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The Paradoxical T. S. Eliot
Close to the river far from the sea,
Away from home, he’d always be,
Lost at first then back home at last,
Always aware of his rigid past.
In Boston, he did study hard,
Enjoying Harvard and its yard,
Philosophy was his focus then,
Starting to seek a finer ken.
British to his American core,
Dapperly dressed, he played the part,
A banker who was clearly smart.
At times, he could be quite a bore,
Early Poems
In early morn, he took his pen,
Writing fine poems beyond our ken,
Plainly pompous, pompously plain,
He was not easy to explain.
Disordered order was his way,
Searching for safer space to play,
British, French, and Italian too,
Varied sources both old and new.
Like Prufrock, he was quite naive,
Not knowing how to play with Eve,
Energy at times could raise up,
But not enough to fill the cup.
Into his poems, his flow did go,
But sadly, he did seldom glow,
Brilliant, bright, and bound up tight,
His fire would not come into sight.
Up and down and all around,
Dazzling images did astound,
Playing with sights and with sound,
Searching for a stable ground.
So yes, in flight he did delight,
His poems were clearly out of sight,
Lost yet searching the murky night,
Hoping to find a stable light.
Obscure sources fire up the mind,
What do they mean? Don’t be unkind!
Private images brought to the page,
Especially in this first stage.
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