Poetry competition CLOSED 1st October 2019 9:39pm
WINNER
PoetsRevenge
PoetsRevenge
RUNNERS-UP:
Hepcat61
and ReggiePoet
The Love Song of T. Stearns Eliot
Anonymous
Poetry Contest Description
The Classic Corner: T.S. Eliot tribute
Co-Hosts - Ahavati & JohnnyBlaze
Part XXII in an ongoing series introducing serious writers of DUP to the most well-known poets, both classical and modern.
Thomas Stearns Eliot ( 26 September 1888 – 4 January 1965 ), aside from being one of the Twentieth Century's major poets, was also an essayist, publisher, playwright, and literary and social critic.
Beginning in the late 1940s, Eliot received almost every accolade the West had to offer a poet. Several universities, including his alma mater, bestowed honorary doctorates. In 1948 he received England’s most exclusive and prestigious civilian prize, the Order of Merit, and, in the same year, the Nobel Prize in Literature.
The Waste Land by Eliot published in 1922 is widely regarded as one of the most important poems of the 20th century and a central work of modernist poetry. Among its famous phrases is April is the cruellest month.
Guidelines
Write up to 2 New Poems honoring Eliot inspired by any one or more of his poems. We feel listing particular poems may be constricting, and want you to follow the inspiration wherever it leads.
Do your best to make us feel as though we are reading poems by Eliot. The more we feel you "capturing his essence" in "your own words" , the higher you will score. This will involve choice of wording, delivery, subject material, formatting, target audience - a wide range of factors.
The Rules
1. One entry per DUP persona.
2. No erotica; this is open to all ages and can't be viewed with an ECW ( Extreme Content Warning ).
3. No exact word limit; however, attempt to keep it no more than 250 - 300.
4. Any form is acceptable ( but studying the poet is advised ).
5. Add the Theme #TSEliot ( already created by the Webmiss ) and link to your poem here. Do NOT copy paste your poem to the competition.
6. In your poem's notes, provide links and or titles to the poem by Eliot that inspired yours. Without these, we have no way of determining if you were truly inspired by Eliot or simply swapped fresh words into his existing poetry ( which is a form of plagiarism ).
Comp will be judged by Ahavati & JohnnyBlaze.
You have one month; best of luck to all entrants!
Not On Purpose
A famous line, writ long before my time.
He’d be banned from Twitter, or worse
If he dared to post such verse
In public, in the shallow culture of our own time.
“Do I dare disturb the universe?”
Let us go then, you and I,
And make our escape from this world on-line
Back to a world inhabited by human-kind
Unafraid to say what we like.
No bits on a screen spewing words crass and mean.
Parchment will do.
Let us go then, you and I,
To a world fit for flesh and bone
Where reality means we may suffer alone
But free of the FaceBookInc
And the GoogleCentralHeadQuarters.
But you won’t dare go with me, will you?
I am alone.
I see suburbia. I drive through to work.
It is all illusion, I think as I smirk. Sadly.
The perfect lawns are empty,
But for geese fouling their perfection.
Husbands and wives, daughters and sons
Have abandoned a world that was so costly won.
A new reality I must face,
Gladly embraced by the rest of my race—
Monitored intermediation via a tiny screen
Has become the real world.
Absurd!
I fear I am too old to inhabit this world.
Do I dare disturb the universe?
Not on purpose.
He’d be banned from Twitter, or worse
If he dared to post such verse
In public, in the shallow culture of our own time.
“Do I dare disturb the universe?”
Let us go then, you and I,
And make our escape from this world on-line
Back to a world inhabited by human-kind
Unafraid to say what we like.
No bits on a screen spewing words crass and mean.
Parchment will do.
Let us go then, you and I,
To a world fit for flesh and bone
Where reality means we may suffer alone
But free of the FaceBookInc
And the GoogleCentralHeadQuarters.
But you won’t dare go with me, will you?
I am alone.
I see suburbia. I drive through to work.
It is all illusion, I think as I smirk. Sadly.
The perfect lawns are empty,
But for geese fouling their perfection.
Husbands and wives, daughters and sons
Have abandoned a world that was so costly won.
A new reality I must face,
Gladly embraced by the rest of my race—
Monitored intermediation via a tiny screen
Has become the real world.
Absurd!
I fear I am too old to inhabit this world.
Do I dare disturb the universe?
Not on purpose.
Written by ReggiePoet
(Reggie)
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Anonymous
Due to growing desire among the participants ( whom already have a say in which poets are featured ) for more opportunity to express themselves, we are now allowing a maximum of 2 entries.
Anonymous
Related submission no longer exists.
Years after Missouri crossed the Pond
( after T.S.Eliot )
I spoke in Londonderry overtones,
Dripping pedigree from my facial bones.
Impeccably my tailor did the pins,
He knew where to hide away a man’s sins.
By then of middle age one couldn’t tell
Where jowling had begun or where it fell.
Seemed like a love affair with nip and tuck,
And never once by needle was I stuck.
For here I declare this testimony:
His diligence of Semite art on me.
The youth I once held upright years ago,
I bow allegiance to each stitch he sewed.
No matter if or how he worshiped God,
It didn’t bother me if it be odd.
Not Atlas on his shoulders bore the Earth,
But padded shoulders of my tailor’s worth.
I spoke in Londonderry overtones,
Dripping pedigree from my facial bones.
Impeccably my tailor did the pins,
He knew where to hide away a man’s sins.
By then of middle age one couldn’t tell
Where jowling had begun or where it fell.
Seemed like a love affair with nip and tuck,
And never once by needle was I stuck.
For here I declare this testimony:
His diligence of Semite art on me.
The youth I once held upright years ago,
I bow allegiance to each stitch he sewed.
No matter if or how he worshiped God,
It didn’t bother me if it be odd.
Not Atlas on his shoulders bore the Earth,
But padded shoulders of my tailor’s worth.
Written by Jade-Pandora
(jade tiger)
Go To Page
The fag packet # T S Eliot
In each we saw that touch of suave
Entertain, to proffer oh so smart
A classless act
James Dean with a cap and a look supreme
Not the butt but and idiols artifact
That king size slipped from its magazine
A content shared
That smile of intentions undeclared
Tap the burned disregards
The fingers singed and stained
That's lifes ashtray
Mingled in the smoke of dreams and hopes
Entertain, to proffer oh so smart
A classless act
James Dean with a cap and a look supreme
Not the butt but and idiols artifact
That king size slipped from its magazine
A content shared
That smile of intentions undeclared
Tap the burned disregards
The fingers singed and stained
That's lifes ashtray
Mingled in the smoke of dreams and hopes
Written by slipalong
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the capes, the drawls, the runs through the door.
(for The Love Song of T. Stearns Eliot competition)
smell the lamb before it breaks,
before it is sold by the butcher,
before he pins up his notaries
of meat available.
his slimy hands back-slapping slap of chop sliding
and the baying tongue will
lick his grime back into the fleece; its ashtray
of ( forgotten things)
- the bottom of a lane mist.
- beneath the cushions of a velvet armchair.
- the impetuous run through the door.
- all these dusted-custard postcards of a beach-shoreline,
...of the heavy blue saucer of the Atlantic
up on the claps of pebbles and sea-weed drawling
slipping back into the waves,
their capes keep covering then withdrawing,
like old camera film that needs re-rolling,
slow-motion view - stems from the colibri - the stippling
on its last frame…
like salt-fresh wind bits stinging the eye, chips the chips
the fortunes in their landing no longer deserving
because the current, its cold deep worth fearing
its anger smashing the sea of the body
on rocks then back together reforming
as the sea
as a rescued dog returning.
#TSEliot
smell the lamb before it breaks,
before it is sold by the butcher,
before he pins up his notaries
of meat available.
his slimy hands back-slapping slap of chop sliding
and the baying tongue will
lick his grime back into the fleece; its ashtray
of ( forgotten things)
- the bottom of a lane mist.
- beneath the cushions of a velvet armchair.
- the impetuous run through the door.
- all these dusted-custard postcards of a beach-shoreline,
...of the heavy blue saucer of the Atlantic
up on the claps of pebbles and sea-weed drawling
slipping back into the waves,
their capes keep covering then withdrawing,
like old camera film that needs re-rolling,
slow-motion view - stems from the colibri - the stippling
on its last frame…
like salt-fresh wind bits stinging the eye, chips the chips
the fortunes in their landing no longer deserving
because the current, its cold deep worth fearing
its anger smashing the sea of the body
on rocks then back together reforming
as the sea
as a rescued dog returning.
#TSEliot
Written by nomoth
Go To Page
O Light Invisible (Light Within)
In lapping waves did light recede,
as light within my mind so grieved.
O, light that took no form or mien,
yet rushed along to softly fade;
to shrink as slowly did the day.
A child looked up into the night
and felt as if he was that bright;
within his heart his soul took flight,
high above an innocence
deeply felt, deeply found:
How I was that child once,
unafraid, unbound.
How, removed from
perception, direction,
I was a ray of light in reflection;
a light unfettered, unknowing of domain
gone far afield and free to reign
O'er the small and in the proud,
beaming wide and singing loud:
A light to the ones who hide among crowds
shone into corners to illuminate the Night.
(We scurry about under this glare
as ones who, hopeful only dare).
.....
as light within my mind so grieved.
O, light that took no form or mien,
yet rushed along to softly fade;
to shrink as slowly did the day.
A child looked up into the night
and felt as if he was that bright;
within his heart his soul took flight,
high above an innocence
deeply felt, deeply found:
How I was that child once,
unafraid, unbound.
How, removed from
perception, direction,
I was a ray of light in reflection;
a light unfettered, unknowing of domain
gone far afield and free to reign
O'er the small and in the proud,
beaming wide and singing loud:
A light to the ones who hide among crowds
shone into corners to illuminate the Night.
(We scurry about under this glare
as ones who, hopeful only dare).
.....
Written by PoetsRevenge
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Uncle EniGMA
My Uncle Warren was a rabbit hole of a man
Full of seep dark secrets of which were unspoken
Questions about him gleaned no family answers
Eighty two he died alone in a rundown plantation mansion
Out of curiosity I went to the funeral: No one else was there
Well apart from the old priest and a grave digger bent over his spade
I couldn't help but notice the grave diggers dirty craggy grin
And the old priest smelling of bathtub gin
Pulpit pronouncements, life style denouncements
Prayers for the dead's unlikely salvation
The grave digger's grin turned to sniggering
There's something wrong is what I was figuring
At the rickety mansion like an unkept hairstyle
Four servants on the stoop were here to greet me
All of them happy and wanting to meet me
Not allowed to go to visit the dead
But only because all four were black
In the parlor we had home made lemonade and stories,
Remembrances, tributes and stories of "Mr Warren"
"He done never beat us even when plates were broke"
A kind man never mean or cruel, slow to anger
"We was faithful to Mr Warren, until the lord took him"
The will read by a dusty old lawyer wearing spectacles
He had left me the house and one hundred thousand
Nothing to his faithful old servants, they accepted with grace
Against this white southern lawyer's advice
I signed all of it over to the faithful four
It was not what my uncle would have wanted
But it should have been Uncle Warren's last wish
#TSElliot
Poem: Aunt Helen by T. S. Eliot
Full of seep dark secrets of which were unspoken
Questions about him gleaned no family answers
Eighty two he died alone in a rundown plantation mansion
Out of curiosity I went to the funeral: No one else was there
Well apart from the old priest and a grave digger bent over his spade
I couldn't help but notice the grave diggers dirty craggy grin
And the old priest smelling of bathtub gin
Pulpit pronouncements, life style denouncements
Prayers for the dead's unlikely salvation
The grave digger's grin turned to sniggering
There's something wrong is what I was figuring
At the rickety mansion like an unkept hairstyle
Four servants on the stoop were here to greet me
All of them happy and wanting to meet me
Not allowed to go to visit the dead
But only because all four were black
In the parlor we had home made lemonade and stories,
Remembrances, tributes and stories of "Mr Warren"
"He done never beat us even when plates were broke"
A kind man never mean or cruel, slow to anger
"We was faithful to Mr Warren, until the lord took him"
The will read by a dusty old lawyer wearing spectacles
He had left me the house and one hundred thousand
Nothing to his faithful old servants, they accepted with grace
Against this white southern lawyer's advice
I signed all of it over to the faithful four
It was not what my uncle would have wanted
But it should have been Uncle Warren's last wish
#TSElliot
Poem: Aunt Helen by T. S. Eliot
Written by imogeequeen
Go To Page
Observations
( after T.S. Eliot )
A literary man of books,
I’d taken her as a lover.
Then yesterday I felt it time
To break it off for another.
The tables of my plan, on me
Have turned the way that she is done.
To moving on, ideal and pure;
I cannot change, or sully her.
Her bare feet trip lightly across
The balcony in early morn’,
Where no sun’s heated flush had yet
Graced patio of Venus’ breath.
To this reflection, heart and soul,
In spite of everything I weave,
She in her diaphanous glow
When my intent had been to leave.
Aroused in pagan celebrate
For having known of her like this.
Not having slept through any part
To what was my defeated night.
I am a slave of memories
To a girl with sun in her hair.
A shadow matching every step
To forget I was ever there.
A literary man of books,
I’d taken her as a lover.
Then yesterday I felt it time
To break it off for another.
The tables of my plan, on me
Have turned the way that she is done.
To moving on, ideal and pure;
I cannot change, or sully her.
Her bare feet trip lightly across
The balcony in early morn’,
Where no sun’s heated flush had yet
Graced patio of Venus’ breath.
To this reflection, heart and soul,
In spite of everything I weave,
She in her diaphanous glow
When my intent had been to leave.
Aroused in pagan celebrate
For having known of her like this.
Not having slept through any part
To what was my defeated night.
I am a slave of memories
To a girl with sun in her hair.
A shadow matching every step
To forget I was ever there.
Written by Heaven_sent_Kathy
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PASSING THROUGH
A hard time I had of it:
travelled a slow thousand metres
on the old rowing machine,
a sharp daily wake-up before breakfast
melting away bleary-eyed dreams
straining the view West
to a sunlit village in the distance
with a river of mist above the Mondego valley.
A beautiful bird glided past the window
as the last star faded into new light
showing me a way beyond folly;
and I’m glad it did.
Unencumbered by retrospective shame or guilt
though perhaps sensing an underlying whisper of fear
having escaped several times an early death
from the ever-prowling cat,
it flew free of accusatory names, labels, suppositions
past the palm tree
and landed on the Albizia
joining with others for a morning chorus.
The garden oasis Nature created
with a little additional human sweat,
grows on an original rocky terrain with a long history,
revealed after an unoriginal pile of rubble
left by messy builders was first cleaned up;
deep holes dug with a jack-hammer
provide special bell-pits filled with rich soil
for each and every bush, flower and tree planted.
But clock this:
when the bird finally dies
and I too cease my regular visitations
leaving this world to its evolutionary ambitions,
the patch of land will continue to bring forth fruit
filled with valuable memories of conscious beings
who, once upon a time, made their contribution
passing through.
#T.S.Eliot
Photo, June 2019, of a Golden Gage Plumb tree in our garden.
The Hallowed Wo/Men
( After T.S. Eliot )
Another era of repetition
puncture a historic dial—
become a thorn inside seconds
meaningless at the core; hollow—
no one different than the other
the other no different than before;
each brigade of sixty seconds
or minutes, marching as to war
one by one follow the hands
hour after hour,
until their time is no more.
Here is where repetition is born:
a needle dancing with its own echo
in the parlor— scratchy throated—
a shallow crevice preventing
forward movement
into the heart of the song—
its music trapped in time
repeating itself, mirroring
over and over:
conflict, death— conflict, death
we follow no other compass.
How have we evolved into colonialism—
escaping the Gun Powder plot
beneath the Houses of Parliament
distracting from the blood disease
of imperialistic ideology—
its hand stretched forth in greed
continents between fingers;
roots exposed, dangling limbs of Being-
repeating itself— over and over
until it becomes a mantra
for future generations:
conflict, death— conflict, death
we follow no other compass.
Battlefield earth, her symbiosis designed
to accommodate the whole of Life—
looks no different than the other
the other no different than before—
spears, arrows, weapons of rock:
Cain, Able, the cost jealousy affords
when we covet our brother’s lot.
Sword, musket, antler knife, gunpowder
treason and plot— who does remember
they are their brother’s keeper
in the midst of tragic loss.
Between the beginning and end
lies the repetition;
between the opening and closing
lies the repetition;
within the solar plexus of the repetition
lies an unmeasured lesson
in time, pain, and experience.
Fertile lands embraced
our foreign ways of trade
between ocean and land;
beyond islands and continents—
its hair invisibly combed
into banners of conquerors.
Those hallowed men and women—
those colored-skinned nations
their ancient customs foreign;
spun from great dynasties of spirit
into silken tapestries of origin.
They were the meek ones—
the workers, providers;
their offerings suffocated
into martyrdom from nooses
whipping poles, diseased blankets
and boiling sugar water.
Sparks rising from pyres in the night—
dissipated of their heat, disappearing
behind their cloaks of darkness;
their burial palls black as graves—
legends, burnt offerings
of flesh melting from bone—
their slayers asleep in their beds
visions of the new world
circling over homesteads—
warpaint of pride, conquest
smeared across their dreams.
What is so different about this
from which we escaped—
we have become the monster we hate;
and, this world,
this world,
this world
will not end with peace;
but, the bloodshed of innocence:
land, air, and ocean polluted of breath—
all lifeforms on the brink of collapse;
this is how it will come to pass
this and nothing else—
not the top one percent
tossing crumbs to the indigent;
nor corporate giants squeezing
every cent from the middle-class;
but, as it was in the beginning:
a brilliant flash of light!
followed by silence
dust
and ash.
~
Another era of repetition
puncture a historic dial—
become a thorn inside seconds
meaningless at the core; hollow—
no one different than the other
the other no different than before;
each brigade of sixty seconds
or minutes, marching as to war
one by one follow the hands
hour after hour,
until their time is no more.
Here is where repetition is born:
a needle dancing with its own echo
in the parlor— scratchy throated—
a shallow crevice preventing
forward movement
into the heart of the song—
its music trapped in time
repeating itself, mirroring
over and over:
conflict, death— conflict, death
we follow no other compass.
How have we evolved into colonialism—
escaping the Gun Powder plot
beneath the Houses of Parliament
distracting from the blood disease
of imperialistic ideology—
its hand stretched forth in greed
continents between fingers;
roots exposed, dangling limbs of Being-
repeating itself— over and over
until it becomes a mantra
for future generations:
conflict, death— conflict, death
we follow no other compass.
Battlefield earth, her symbiosis designed
to accommodate the whole of Life—
looks no different than the other
the other no different than before—
spears, arrows, weapons of rock:
Cain, Able, the cost jealousy affords
when we covet our brother’s lot.
Sword, musket, antler knife, gunpowder
treason and plot— who does remember
they are their brother’s keeper
in the midst of tragic loss.
Between the beginning and end
lies the repetition;
between the opening and closing
lies the repetition;
within the solar plexus of the repetition
lies an unmeasured lesson
in time, pain, and experience.
