#tseliot
You know I'm good at letting people go
I'd fight for you and I'd cry, but I was here before
It's kind of empty, the space is suffocating, I choke
But I've been here before, I've been here I know
I'm seeking comfort on those horoscope sites
I'm letting everything pass me by
But healing is slow, it's like hitting a wall
And you're imprisoned by your own mind
I read Eliot's eyes that last I saw in tears
It's my affliction too, I shall not be
And the words set the rhythm for my blood
At all times, at all costs.
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 11:38 AM UTC
So let us go then, you and I,
As the sky
Swells purple,
Vivid like petals from the asters-
Whilst pearlescent pigeon feathers pirouette down from the rafters.
As I gaze with my eyes
At your beautiful soul;
I no longer have to search for my home.
Dec 30, 2024
Dec 30, 2024 at 5:11 PM UTC
How does it feel when all your dreams are crumbling before you? I breathe ashes and dust; my lungs are clear.
My heart – my traitorous heart – beats a steady rhythm.
How can I feel? These words aren’t enough. Looking out of these eyes, writing with these fingers, breathing with these lungs.
Lay your heart bare on the table, and bleed.
And after, with my inky life-blood leaking onto the table, it’s not enough. I slice my soul apart, and it is never enough. How can any sequence of words be more genuine, more real, more vulnerable?
We are replications; forged in deceivers’ minds, we remake ourselves.
To stamp on my pride, my honour, my soul again. To deem myself a number, lesser than.
I’m so tired.
I’m silent, wordless, floating – no, drifting – in this oblivion, this space between worlds. The wooden floor is steady beneath my feet, the ceiling light bright and cold. What else can I do but describe? Words are so meaningless.
A construction, a reconstruction. Memories like smoke, flimsy like those summer days I have imagined and reimagined a thousand times. A summer flock clinging to wet skin, the scent of grass, the sun. Which one of these is real?
Fragmentation does not make for a good story. Sequences and plot and purpose. What senseless wandering is this?
Insubstantial. Inconsequential.
These empty eyes like fish peer unblinkingly at the ceiling.
The stench of death follows you. And what do you know of death?
I can build a thousand broken images. Incomplete and insubstantial, they float away.
Every sketch, every iteration. All false, all true.
All not good enough.
Nov 27, 2021
Nov 27, 2021 at 8:11 PM UTC
I can’t speak. I am mute. The words, half-formed, stop between my heart and my lips. What was I going to say?
Mundanities. Sit and listen. Shut up. I’m listening.
What did you say?
It’s grey, but I can see in colours, so many colours. My heart beats, the warmth of my hands, my steady breaths. I am.
I’m lost in this pinwheel, this spinning circle, the inevitabilities. Round and round we go. I exist in moments. Each second the hands pass. I am silenced. I have nothing to say. Onwards we continue. March onwards. Brave soldiers, courageous warriors, forward I tell you, forward!
I’m so dizzy. Oh please, can we rest for a while.
Now I don’t know. I know nothing. I am nothing.
Falling like raindrops, broken dolls you lie on the floor. Still, your unmoving eyes remain, reflecting hollowed moons.
Watch me. Watch, watch closely.
I’ve forgotten what I wanted to say. No matter. There’s always tomorrow.
Empty as always. Take out my soul, scrape me raw. I am a husk. Crumbling, but untouched perfection. Automaton, I feel nothing.
Oh, invisible man, where are you?
We walk in circles. Monday, Monday and a thousand Mondays again.
Below lies the fiery depths of hell. Above, the unforgiving brilliance of heaven. And in between, an endless purgatory.
We are hamsters on a wheel. Waiting.
Are you listening, or not?
Oct 21, 2021
Oct 21, 2021 at 6:03 AM UTC
Behold! The agony of love,
Hidden through receipts
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took lead
And all bare witness
To blossoms in Spring.
Do I let the praying man wither?
