches, lights the cigarette. 
			Pushing aside a heap of 
			manuscripts, HE uncovers an 
			ashtray, places it on the edge 
			of the desk)

			(BETSY exhales, sighs)

				BETSY
		That’s better.

			(An appreciation of silence)

				BETSY (Continued)
		So… can we start the recordings?
			
				POUND
		Huh?

				BETSY
		You know… something from The Cantos maybe, or…
		well, anything you like, really. 

			(POUND stares at her in mild
			disbelief as she moves to set up
			the tape recorder)

				BETSY
		Maybe you could just talk for  a while.	

				POUND
		I thought we’d settled that.

				BETSY
		But you promised.

				POUND
		I have no memory of promising any such thing.
			(Beat)
		Why’s it so important, anyway?

				BETSY
		Because what you have to say is worth listening to.
	
				POUND
		Nonsense.

				BETSY
		Because it’s a way of making people understand.
	
				POUND
		Good Gawd.

				BETSY
         	People will listen.
	
				POUND
		Like they did to the radio broadcasts.

				BETSY
		I’m talking about poetry, Grampaw.
				
				POUND
		Part of some English assignment, is it?

				BETSY
		No.

				POUND
		Come on!

				BETSY
		It’s not!

				POUND
		You don’t have to lie to me.

				BETSY
		I’m not lying.

				POUND
		Trying to make a name for yourself, are you?

				BETSY
		No!

				POUND
		Well what is it, then?

				BETSY
		You said a poet should sing what he cares about. 

				POUND
		Not when it means diverting attention. They might 
		end up thinking I like it here.

				BETSY
		But it’s important.

				POUND
		Bird in cage does not sing.

				BETSY
		If we could just record a few... 

				POUND
		Bird in cage     does  not  sing!  One 
                finishes saying “cage” between clenched teeth. 
                You notice? The way the body imitates the 
                meaning: 
                         (Between clenched teeth)
		Bird     in     cage    does not sing.

				BETSY
		I wouldn’t even mind getting that.

				POUND
		Ah, my dear girl, can’t you see? The main 
                spring’s busted, and nothing can put it 
                right, not until the record’s been set straight. 
                I have wasted too much time with poetry in here.

				BETSY
		You’ve been here so long… it would affect 
                anybody.

				POUND
		But I ain’t crazy!

				BETSY
		I know.

				POUND
		You do?

				BETSY
		I never thought you were crazy to begin with.

				POUND
		If only I’d studied Confucius earlier I 
                never would’ve gotten into this mess.
				(Beat)
		Maybe I should’ve stopped the broadcasts 
                after Pearl Harbor.

				BETSY
		What you said on the radio didn’t cause the 
                deaths of any Americans.

				POUND
		They still said I was a traitor.

				BETSY
		You tried to stop the war.

				POUND
		No. I said too much… always too much where it 
		didn’t count. They’ll never let me forget it, 
                either.

				BETSY
		People make mistakes, Grampaw.
				
				POUND
		This was never part of the deal, y’know. 
                I was double-crossed. They were supposed to  
                release me after the insanity hearing. 
                Thirteen years in the bughouse was never 
                part of the agenda.

				BETSY
		Is that what they said?

				POUND
		They didn’t say a damn thing. It was all 
                nudges and winks. The doctors have been lying 
                for years, telling ‘em I’m incompetent. Ask 
                Overholser. He knows damn well I have my wits 
                about me. Not that he’d ever admit it.

				BETSY
		They won’t be able to keep you here forever. 
                They’ll have to release you some time.

				POUND
		Not until they’ve tried me, and they can’t 
                try me unless I can prove to ‘em I’m sane.

				BETSY
		But you’re safe here.

				POUND
		Safe!
			(Beat)
		Oh yes. I’ve been talking myself to sleep 
                for years, deluding myself into believing that 
                the safety of this hell-hole was preferable 
                to taking the bastards on. Well, if I’d been 
                as crazy as they said I was, I’d be seein’ 
                things by now. What was I afraid of? Death? 
		The fear of death is Death.

				BETSY
		You mustn’t let them put you on trial, Grampaw.

				POUND
		Why not? Why shouldn’t I stand up and tell 
                ‘em what I think? You said so yourself - I’m 
                just as sane as you are… you and Margaret.

