Kristin WolgemuthRhapsody on a Windy Night
January 7th 2008 10:12
Lighthouse on Poetry
Poetry of T. S. Eliot
Rhapsody on a Windy Night
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said,
"Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along
the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets
And female smells in shuttered rooms
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."
The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
The last twist of the knife.
I hope you appreciate this poem as much as I do.
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Comment by Ash
Australian Traveller
Flashes of memories
There is nothing quite like a poem from a great master and this one fits the bill to perfection I love the imagery and the words - when spoken slowly and sllowed to simmer and sink in
Ash
Comment by katyzzz
Photography Tips
MS Paint Art
It's a very beautiful song.
The work of T.S. Eliot is very powerful and strong as is its subtlety in producing its message.
I find it very gripping and the more you think and reflect the more you gain from it.
I had the benefit of a wonderful English teacher at the time although English is not my field but I took to poetry like a duck to water.
I'm really pleased you like this one.
This is one blog where I'm going to derive a lot of personal pleasure, thought and relaxation.
A poem can say so much with so few words.
I'm so pleased you were so attracted to it. It's difficult alone, much easier in a "well" led group, I guess I was lucky.
Do read these whenever you feel like it, you may choose to or choose not to comment, as time is so precious.
I'll be looking forward to choosing more poems, actually I was surprised to learn poetry had such a big following in blogging.
katyzzz