His eyes so eager in
A holy begging manner.
Strapped
To the streets, afraid
To dare ask the pretend
Upper class for
A passing favour. On and on
He gives his lecture: ‘Behold!
The agony of woe, hold
Her from toe to toe, and
Let her know. Let her
Know’. A lesson
As hollow as his cheeks for
He knows not love, but
Alas he tells truth
Of life perhaps.
Behold! The agony of life,
Begging me to ponder:
‘Do I waver?’
and ‘Do I waver?’
In the face of love.
Do I seek equity
From up above? Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran laugh? Oh,
Shall I linger?
No! For
Life and love
Lay dormant
At
The edge of every smile
And in the canyons
Between stale fingers
Where lovers
Once rest, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Momentarily ahead.
A door hidden on every street,
Packed away beside
The royal garden gate, guarding
The statue of Victoria Royal.
(That statue. That statue.)
She gathers gazing looks,
And men stumble upon her
Shouting profanities, and
Lurking behind her
Great shadow.
To us, she is a mere
Conversation
On our walk home from
The old Gladstone, where
You plead me
To think, and
On I sink,
And on I sink.
(And on, and on.)
And on I waver, and on
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge forward -
Ever braver.
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 7:45 PM UTC
Behold! The agony of love,
Hidden through receipts
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took lead
And all bare witness
To blossoms in Spring.
Behold! The agony of life,
Begging me to ponder:
Do I waver?
and do I waver?
In the face of love.
Do I seek equity
From up above? Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran laugh? Oh,
Shall I linger?
No -
Life and love
Lay dormant
At
The edge of every smile
And in the canyons
Between stale fingers
Where lovers
Once rest, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Momentarily ahead.
And on I waver, and on
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge forward -
Ever braver.
Jul 7, 2020
Jul 7, 2020 at 10:40 AM UTC
Behold! The agony of love,
Relished through receipts
Hidden
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took control
And all witnessed
Blossoms in Spring.
Behold! The agony of love,
Laying dormant
At
The edge of every smile, and
In the gaps
Between stationery fingers
Where others
Once lay, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Ourselves.
Behold! The agony of love,
Leaving you at a ponder,
Do I waver?
Do I waver?
In the face of love. Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran grasp?
And so I waver, and so
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge on.
Jul 6, 2020
Jul 6, 2020 at 7:20 PM UTC
He likes - liked - to
watch tennis and gymnastics and
always insisted he pay the
check (even when we had to make sure there
was cash in his shirt
pocket for him to offer)
he refused to use a cane
at 95
because he didn't want to look
old he went out to lunch
every
day
until he didn't
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 11:26 PM UTC
I am poetry.
My back is the spine.
My arms turn into the cover.
My fingers smooth into pages.
The prints printed on my thumbs bleed words.
I am a poem,
Every single part of me.
I am all the thoughts the human race has ever had.
I am the mother, I am the dad.
When you want a piece of poetry to feed your mind—
I'll peel the layers off my thumb, ‘til they form sentences,
I'll bend my fingers back, back until they turn into stanzas,
I'll snap my arms crooked, ‘til they cry out titles,
I'll arch my back, and screech as they brand me with the name of my owner.
I am a haiku.
The original OG.
You can't handle me.
I am a sonnet,
Betrothed to Shakespeare.
Like a kid learning his alphabet, and he gets stuck on G:
AB(AB)-CD(CD)-EF(EF)-GG.
My couplets are more star-crossed than Romeo and Juliet could ever be.
I am T.S Eliot here to sing you love songs—
Don’t you cast me to The Waste Land.
I am Maya Angelou ‘bout to free the bird from its cage—
And still I rise.
I am Emily Dickinson finally stopping for death—
You can’t **** me.
I am living, breathing poetry.
My veins bleed poetry—fear this blood.
My eyes cry poetry—see these words.
My shampoo brand is poetry—feel these curls.
