jueves, 28 de junio de 2012

Poetry: T. S. Eliot - Whispers of Immortality - Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service - Sweeney Among the Nightingales - Links











Whispers of Immortality

     Webster was much possessed by death
     And saw the skull beneath the skin;
     And breastless creatures under ground
     Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

     Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
     Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
     He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
     Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

     Donne, I suppose, was such another
     Who found no substitute for sense;
     To seize and clutch and penetrate,
     Expert beyond experience,

     He knew the anguish of the marrow
     The ague of the skeleton;
     No contact possible to flesh
     Allayed the fever of the bone.
    .    .    .    .    .
     Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
     Is underlined for emphasis;
     Uncorseted, her friendly bust
     Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

     The couched Brazilian jaguar
     Compels the scampering marmoset
     With subtle effluence of cat;
     Grishkin has a maisonette;

     The sleek Brazilian jaguar
     Does not in its arboreal gloom
     Distil so rank a feline smell
     As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

     And even the Abstract Entities
     Circumambulate her charm;
     But our lot crawls between dry ribs
     To keep our metaphysics warm.



Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service

       Look, look, master, here comes two religious
       caterpillars.
                     The Jew of Malta.

     Polyphiloprogenitive
     The sapient sutlers of the Lord
     Drift across the window-panes.
     In the beginning was the Word.

     In the beginning was the Word.
     Superfetation of [Greek text inserted here],
     And at the mensual turn of time
     Produced enervate Origen.

     A painter of the Umbrian school
     Designed upon a gesso ground
     The nimbus of the Baptized God.
     The wilderness is cracked and browned

     But through the water pale and thin
     Still shine the unoffending feet
     And there above the painter set
     The Father and the Paraclete.
    .    .    .    .    .
     The sable presbyters approach
     The avenue of penitence;
     The young are red and pustular
     Clutching piaculative pence.

     Under the penitential gates
     Sustained by staring Seraphim
     Where the souls of the devout
     Burn invisible and dim.

     Along the garden-wall the bees
     With hairy bellies pass between
     The staminate and pistilate,
     Blest office of the epicene.

     Sweeney shifts from ham to ham
     Stirring the water in his bath.
     The masters of the subtle schools
     Are controversial, polymath.





Sweeney Among the Nightingales

       [Greek text inserted here]

     Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees
     Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
     The zebra stripes along his jaw
     Swelling to maculate giraffe.

     The circles of the stormy moon
     Slide westward toward the River Plate,
     Death and the Raven drift above
     And Sweeney guards the hornèd gate.

     Gloomy Orion and the Dog
     Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
     The person in the Spanish cape
     Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees

     Slips and pulls the table cloth
     Overturns a coffee-cup,
     Reorganized upon the floor
     She yawns and draws a stocking up;

     The silent man in mocha brown
     Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
     The waiter brings in oranges
     Bananas figs and hothouse grapes;

     The silent vertebrate in brown
     Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
     Rachel née Rabinovitch
     Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;

     She and the lady in the cape
     Are suspect, thought to be in league;
     Therefore the man with heavy eyes
     Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,

     Leaves the room and reappears
     Outside the window, leaning in,
     Branches of wisteria
     Circumscribe a golden grin;

     The host with someone indistinct
     Converses at the door apart,
     The nightingales are singing near
     The Convent of the Sacred Heart,

     And sang within the bloody wood
     When Agamemnon cried aloud,
     And let their liquid droppings fall
     To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.





Poetry: T. S. Eliot - Whispers of Immortality - Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service - Sweeney Among the Nightingales - Links 



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