				BETSY
		They won’t let you win. They’ll just say 
                you’re guilty and execute you. That’s how 
                they work. You’re not like other people.
                The fact that you’re a poet means nothing 
		to them. They don’t care about poetry.

				POUND
		Survival at any cost, eh?

				BETSY
		I don’t want you to die, Grampaw. Not by 
                their hands. It’s not time. You have more 
                to write, more to say. You can’t do anything if 
                you’re dead.

				POUND
		“If a man ain’t prepared to take some risks 
                for what he believes in, either his beliefs 
                are no good, or he’s no good.” So which is it?

				BETSY
		They’ll destroy you.

				POUND
		No one can hide the truth forever.

			(HE turns away. HE notices the
			books and notes BETSY has
			deposited on his desk)

				POUND (Continued)
		What’s all this?

				BETSY
		You said you wanted some information about the 
		Australian Aborigines. It was part of our agreement.

				POUND
		Wait a minute. I know you. You’re s’posed to be a 
		Wednesday.

				BETSY
		What?

				POUND
		What day is today?

				BETSY
		Saturday.

				POUND
		That’s right. That explains it. We were talking about 
		the Aborigines.

				BETSY
		That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.

				POUND
		And you were supposed to come back on a Wednesday. 
		It was you, wasn’t it?
					
				BETSY
		I couldn’t get away. I had exams.

				POUND
		Or were you a Tuesday?

				BETSY
		You were asking about the Wandjina. I… I brought 
		everything I could find.

				POUND
		The who?

				BETSY
		The Wandjina.
	
				POUND
		Wandjina?

				BETSY
		You said it might be a key.

				POUND
		A key? What sort of key?

				BETSY
		You said you thought it might have something to do 
		with you being here.

				POUND
		Wandjina.

				BETSY
		That’s what you said.
			(Beat)
		Maybe if you read through the notes…

				POUND
		“And Tom wore a tin disc, a circular can-lid with his 
		name on it, solely: for Wandjina has lost his mouth…  
		man on whom the sun has gone down.”
			(Pause)
		Wandjina. Yes.  Of course.

				BETSY
		Grampaw?
			
				POUND
		I remember one summer walking along an old road 
		and discovering a dead deer. You could feel its 
                presence there, weeks, even months, later. I’m 
                sure if I was there now I would still feel it. 
                Then there was that fishing hole full of edible 
                red-fin… and that special, shady tree near 
		Sant’ Ambrogio - a eucalypt, down the hill from 
                the villa…
			(HE extracts something from his
			pocket)
		Here.
				
				BETSY
		What is it?

				POUND
		A nut. From the tree.

				BETSY
		Oh.
		
			(SHE reaches out, but POUND 
			withdraws it into himself. Puts
			it back in his pocket)

				POUND
		Places full of power. Sacred places. Places where 
		one feels a contentment, a belonging; where one 
		feels whole.

				BETSY
		I’ve always loved the subway. The smell of cigar 
		smoke… woolen coats in winter… the newsprint. 
		It makes me think of when I was a girl.

				POUND
		You grew up in the city?

				BETSY
		New Rochelle.

				POUND
		Ah!

				BETSY
		I still love it.
			
				POUND
		That’s what I’m talking about! Those special, 
                personal places; not special by chance,  
                but because we find parts of ourselves in ‘em, 
                and leave parts of ourselves behind. The parts 
                of the world we create. Like the Wandjina.
			(HE moves to his clothesline
			filing system)
		A long time ago, before the war, some young people – 
		students of Frobenius –  came to my house in Rapallo. 
		They had sketches they’d made on one of their 
                expeditions…
			(HE grabs hold of a 
                        large piece of
			paper, turns it round 
                        to reveal a full-
			length drawing of a 
                        Wandjina figure)
		Drawings like this one. There are several hundred 
                of them on the walls of caves in the hinterland 
                of Auss’ralia. Look at the expression! It’s as 
                if he was sitting squarely on top of his own 
                anxiety.
			(HE hangs it prominently on the 
			wall over the bed)

				BETSY
		They look sort of like spacemen, don’t they?

				POUND
		Don’t be daft! They’ve got nothing to do with 
                spacemen. 
			(Beat)
		If intuition has a face, there it is! And someone has 
		actually drawn it!