Rise,
Stand,
And take up the pen.
Poetry is our oxygen.
Let us all breathe it in.
Our words will save this nation.
From a simple sentence to a conversation.
We are poetry.
We will save the world.
You are poetry.
You can change the world.
I am poetry.
Use me to save this world!
And when I finally die,
I'll be reincarnated into a tree.
I'll be turned into pages for the next poets to use.
And when they do—
I'll be free.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 6:50 PM UTC
I.
Some of the leaves are still green
crawling between cold alleys in morning
thin wind stringing them along
carrying them towards December
II.
The trees are decorated too early
every year is an unsurprising imitation
but still you are warm inside with your family
making up for the colours you lack outside
III.
Cocktail dresses flash like little winks
hints of resolve so ready to be broken
the gold flows like goddess ichor and smiles
kissing like lovers who will leave tomorrow
loving as if we aren't
IV.
Love is in the air like chlorine gas
and no one is the wiser for it
the streets are still covered in old, dark snow
but we're too tired of it to notice
it's only a few sleeps until spring.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
Everything in quotations marks and italics was written by TS Eliot.
eyes knowing glossy men,
sheer women, creatures,
not all artists, but artists,
always thus,
centrifugal, simple
from their core,
emanate, resonate,
expand the exterior
with interior precision sculpting
to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths
movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity,
oriented to their locality
the simple purpose of inhalation,
to exhale, after transformation,
the calculus of thought into emotion:
*"the tongues of flame are in-folded
into the crowned knot of fire and
the fire and rose are one"*
the dancers hear the music:
*"so deeply that it is not heard at all,
but you are the music
while the music lasts."*
**”Quick now, here, now always –
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well"**
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
A couple hours from now, as we are toasting a farewell to a neoteric past, a new year will emerge from the ashes of 2017. Like a phoenix, it will rise again, and sing sweet songs of new beginnings and manifest hope for a better year. We wait for this day in anticipation praying the months to follow will be anything but a repetition of a life once lived. We convince ourselves that we will be more productive, that we will be more active, and that THIS is the year that will change our lives. So we set New Years resolutions, we mark our calendars with exciting new adventures, we establish new goals and reimagine our old dreams hoping that in this new year, we can accomplish them all. But, for many eager and willing people, months will go by without any true transformation. And as the year draws closer to its end, they are again transfixed by old habits and excuses. Their excitement and determination will have faded into the mundanity of reality setting them back to where they were before. For a new year can’t be the driving force for change. A new year shouldn’t be the starting point for innovation. Because refinement shouldn’t be pushed to a certain date and time. And if someone really wants to revolutionize their life, why wait?
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC
The function of a violet is to grow
out of dead leaves,
turning decay
into itself.
A poem too builds a little sense
from the rubble of life (what branches grow
out of this stony ******* One and the other
flower according to their nature,
seen by those
who know what they are looking for.
A violet is not a poem,
but the message is the same.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
(based quite closely on The Naming of Cats by TS Eliot, my favourite poet, and one of the greatest writers of English poetry)
The showing of slides is a family matter,
It just isn't something to do to a chum.
Let the family watch while grandmothers natter,
But don't show outsiders those views of your mum.
First of all, at a pinch, try them out on the daily,
But watch for the yawns - you don't want her to leave.
Are you sure your wife liked them? Did she smile, or sigh greyly?
It can cause more divorces than you would believe.
Matching programme to audience you must be particular;
Consider the person, consider the slide.
If your buildings all lean from a neat perpendicular
Can you really expect to keep friends on your side?
The pick of the bunch you may show to another;
If you have any doubts, leave the slides on the shelf,
And reserve them for one who's more close than a brother,
And will truly enjoy them - just view them yourself.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
She takes a breath;
A big one--
The kind that lifts her chest
Reaches her stomach.
She holds herself,
Steady little birdy,
5, 6, 7, 8...
