(no subject)
some (4 years-)old poetry from a collection called A visit with TS Eliot (I can yack about it if interensted about what and why and how)
The Hollow Men Revisited
Meet in dreams
between
the creation.
Five o'clock in cactus land
Here.
At the hour whisper together:
Are a fading star.
Is it that there are no eyes here?
There; is the existence
only
as the dry grass
where they receive
between
the Kingdom's
star?
Spasm.
Between the gesture without motion.
Those who have rose
paralysed.
Ash Wedensday Revisited
The vapor in the bones sang,
but my people.
Upon whom to rejoice, only words
Where all
behind the garden in the lost lilac fountain;
spirits of others as they walked.
And for the the lost sea voices made firm:
Let the aged construct something,
be scattered, we recover sand,
whose flute is breathless.
Of the silent I do not hope forgetfulness.
Exhausted and unto Thee
white and blue.
The fetid air
savors.
I left them twisting, smaller and dryer than gourds
while jewelled unicorns
sheathing about themselves.
Both satisfied.
White light folded.
Burnt Norton Revisited
Into our first world, partial ecstasy,
the reach
into a world
without elimination, both as one
heaven and damnation
moving,
without being conscious not
yet among the stars.
Solitude.
The place where the lotos rose, quietly, into the pool, dry concrete, sun away.
Will a dim light.
Bend to us; tendril future.
What cloud passed, and
pursued the pattern in a formal
decay?
Shadow in the funeral words
music reaches inveterate scars
and concentration
without elimination, undesiring except in the future.
The Dry salvages Revisited
Pray for having left off the image of
pre-conscious terrors one way of
Heaven.
To fruit, periodicals and the machine.
Also pray not know much about
something that is the machine,
source of movement
and the way promontory
tomb, or dreams; all the beginning.
Clangs last
in ours among other things - riddle the inevitable.
For who will arrive end, but addition: demonic, chthonic.
And those who conduct in ships, those never here to end their voyage.
Broken oar
your real destination.
so deeply.
These voyagers, seamen, some of them especially leary of the sunlight.
Between midnight and the end
the apple and the bite
as when he admonished the field of battle.
Intractable,
patient.
His rhythm was present permanently
East Coker Revisited... in my end is my beginning.
The requiring, pointing to the the flames
can hope to acquire wisdom of old
the only food
in empty desolation
in rustic laughter.
Die: there is a loss.
For cold and empty times
a time for submission
under the hill.
From feet and the plains
mental wires
too high
photograph album.
Is only the
wind cry
in a bramble,
in clumsy shoes,
to remind of explorers
here and ecstasy
not lost.
In general the wrong thing;
there in the darkness
rising and falling
because one must freeze.
The end is looked forward to,
without hope.
For the wind to the statesmen is
the only food
deteriorating.
Say it again.
to dancing
Whispered knees,
the fever which they hope us to acquire.
Gerontion revisited
Shifting the candles
sense has cooled,
warm rain
gull against the ones who still believed,
stiffen in delay
among windy spaces.
It gives, gives with neither fear nor thought
and with whispering ambitions,
the shuddering.
Bear the candles;
a darkness in the juvescence
swaddled with darkness.
Bitten at last
we stiffen.
The Hollow Men Revisited
Meet in dreams
between
the creation.
Five o'clock in cactus land
Here.
At the hour whisper together:
Are a fading star.
Is it that there are no eyes here?
There; is the existence
only
as the dry grass
where they receive
between
the Kingdom's
star?
Spasm.
Between the gesture without motion.
Those who have rose
paralysed.
Ash Wedensday Revisited
The vapor in the bones sang,
but my people.
Upon whom to rejoice, only words
Where all
behind the garden in the lost lilac fountain;
spirits of others as they walked.
And for the the lost sea voices made firm:
Let the aged construct something,
be scattered, we recover sand,
whose flute is breathless.
Of the silent I do not hope forgetfulness.
Exhausted and unto Thee
white and blue.
The fetid air
savors.
I left them twisting, smaller and dryer than gourds
while jewelled unicorns
sheathing about themselves.
Both satisfied.
White light folded.
Burnt Norton Revisited
Into our first world, partial ecstasy,
the reach
into a world
without elimination, both as one
heaven and damnation
moving,
without being conscious not
yet among the stars.
Solitude.
The place where the lotos rose, quietly, into the pool, dry concrete, sun away.
Will a dim light.
Bend to us; tendril future.
What cloud passed, and
pursued the pattern in a formal
decay?
Shadow in the funeral words
music reaches inveterate scars
and concentration
without elimination, undesiring except in the future.
The Dry salvages Revisited
Pray for having left off the image of
pre-conscious terrors one way of
Heaven.
To fruit, periodicals and the machine.
Also pray not know much about
something that is the machine,
source of movement
and the way promontory
tomb, or dreams; all the beginning.
Clangs last
in ours among other things - riddle the inevitable.
For who will arrive end, but addition: demonic, chthonic.
And those who conduct in ships, those never here to end their voyage.
Broken oar
your real destination.
so deeply.
These voyagers, seamen, some of them especially leary of the sunlight.
Between midnight and the end
the apple and the bite
as when he admonished the field of battle.
Intractable,
patient.
His rhythm was present permanently
East Coker Revisited... in my end is my beginning.
The requiring, pointing to the the flames
can hope to acquire wisdom of old
the only food
in empty desolation
in rustic laughter.
Die: there is a loss.
For cold and empty times
a time for submission
under the hill.
From feet and the plains
mental wires
too high
photograph album.
Is only the
wind cry
in a bramble,
in clumsy shoes,
to remind of explorers
here and ecstasy
not lost.
In general the wrong thing;
there in the darkness
rising and falling
because one must freeze.
The end is looked forward to,
without hope.
For the wind to the statesmen is
the only food
deteriorating.
Say it again.
to dancing
Whispered knees,
the fever which they hope us to acquire.
Gerontion revisited
Shifting the candles
sense has cooled,
warm rain
gull against the ones who still believed,
stiffen in delay
among windy spaces.
It gives, gives with neither fear nor thought
and with whispering ambitions,
the shuddering.
Bear the candles;
a darkness in the juvescence
swaddled with darkness.
Bitten at last
we stiffen.