t.s. elliot

Elliot emphasized the relation of the artist to tradition:
"[W]e shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of [a poet's] work, may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously."

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

OFFICE OF THE MORNING SUN

Chapters lay at waters edge Consumed by flames Disguised in red Like skins of blessed fruit Strewn thereof Feed for trough, Both swine and dove. Word on paper spoken there From the tree she shook the golden pear Or apple or cone or nut or none And from omniscience They did run. And man in hand She pulled and sent Until their minds were empty Rent Souls (diminished) Man did nothing deem But lead the way For death redeemed (it's finished). And peace and love and Tender strikes The heart of living Immortal light, With exuberance She did walk the line And claim ineffable Life divine. Think it on And ponder through As giving thanks And walking true A hand held out And benevolent beam Of sky and ocean To mingle blue With golden sunshine Blood in veins And heart renewed. The stream It presses gently forth Pouring, pressing, Pulling north, In disregard of vast periphery That tempt it sideways From source epiphany. And reaching now Its great endure The opening settles In seats adore Throne
Read more

SEEING IN THE DARK

When the night unrolled Its blanket of stars  Over The moving sea, Quieting its banter, Silencing its grip On the horizon She breathed in the good Of it all As with the turtles, the lizards The moss, the sea-birds, The leaves and  The slippery stones. Tree roots made their Way from hills deep into layers, Mapping through,  Down,   Following the scent of sand  And salt. Their wooden fingertips bruised  From tunneling. And sea creatures held on To fibrous ropes in puddles on stones As the moon pulled them  To drifting, watery beds.   She thought she would sleep,  She should sleep; Curled in, rested out, brightened up, Stretched wide By the firelight of the moon And the stories the ocean could tell, Rocking her to sleep Like a calf under the arm of a Mother whale; Drifting,  Never drifting Apart.  The crabs scuttled And pawed at her hair As the whole earth carried on  This way. The scent of the past day Carried off, Across water a
Read more

THE GIRL IN THE BOAT

The rose spots On her face like a leopard Lit warm as the sun overhead Held its rays out past the night Reaching to her like a child To a mother who had Been Gone A Long Time Beaming Across waters where Creatures had Never known its warmth. In depths dark and watery As the cave of his inner-being, Cold She doubted she was One, But maybe the Ocean, Blood filled And nothing else. Vapid and airy He glided over the earth After work, after long Hours of sitting At conference tables. Discarding his clothes. His shoes kicked off And fell from depths Like a broken ledge off a cliff Landing in the Sahara For the poor who hadn't Known coverings, Took to them as Super-natural. And the watery depths Dried, and the tunnels and channels Became like bedrock. Mystery was high above, On wings passing over Snow-capped mountains And your socks Dropped down too. Naked and filthy
Read more