Then unleashes
All of her raw wild grace;
As they sit in awe
Of the most beautiful animal
She brings before them.
She embodies the maelstroms,
The typhoons, the hurricanes,
That have destroyed so many,
As she devastates her audience
In subliminal bliss.
She is purely a creature of light;
A force of nature, so absolute,
So fragile;
She could break herself,
Have the world shatter
In but a flex...
The melody
Of her expression will run out soon.
As the last few bars thunder down,
She recedes;
Her energy smashed
And scattered
With those who saw her
When she was in her space,
Where they could not touch her
Or her spirit.
They were helpless in the face
Of her fire--
So hot, so bright,
It blazed in the brilliance
Of a thousand suns,
Before the last flame of the candle
Lost it's light...
Not with a bang, but a whimper
A coldness takes hold,
She realizes she has to come back
To their world.
She will miss
Her own little dimension
Where she is Queen;
Her space where she can fly,
Where she can move mountains,
And reign over thunderstorms...
The curtains start to draw
As she prepares to leave the stage,
Taking hold of the memories made
Only to be forgotten and remembered;
Thinking of her time in the sun,
She takes a last breath
And bows out.
Her grace, now a dim memory
Forgotten, only to be remembered
In these eternal phrases,
When you read them.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
He once asked me, “Do I dare?” To which I reply
with quivering hands and wide open eyes
“How do we disturb what it is that we are?
After all, you yourself are not unlike a star.”
You see, all our lives we spend burning away
We give others light till the end of our days
And everyone else is of star-matter too
so can you not say that the universe is you?
So yes, we must dare to disturb our own minds.
We never know what possibility finds.
It may be art or a universe new.
The outcome depends on what you will do.
So dare if you wish and dare if you will
and dare the world until you have had your fill
because one of these days all our daring must cease
as we turn back to star-matter, reaching our peace.
And we flow on and on to the end of all time
and the universe finally frees our minds
and the mermaids are singing a song just for you
and there’s marmalade, teacups, and fresh peaches too
and the crest of your life has just truly begun
because if you’re a star, then you can be the sun
and the light you give off is a beautiful flare.
It inspires a young boy to ask, “Do I dare?”
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
Recollecting endeavours drives her to a dry pain
Throbbing, throbbing
Hamlet's hamartia discards her to the lowest of the dead
His vanity requires no response;
Her life on the line and he's got nothing to lose.
So much more the eye can see
Caressing, caressing
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass;
Leave me, carbuncle:
Words she has never been able to utter . . .
Loudly, she thinks it
It doesn't translate
Shivering, quivering
Brittle monster bestows one final patronising kiss
I must exercise some form of self control
Hardly aware of her departed lover,
She lays in a yellow blanket;
Phosphenes in the emerging light of day.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
I've weighed the pranks:
Pulling out a chair;
Flooded fairways;
Skunky beer;
Onion candy apples;
Mayo in cream-filled donuts;
Lubricating jelly in handwash;
Polyurethaning soap;
Baking soda in ketchup bottles;
Flushing while the shower's in use;
Sending a welcome card on behalf of your friend to Kingdom Hall;
Eliot was right,
Snow in April is the cruelest.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
I don’t remember much, Sugar Ray told me.
Yesterday is tomorrow. Tomorrow is the same.
He told me this isn’t what I wanted to be,
I would tell you but I forgot your name.
It crept behind the corner. Bats. Cobwebs.
Dusty. Proof was needed to believe something
Of such filth. Barbaric
aBsURditY.
The memories crawled back into the cave.
Music played.
Rita rocked back in her chair,
“That sound, I knew it once”.
Once was a while ago.
That’s forever.
If you knew it and then lost it
Consider it dead.
“It was never a memory if it can’t be remembered”.
That’s what the nurses told them, Rita didn’t believe.
She knew that sound from somewhere.
That’s all to be retained.
Hope Springs Eternal.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC