1930 August 18 - Positano, Amalfi Coast, Italy

Artistic creation

Today, the sapphire kiss of the Tyrrhenian Sea upon the Amalfi Coast's golden shores whispered tales of an ancient land caught in the throes of new ambitions. Italy, under the stern gaze of Mussolini, is a nation straddling the past's grandeur and the future's iron-clad promises. Here, the leisure and tourism veil the simmering undercurrent of a country marching towards an uncertain modernity.

As I strolled along the pebbled shores, where the laughter of carefree souls danced with the sea breeze, my path crossed with that of Ezra Pound, the American poet whose sharp verses cut through the era's facades. We found solace under the shade of an old olive tree, its gnarled branches a silent testament to the relentless passage of time.

Pound, with his piercing eyes and contemplative demeanor, mused on the stark contrasts around us. "They will take photographs," he said, gesturing to the beach where photographers angled their lenses, "to capture the sunlight on the waters, but not the shadows that lurk beneath." His words, like his poetry, were layered with meaning, reflecting the depth of his insight into the human condition and the political state.

We conversed on the nature of propaganda, on the power of imagery to shape thoughts and the responsibility of the artist in times of societal change. As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow that seemed to set the very horizon ablaze, Pound recited a verse from his latest canto – a lyrical painting of the scene before us, yet imbued with an undercurrent of critique, a defiance to the orchestrated narrative of the regime.

As the evening waned, Pound's silhouette against the twilight seemed to embody the dualities of his existence – an artist caught between the beauty of his craft and the tumult of his convictions. With a final nod, he departed, leaving me to reflect upon the day's discourse. The Amalfi Coast, with its timeless beauty, stands as a serene counterpoint to the machinations of power. Here, the eternal dance of waves upon the shore offers a momentary escape, a breath in the long sigh of history. Yet, as I pen these words, I am acutely aware of the delicate balance between the image presented and the reality that it conceals.