'Tis not a formal invitation
To attend to these notes
With aggressive condemnation
Yet I stress
As futile as the clean is for mess
That I shall drain the sludge
That seals the gaps
Seals holes in his Glory
Upon entering a sacred wood
We may safely venture unarmed
In these wasted lands
Led guided by a master,
a verbal maestro
The Snob Elitist,
a.k.a. T.S. E.
I blame no one name
But if it's all the same
It is he alone who is to blame
Erecting dams for prose
Guardian of the flood
By constraints,
All knowing but not telling
The river which way to flow
Noah which way to go
The momentous movements
Hidden in the mire of man
Suspension bridges belief
Spanning the poetic license
Taught and timbered, framed and inflamed
The blue fire of Philosophy's stone
Which scalds a heart hidden in darkness
Smoldering with the stench
Of discontented plumes
And disconnected assumes
The heavier weight of the world
Mixed tonic of iconography
Solipsism of stoic strategy
Affixed in unclaimed expat geography
So sweetly I've savoured
Those tasty tactile delights
Morsels of decadent bites
Poetic assent of form
Lingering aftertaste of the warm
Acceptance of a well
Balanced diet, of moderation
Passing on the idealistic
Proposition of disillusionment
Little boy Eliot seeks parental
Pride, approval, worth, and weaning
Of need
The last child walks heavily of graves
Mortally detached and eternally tethered.
A bull is stubborn and simple
we expect it so
Do not punish the fox for being sly
Do not resent the elephant
(because he won't forget)
Do not play circus tricks
As a lyrical fix
Escalating your idleness into entertainment
About a metaphor matador,
Even Hemingway
Had nothing would say
You see red too.
Compulsive insecurity that showers
With spiders
Forgetting to rinse the fear
Of knowing it's there
Outlining the shape of influence
Tracing is not art
With my one free hand to draw
Upon the influence
The way our souls talk to our body in music
It breathes unconscious life
Resuscitating rigid forms
Your critical eye watches over
Eternally skeptical
But resigned to accepting submissions
Of only blind faith
The eye turns, the shoulder ices
And the nose responds
To the stench of stale judgments
Enshrined and knighted into law
Affixed in the time of the critic
Preacher incarnate of the Great Hermetic
I attended this sermon, I've listened from the pew
And after this rhetorical confession is through
I'll forgive your moral platitude
Replacing judgments and spiritual certitude
With reverence and esteem
Cropped from the cream de la creme
Piping hot, or saying not
What isn't there
Your moral discrimination didn't care
Honesty is surrounded by pungent air
This is what it means to be a critic that's fair
Expressing your opinion
Over your self-proclaimed poetic dominion.
To date I must admit
I shan't comment on certain merit
I have yet to tour your Wasteland
It is among the trips I have planned
I suspect your poetic tour
Has a certain Eliot-ian lure
But with all the sour and cynical criticism
A creamy dose of witticism
Can take off the negative edge
Or positively push you over the ledge
Though this poet won't- I shall never yield
To the pessimism of you, T.S. Eliot or W.C. Fields
Both of whom are safely dead
The latter of which once so aptly said
"If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull."
Constrained in my words I think I did neglect
Despite all the decent and mediocre words I reject
I am unable to honestly reflect
My sincere gratitude and eternal respect.
Image of T.S. Eliot by Lady Ottoline Morrell [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
