“Impressions and experiences which are important for the man may take no place in the poetry, and those which become important in the poetry may play quite a negligible part in the man, the personality.” T.S. Eliot, “Tradition and the Individual Talent”
Ash on an old man’s sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed was a house—
The wall, the wainscot, and the mouse.
The death of hope and despair,
This is the death of air.
--T.S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding” sec. II
I love those lines. (And confess that love to be unaccompanied by understanding.) The point is, Eliot is one of those brilliant minds utterly intimidating to English-majors-with-low-self-esteem like myself. He’s been dead for years, yet whenever I write a sonnet that expresses exactly how I’m feeling at that point in time, this phrase runs through my head: “T.S. Eliot hates your poetry.” That’s because of the quote at the top. My “scope” isn’t large enough. I’m too self-centered.
Nevertheless. I love to write, and have to believe that there is some value to it even if it’s not full of “historical perspective.” Even if it’s just me trying to work through life and loneliness. This blog, should it survive, will record more than just poetry. I need an outlet. This is one of them. Two sonnets for today:
A Riddle
I am grown—still learning how to speak,
To loose one sentence without stuttering,
To reach the end before my voice grows weak,
Crescendos down to whispered muttering.
I’m in-between, still wondering what to do:
To be of use, or to pursue my peace?
My will—to write, but only what is true—
Fear caps my pen before the word’s released.
I’m young enough to hope, though hope hurts worse
Than blanket cynicism undisturbed
By highs and hells (the wedding bell, the hearse)—
Hope strains to burst until it’s killed, or curbed
Beyond all recognition. Hopeless hope.
Who am I? Human, limited. By strength. By scope.
Bitterness
Can bitterness produce a beautiful
Array of words—or anything secure
From the jealous strains constricting through the soul
Of one who’s learned: Her love is not preferred?
Sweet fantasy has slipped from sacrifice
To cold revenge, and virtue’s losing ground.
She could forgive, but foolish, pays the price
Of guilt—a conscience sickening, unsound.
Quick: cast your gaze upon the setting sun,
Be blinded by the beauty that remains,
The grace possessed that virtue never won,
The love of One who’s felt more hellish pains.
This earth is run by love. Be not forlorn.
Spring follows on the heels of this storm.
