Is this a poem?

In the station of the metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Ezra Pound

My old literature teacher in the University had asked us this question, is this a poem? Back then, with the arrogance and ignorance of my eighteen years, I had answered no. I had said that this is like a photograph, a nice image, a slice of reality. But that is not a poem.

Now I am not sure at all. It is funny how some things just persevere in your memory and you know that you have an unfinished business with them, so you keep thinking about them. This is one of those things. I was never sure about my answer and as years went by, I felt even keener to answer the opposite. Maybe I now appreciate poignant, sharp depictions of reality, even if they look like literary photographs, compared to the complexity of longer pieces of literature. One-liners have this quality of being 'to the point'. Think about it, is there a better way of visualising loneliness other than ''... the autumn leaves drift by my window''?