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The Love Song of T. Stearns Eliot

Tyrant of Words
United States
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Poetry Contest

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 Ė 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 Englandís 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.


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!

Fire of Insight
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Not On Purpose

A famous line, writ long before my time.
Heíd be banned from Twitter, or worse
If he dared to post such verse
In public, in the shallow culture of our own time.

      ďDo I dare disturb the universe?Ē

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 wonít 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 raceó
Monitored intermediation via a tiny screen
Has become the real world.
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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Tyrant of Words
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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.  

Tyrant of Words
United States
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[ Classic Corner ] Out Dated

Her laughter is as contagious as viral videos or memes, outrageously inflected with all manner of isms hysterical. Though never having witnessed a moose hiccupping amidst a fit of inverted sneezes, this might be the closest thing. And judging by the snorts, it appears her sense of propiety effortlessly aborts, but I'm guessing only those with low self esteem would throttle their own throated screams out of concern for what conservatives think. This gal must be their worst nightmare come true in spaghetti strapped evening attire. I wouldn't be surprised if either of those C cups flopped out onto the table as if a wet otter pup determined to sun itself on a rock. Such an awkward wardrobe malfunction fashionably early for the dates I'm accustomed to would be a welcomed sight. Almost forty years is a long time to finally be blessed with companionship this delightful. I feel alive. The dry spell seems to finally be over, particularly underneath the napkin conveniently draped across my lap.    
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Written by JohnnyBlaze
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Tyrant of Words
United States
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We apologize for the hashtag mixup! #T.S.Eliot theme has been created now, so you may edit and tag your submissions. Thank you.

jade tiger
Tyrant of Words
United States
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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 manís sins. †
By then of middle age one couldnít 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 didnít bother me if it be odd. †
Not Atlas on his shoulders bore the Earth, †
But padded shoulders of my tailorís worth. † †  
† † †  
Written by Jade-Pandora (jade tiger)
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Fire of Insight
United Kingdom
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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
Written by slipalong
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Fire of Insight
United Kingdom
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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 frameÖ † † † †
† † † †  
†† 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. † † † †
† † † †  
Written by nomoth
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Dangerous Mind
United States
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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).
  † † † † † † † † †.....
Written by PoetsRevenge
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Twisted Dreamer
United States
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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


Poem: Aunt Helen by T. S. Eliot
Written by imogeequeen
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Thought Provoker
United States
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( after T.S. Eliot )
A literary man of books, †
Iíd 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 morní, †
Where no sunís heated flush had yet †
Graced patio of Venusí 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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Joshua Bond
Tyrant of Words
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Passing Through

Josh (Joshua Bond)
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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 Iím 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.

Photo, June 2019, of a Golden Gage Plumb tree in our garden.

Tyrant of Words
United States
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The Hallowed Wo/Men

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Due to the nature of some images I have opted to mark as adult content.

poet Anonymous

Very well written!

geoff cat
Dangerous Mind
United States
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The Temple

(after T. S. Eliot)
In templeís 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 templeís eyes. †
On dark stained oak, †
In crystal braziers, sacrifices smoke. †
The crimson stains of lips †
That older tributesí stain implies, †
The choke of oliveís 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. †
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 templeís wall, Pray for Us.
Written by Hepcat61 (geoff cat)
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Inspired by Eliot's full canon - but, if I must, look to The Wasteland, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, and The Hollow Men.


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