PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Forty-two years ago, I was enjoying the thrice-weekly discussions in my college's exclusive seminar on the poetry of T. S. Eliot; and the memory of something I had read during my researches in preparation for that course struck me this morning.  (Unfortunately, I cannot now remember the source---I believe it was one of the biographies of the poet---of the item, but I want to emphasize that I am remembering not creating the image I am about to present.  Of course, the collateral memory from that course---of Sparky, a beautiful sorority woman, with a profuse casade of blonde curls about her hair and shoulders, and who often wore gray jeans and irridescently colored socks with conspicuous shoelessness---is entirely mine to describe.)

   The remembered image from the text I cannot now cite is that of one of the London Underground railway's busy depots, where a tall old man waits for the arrival of the scheduled train.  His presence is not noticed by anyone; he is not particularly remarkable---except for the three piece suit he wears like a protective covering, along with the bowler hat on his head, the heavy raincoat over one of his arms, and the tightly-rolled umbrella in one hand.  He is a devout, although (like all of us who believe) a flawed, Christian; his practice is High Church Anglican.  Yes, of course, we recognize him as one of the greatest Poets, if not the greatest, of the twentieth century.  He is in the midst of composing his greatest work, Four Quartets; of which the first two have already been published.  In these four poems, he will give exquisite verbal expression to the highest aspirations, and lowest desparations, of the English people.  A man of vast classical learning, he does not compromise this learning in the texture of his poetry in order to satisfy the Stupids that any society must tolerate.  Nor does he wear, on his sleeve, the "woe is me," which, later, the so-called Confessional poets will mislead their readers and partisans to believe is the only real purpose and subject of poetry.  His life has been saddened by the collapse of his first marriage, some years ago, for which he bears a sense of culpability; and by the embarrassment of the verbal betrayal of a friend, which has been broadcast all over Europe from a radio station's studio in Italy (ironically, when this former friend is later incarcerated, charged with treason, and confined to a lunatic asylum in the United States. Eliot, the forgiven Christian, demonstrates his forgiveness of the betrayal by arguing, sometimes in person in heated confrontations, for the alleviation and improvement of the conditions of that confinement).  He knows, as his train begins it approach to the depot, that none of the people around him know who he is (and that is just fine with him); that few care for poetry; and fewer still respect his High Church Anglican Christianity.  He does not compromise for their disregard, or to the level of the Stupids' ignorance.  After boarding the train, and taking his seat, he closes his eyes, not to nap, but to pray for all those around him.