				BETSY
		Without mouths.

				POUND
		Yes.
			(Beat)
		So, what happened to the mouths?

				BETSY
		They weren’t needed any more.

				POUND
		Weren’t needed?

				BETSY
		The Aborigines believe the Wandjina created the 
		world, the entire world, with words, with names. All 
		they had to do was name something and it would exist. 
		Trees, mountains, animals. Everything. They say if the
		Wandjina hadn’t been stopped they would’ve made too 
		many things. So the mouths were taken away.

				POUND
		Taken away?
	
				BETSY
		Removed. To stop the names.

				POUND
		To stop them speaking.

				BETSY
		If they’d kept going, they would’ve destroyed the 
		world. There would’ve been too many things.

				POUND
			(A revelation)
		So it was a punishment!
  			(Beat)
        	I knew it. If only I hadn’t been so dumb.

				BETSY
		I think you better read the notes.

				POUND
			(Pointing to drawing)
		The tribe that made these had sixteen words 
                for water. 
                Nomad, the antithesis of noman,
		knows the sacred places; 
                is fluid and capable of 
                exactitude, without writing, 
                without books or libraries, 
                precisely because he is in his place.
		The Land is alive. 
                It has everything to do with his life!
		Sixteen words for water!
			(Beat)
		How many do you have?

				BETSY
			(Shrugs)	
		Water.

				POUND
		Exactly. A vain abstraction aided by adjectives.
				
				BETSY
		Why does it matter?

				POUND
		Because rain water is different from surface water, 
		and salt water is not the same as fresh.
		It has to do with immediacy -
		a knowledge of the world at first-hand.
		“Periplum, not as land looks on a map
		but as sea bord seen by men sailing.”
		Otherwise we look at life
		as through a two-way mirror.

				BETSY
		Sixteen words for water.
	
				POUND
		So how is it that the Aborigines had such ideas 
		about the world, and never wrote a book, or built a 
		chapel, or composed a fugue, or invented an atom 
		bomb?

				BETSY
		Maybe they had no need for them.

				POUND
		Because they know who they are! “Our humanity 
                is counterfeit; our liberty, cankered with 
                simulation.” Wrong from the start.

				BETSY
		You can say too much sometimes, Grampaw. 
                Sometimes you have to stop talking so that 
                people can hear what you’ve said.

				POUND
		The difference between the Wandjina and 
                me is that it was the gods who took their 
                mouths away… mine was removed by the State.

				BETSY
		Sometimes silence can be more powerful 
                than words.

				POUND
		Only when one is finished with creation.
			(Pause)
		Those without confidence in banksia
		and spinifex for lack of education
		must have thought Terra Australis a lost land -
		an aberrant continent -
		where everything is back to front.
		Even now, the white men wander
		uncertain, uncomfortable;
		and not for want of plumbing or electricity,
		but because they do not understand where they are.
		I am talking about the power of the Land.
		“No one prospers unless everyone prospers”
		was the bushman’s law;
		vis a vis: the white man’s grace sez:
		“if I can’t have it, you won’t either”.
		The stance of men who are threatened,
		unable to embrace the land, in the European
 	        produced self-deprecation; produces war
		whose language is barricade,
		wishing fauns cavorted on sand dunes,
		dreaming of genii riding kangaroo.
		We speak with a thousand borrowed voices,
		calling them our own, and wonder why
		we cannot trust ourselves.
		We define ourselves by what we are not.

				BETSY
		You are not an Aborigine, Grampaw. You are a poet… 
		and a very great poet.

				POUND
		Yes. Ouan Jin! The man of letters. The man with an 
		education. A man on whom the sun has gone down.
			(Beat)
		But I am also related to them!  
			(pointing) 
		To the Wandjina! And so are you.

				BETSY
		We are no longer tribal people.

				POUND
		We are all tribal people under the skin.
		And we deny this at the expense 
		of tearing ourselves in half…
		which we do everyday, very well -
		the tearing, I mean. We have made it in to an art.
		Some in the name of competitiveness,
		some from a fear of scarcity,
		some believing Nature is the enemy.
		But the Dreaming lives in each of us -
		the tides of kinship and a susceptibility
		for seeing ourselves in the Land
		when we stop and look.
		“The gods never left us.”

				BETSY
		There are lots of different kinds of worlds. 
                You can’t live in all of them.

				POUND
		The trick is to live even in one!

				BETSY
		The trick is to stay alive.

				POUND
		At what cost?

			(HE sits)

				BETSY
		You scare me, Grampaw.

				POUND
		That’s because you see me as a metaphor. 
                But there is wisdom in recognizing that a 
                desk is a desk, and a chair, a chair. We 
                are not so terribly different from the Aborigines, 
                you know… except our language does not make us 
                custodians of the Earth, but Earth’s adversaries. 
                A man cannot live in fragments. He must
		know the place he started from, and then let 
                others know. 

				BETSY
		They’ll call it treason.

				POUND
		They can call it whatever they like. But the worst 
		treason is the one we commit against ourselves - 
                speaking when we should be silent; or worse, being 
                silent when we should speak.

				BETSY
		And if they kill you?

				POUND
		So long as the money-lenders sleep peacefully 
                in their beds there will be no end to war. 
                Two world wars in one century, and more to come, 
                arranged by men with blank eyes, setting corpses 
                to banquet at the behest of usury.
		And who pays for their greed? Us! Always. With our 
		lives. And still we go on voting the asses in who
                pass the laws and make the deals so the bankers 
                won’t go begging. “Love of money beyond all other 
                love, gain at the expense of everything that is 
                admirable.” Those who can still see and speak 
                must make themselves heard.

				BETSY
		That sounds like Communism.

				POUND
		Communism! 

				BETSY
		If they hear you talk like that…

				POUND
		Communism hain’t even practiced by the higher 
		mammals! Wake up, girl! Wild dogs collaborate! I 
		wouldn’t be caught dead with Communism.
		Compared to me, Eisenhower’s practically a fellow 
		traveler.
			(Thinking better of his 
			outburst)
		Sorry.

				BETSY
		You’re going to let them try you.

				POUND
		I’m going to say what I have to say.

				BETSY
		It won’t help. It won’t bring you any peace.

				POUND
		Peace comes from good manners, and manners are 
		from the earth and water and the knowledge that comes
		of being where one belongs. I have lost contact with
		the Earth.

				BETSY
		I shouldn’t have come.

			(POUND draws closer)

				POUND
		You came here to save me, didn’t you?

				BETSY
		I tried.
				
				POUND
		You mad at me?

				BETSY
		I love you.

			(A SIGNIFICANT PAUSE)

			(Before POUND has a chance to
			speak, the door to POUND’s room
			opens, and the WOMAN from the 
			Justice Department enters)

				WOMAN
        	Oh, I’m sorry. They didn’t tell me you had a visitor.

				POUND
		Well, well, well… the Department of Justice.
			(His arm raised in greeting, stopping
			short of the fascist salute)
        	How are you, my dear?

			(They shake)

				WOMAN
		Mr Pound.

				POUND
		The pleasure is all mine. And let me introduce you to…

				WOMAN
		Hello Betsy.

				BETSY
		Hello.

				WOMAN
		Margaret.

			(POUND blinks in surprise, his
			glance moving between the WOMAN
			and the unseen Margaret)
				
				POUND
	        You know each other?

				WOMAN
		Only professionally.

			(POUND turns to BETSY)
	
				BETSY		
	`	It’s not like you think, Grampaw.

				POUND
		What do I think?

				BETSY
		I had to see you.

				WOMAN
			(To BETSY)
        	So how did it go?

				BETSY
		I don’t want to talk about it.

				POUND
		Talk about what?

				WOMAN
		Did he tell you about Australia?

				BETSY
		Not now, please.

				POUND
        	What is this?

				BETSY
		I can explain everything.

				POUND
		Did she send you?

				BETSY
		No. It’s not like that at all. She told me 
                to stay away.

				POUND
		Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?

				WOMAN
		Betsy’s been sending us petitions for the 
                past twelve months, trying to have you pardoned.

				BETSY
		You have no right to imprison him like this.

				WOMAN
		She thinks we want to kill you.

				BETSY
		You’ve done a pretty good job of it.

				WOMAN
		She seems to think that if I tell them you’re sane, 
		the government will execute you.

				BETSY
		Don’t trust her, Grampaw.

				WOMAN
		She thinks you’ve been victimized.

				BETSY
		It’s true!

				WOMAN
		She identifies with you.

				POUND
		How do you two know each other?

				BETSY
			(To WOMAN)
		Don’t!

				WOMAN
		Betsy used to be one of my patients.

				BETSY
		You’re the one who needs a shrink.

				WOMAN
		Her mother and I are old friends.

				BETSY
		Leave her out of it!

				WOMAN
		I’m sorry if she’s disturbed you.

				POUND
		Not at all.

				WOMAN
		I’ll speak to Mr Brierson. There’s obviously been a 
		breach in security.

				BETSY
		I can explain everything, Grampaw.

				POUND
		You don’t have to.

				BETSY
		But I want you to know how I feel.
			
				POUND
		It’s okay.
			(Affectionately)
		You’ve already told me.
			(To WOMAN)
		She came all the way from New York.

				WOMAN
		Really!

				POUND
		She brought me the information I was looking for.
			(HE takes BETSY’S hand)
		Not that it was information, exactly.

				WOMAN
		What’s going on?

				POUND
		Oh, you would’ve had to have been here, my dear. 
		Betsy and I… and, uh… Margaret… we’ve been having 
		a very interesting talk, haven’t we?

				WOMAN
		I see.
				
				POUND
		You do?

				WOMAN
			(To BETSY)
		I hope you got what you wanted.

				BETSY
		I’m not talking to you.

				WOMAN
		Your mother won’t be pleased about this Betsy.

				BETSY
         	Then don’t tell her.

				WOMAN
		Maybe you ought to run along now.

				BETSY
		Grampaw!

				POUND
		She’s my guest.

			(Pause)
				
				WOMAN
		Very well then. She’ll find out anyway. I’m 
                afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr Pound. 
                I thought I’d better come myself.

				POUND
			(To BETSY)
		Notice how she prolongs the suspense for 
                dramatic effect.

				WOMAN
		It’s not what you think.

				POUND
		You told them I was sane, didn’t you?

				WOMAN
		Yes, I did.

				POUND
		Good!

				WOMAN
		I also told them I believed you’d been 
                using insanity as a way of escaping the 
                charges.

				POUND
		Excellent tactic!

				WOMAN
		Technically… clinically, there’s no reason 
                why you shouldn’t be put on trial.

				POUND
		Now you’re talking!

				BETSY
		Why can’t you just leave him alone?

				WOMAN
		I’m sorry, Mr Pound.

				POUND
		Oh, don’t be sorry, my dear. I’m looking 
                forward to it.
	
				BETSY
		Haven’t you hurt him enough?

				WOMAN
		You can put your tape recorder away, Betsy. 
                You’ve won.

				POUND
		What?

				WOMAN
		She believed it was a way of protecting you. 

				POUND
		Protecting me?

				BETSY
		Don’t tell him! You have no right!

				WOMAN
		She’s been threatening to do it for weeks.

				BETSY
		Don’t listen to her, Grampaw.

				WOMAN
		She thought if she could get you on tape…

				BETSY
		You promised!

				WOMAN
		… she’d have the evidence to prove you were insane.

				BETSY
		No! Please.

				WOMAN
		But he’s not crazy, Betsy!

			(POUND turns to BETSY)

				BETSY
		I didn’t want them to hurt you, Grampaw. I…  I…

				POUND
		It’s all right. I know. I know.
			(To WOMAN)
		What do you mean, she’s won?

				WOMAN
         	They already had their minds made up. You 
                were right. They didn’t listen to me.  My 
                report was only a formality. It would seem 
                that what I think and say no longer counts. 
		In the opinion of Doctor Overholser, you’re 
                still suffering from some kind of psychotic 
                disorder. I’m afraid the panel’s decided 
                to accept his recommendation. They believe 
                you’re unfit to enter a plea.

				POUND
		Unfit!

				WOMAN
		Incapable.

				POUND
		On what grounds?
		
				WOMAN
		Mental competency. Lack of.

				BETSY
		You mean they’re not going to try him?

				POUND
		She means they’re a pack of cowards.
	
				WOMAN
		I did what I could, Mr Pound.

				BETSY
		He never should’ve been arrested in the 
                first place.
	