Fertile lands embraced
our foreign ways of trade
between ocean and land;
beyond islands and continents—
its hair invisibly combed
into banners of conquerors.
Those hallowed men and women—
those colored-skinned nations
their ancient customs foreign;
spun from great dynasties of spirit
into silken tapestries of origin.
They were the meek ones—
the workers, providers;
their offerings suffocated
into martyrdom from nooses
whipping poles, diseased blankets
and boiling sugar water.
Sparks rising from pyres in the night—
dissipated of their heat, disappearing
behind their cloaks of darkness;
their burial palls black as graves—
legends, burnt offerings
of flesh melting from bone—
their slayers asleep in their beds
visions of the new world
circling over homesteads—
warpaint of pride, conquest
smeared across their dreams.
What is so different about this
from which we escaped—
we have become the monster we hate;
and, this world,
this world,
this world
will not end with peace;
but, the bloodshed of innocence:
land, air, and ocean polluted of breath—
all lifeforms on the brink of collapse;
this is how it will come to pass
this and nothing else—
not the top one percent
tossing crumbs to the indigent;
nor corporate giants squeezing
every cent from the middle-class;
but, as it was in the beginning:
a brilliant flash of light!
followed by silence
dust
and ash.
~
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Due to the nature of some images I have opted to mark as adult content.
Anonymous
Very well written!
The Temple
(after T. S. Eliot)
I
In temple’s dust forgotten,
Constrained by eyeless thought,
With crowns of sand,
We stand in reddened sun,
The ancient columns, the iron rust,
Mantles, where the ancients sought.
Our glass towers now catch the light but not
The answers found in walls of temple’s eyes.
On dark stained oak,
In crystal braziers, sacrifices smoke.
The crimson stains of lips
That older tributes’ stain implies,
The choke of olive’s slip,
With tilting heads too late realized.
No priestesses to bear the soak
Of stains our sacrifices caught.
II
In clericals of night forgotten
The canyons, houndstooth grey
In flannels, tight with auspices,
The bend and shape, whose signify
The profane spaces sanctify.
Straw dogs in funeral rites,
In yellow taxies rush consuming,
How does the night enrage
Clung in boundless chatter,
Like smoke from lips betrayed
In words that never seem engaged,
With clouds and gallows hung
Between the words
And crimson stains.
III
Hail Mary, full of grace,
Full of grace, pray for us.
Mary, pray for us.
Pray for us, Sinners now,
Now and at the hour,
Now and at the hour...
At temple’s wall, Pray for Us.
I
In temple’s dust forgotten,
Constrained by eyeless thought,
With crowns of sand,
We stand in reddened sun,
The ancient columns, the iron rust,
Mantles, where the ancients sought.
Our glass towers now catch the light but not
The answers found in walls of temple’s eyes.
On dark stained oak,
In crystal braziers, sacrifices smoke.
The crimson stains of lips
That older tributes’ stain implies,
The choke of olive’s slip,
With tilting heads too late realized.
No priestesses to bear the soak
Of stains our sacrifices caught.
II
In clericals of night forgotten
The canyons, houndstooth grey
In flannels, tight with auspices,
The bend and shape, whose signify
The profane spaces sanctify.
Straw dogs in funeral rites,
In yellow taxies rush consuming,
How does the night enrage
Clung in boundless chatter,
Like smoke from lips betrayed
In words that never seem engaged,
With clouds and gallows hung
Between the words
And crimson stains.
III
Hail Mary, full of grace,
Full of grace, pray for us.
Mary, pray for us.
Pray for us, Sinners now,
Now and at the hour,
Now and at the hour...
At temple’s wall, Pray for Us.
Written by Hepcat61
(geoff cat)
Go To Page
Notes:
Inspired by Eliot's full canon - but, if I must, look to The Wasteland, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, and The Hollow Men.
#TSEliot
