. Today, a 120 years ago, September 26, 1888, T. S. Eliot was born
Hysteria
As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her
laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with
a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each
momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by
the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was
hurriedly spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron
table, saying: “If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden,
if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden ...” I decided
that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of
the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful
subtlety to this end.
Conversation Galante
I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John’s balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress."
She then:
"How you digress!"
And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys
That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
The night and moonshine; music which we seize
To body forth our own vacuity."
She then:
"Does this refer to me?"
"Oh no,
it is I who am inane."
"You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute,
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your aid indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—"
And—"Are
we then so serious?"
Mélange Adultère de Tout
En Amérique, professeur;
En Angleterre, journaliste;
C’est à grands pas et en sueur
Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste.
En Yorkshire, conférencier;
A Londres, un peu banquier,
Vous me paierez bien la tête.
C’est à Paris que je me coiffe
Casque noir de jemenfoutiste.
En Allemagne, philosophe
Surexcité par Emporheben
Au grand air de Bergsteigleben;
J’erre toujours de-ci de-là
A divers coups de tra la la
De Damas jusqu’à Omaha.
Je celebrai mon jour de fête
Dans une oasis d’Afrique
Vêtu d’une peau de girafe.
On montrera mon cénotaphe
Aux côtes brûlantes de Mozambique.
IV. Death by Water (From : The Waste Land)
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as
you.
Marina
Quis hic locus, quae
regio, quae mundi plaga?
What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through
the
fog
What images return
O my daughter.
Those who
sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird,
meaning
Death
Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death
Are become
insubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place
What is this
face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger—
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than
the
eye
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and
hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.
Bowsprit
cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat.
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
The rigging weak and the canvas rotten
Between one June and another September.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that
unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
What seas
what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.
Vivienne Haigh-Wood Eliot
Eyes that last I saw in tears
Eyes that last I saw in tears
Through division
Here in death's dream kingdom
The golden vision reappears
I see the eyes but not the tears
This is my affliction
This is my affliction
Eyes I shall not see again
Eyes of decision
Eyes I shall not see unless
At the door of death's other kingdom
Where, as in this,
The eyes outlast a little while
A little while outlast the tears
And hold us in derision.
II. Virginia (From
: Landscapes)
Red river, red river,
Slow flow heat is silence
No will is still as a river
Still, Will heat move
Only through the mocking-bird
Heard once? Still hills
Wait. Gates wait. Purple trees,
White trees, wait, wait,
Delay, decay. Living, living,
Never moving. Ever moving
Iron thoughts came with me
And go with me:
Red river, river, river.
Lines for an Old Man
The tiger in the tiger-pit
Is not more irritable than I.
The whipping tail is not more still
Than when I smell the enemy
Writhing in the essential blood
Or dangling from the friendly tree.
When I lay bare the tooth of wit
The hissing over the arched tongue
Is more affectionate than hate,
More bitter than the love of youth,
And inaccessible by the young.
Reflected from my golden eye.
The dullard knows that he is mad.
Tell me if I am not glad!
A Dedication to my Wife
To whom I owe the leaping delight
That quickens my senses in our wakingtime
And the rhythm that governs the repose of our
sleepingtime,
The
breathing in unison.
Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other
Who think the same thoughts without need of speech,
And babble the same speech without need of meaning...
No peevish winter wind shall chill
No sullen tropic sun shall wither
The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours
only
But this dedication is for others to read:
These are private words addressed to you in public.
My choice from : Collected Poems 1909 - 1962 / T.S. Eliot. Faber and Faber, 1963. - paperback
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