				WOMAN
		Stay out of it, Betsy.

				POUND
		Good strategy, my dear, keeping Pound away from 
		the forum of a courtroom.

				BETSY
			(To POUND)
		They can’t touch you!

				WOMAN
		It’s finished.

				POUND
		Like hell it is.

				BETSY
		Don’t argue with her.

				POUND
		They don’t know what they’re talking about.

				BETSY
		Leave it, Grampaw.

				POUND
		They haven’t proven a damn thing!

				WOMAN
		They don’t have to.

			(Pause)

				POUND
		Oh yes! Yes, they do.  One day they will  
                have to account for me. History will have to 
                account for me. They can’t keep me locked 
                up here forever. 

				WOMAN
		They’re not intending to.

				POUND
		So what’re they gonna do now? Hang me without 
		a trial?

				WOMAN
		Believe me, Mr Pound, if it had been up 
                to me I would’ve much rather seen you answer 
                the charges, with or without the death 
                penalty. At least it would’ve been settled. 
	
				POUND
		What’re you driving at?

				WOMAN
		They’re going to release you.

				POUND
			(In union with BETSY)
		Release me!

				BETSY
			(In unison with POUND)
		What!

				WOMAN
		You’ve been judged incurably insane. They’ve 
                decided you’ll never be fit enough to stand 
                trial. You’re to be placed in the care of 
                your wife. It’s over, Mr Pound.

				BETSY
		That means… he’s free.

			(POUND stares at the WOMAN,
			then turns to BETSY)

				POUND
			(Profoundly)
		Noooo!

			(POUND moves away)

				BETSY
		But they’re going to let him go. He’s safe now.

				WOMAN
		Yes. Safe.
			(SHE moves closer 
                        to POUND)
		I wanted you to know…  I’m leaving the Department.
			(Beat)
		I had to go against what I believed in to tell 
                the truth about you. I don’t think I would’ve 
                been able to have lived with myself if I hadn’t.  
			(Beat)
		Sometimes, the only thing you can do is walk 
                away.
		(Beat)
		I’m sorry.
			(Pause… then turning to 
			BETSY)
		Can I give you a lift?

				BETSY
		No.

				WOMAN
		Don’t worry, Betsy. I won’t tell your 
                mother.

				BETSY
		I’ll make my own way. 

				WOMAN
		Suit yourself. I’ll see you on Tuesday.
			(Beat)
		Good-bye, Mr Pound.

			(SHE turns and exits)

				POUND
		All my enemies have turned to dust. 

				BETSY
		What does it mean, Grampaw?

				POUND
		It means nothing… nothing will be rectified.

			(Stage lights dim. Spotlight up on
			POUND. The silence is broken by 
			a distant, mad howling  from one of 
			the wards. POUND cocks his head,
			listening)

				POUND (Continued)
		You see! Drammer is reduced to this.
		The man gave everything he had.
		An unconfident country will take it all,
		give nothing in return…
		then you awake, wordless,
		with the moon in a window.
		One belongs to the world… or to nothing.

			(Stage lights slowly fade up.
			POUND moves to his desk. 
			BETSY waits, holding a  
			microphone)

				BETSY
		Thank you for doing this for us.
		
				POUND
		It may be the last thing I do. Silence is 
                beginning to look more and more appealing. 
                I suppose one can be captured by it.

		        (BETSY adjusts the volume
			on the tape recorder. SHE 
			holds the microphone a few 
			inches from POUND’S mouth.
			SHE nods)

		 		POUND (Continued)
		Sic semper tyrannis,
		a brackish tribulation.
		Great skill precedes creation.
		A knowledge of plants and birds
		serves better than a stipend;
		There are still those who walk the Earth
		and know this, who are attuned to 
		the distribution of the spirits of children.
		The Land is an extension of the body.
			(Stage lights begin to 
			fade as a small spotlight 
			illuminates POUND’S
			face)
		And those who come from other places,
		for whom custom is only business,
		have no ears for the stories the Earth can tell -
		and no knowledge…
			(Stage lights out. 
          		Spotlight on face)
		More isolated than I, in my hell-hole,
		dreaming of the Wandjina.

			(Spotlight out -  
			BLACKOUT)



           			END ACT 2