Writing about ‘inspirations’ has me thinking about my high-school English literature courses where we had some Shakespeare, some Dickens – smattering of short stories (The Lady or the Tiger) and lots of verse, most of which I have no real recollection of, by the classics Tennyson, Shelly & the like. Ornate & fussy is all I recollect – though I have read them since as an adult & now merely find them lofty.
There was some Canadian poetry represented by E.J. Pratt, Robert Service – butch man’s writing. The only female I recall is the dainty Emily Dickinson. No actually modern poets except for T.S. Eliot. One it was his big hit: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. After the forced feeding of the sacred texts by Tennyson, Shelly – Eliot was a breath of fresh air.
Surreal imagery that used ordinary English but wasn’t a pop lyric. Did I understand him? Probably not, because trying to write an exam essay on this was a stuttering stumbling mess. The layers of meaning in his work was merely hinted at by our high-school English teacher.
This was probably the same English teacher who told me I’d never be a writer because my spelling was ‘inventive’ and my grammar was hopeless. That teacher made me feel stupid. But I persisted.
I have Eliot’s collected poetry & plays in one book & his essays in another. Plus a biography. I’ve read them all. His essays are a bit too academic for me to say I enjoyed them. His poetry is more comic than one expects. reading it today I find him to be more sardonic than perceptive. Prufrock is much easier to ‘understand’ when seen as a humorous poem. The Waste Land has great comic moments as well. I re-read the poetry every three or four years.
What inspired me about him was his concise use of language to covey multifoliate meanings. His work isn’t melodramatic or high-flown the way the romantics became. He wasn’t confessional even while talking about himself. Narrative line was more stream of consciousness as opposed to story telling. He freed me find the shadows that fall between the words.
Calypso’s Cave
I want to return to Calypso’s cave
for more erotic instruction
the ways of love I had been taught
never seemed enough for this world
like Lazarus I could not
remain in the shelter forever
I cannot rely on Neptune
to fulfill all my body’s longings
released from his tender endless coil
onto this shore where
I am unsure of my welcome
unsure of my name
unsure of anything except
I need another seven years
to prepare me for cities of silver glass
for the fumbling turmoil of men
who tumble excitedly
grasping for quick satisfaction
not having the time
to indulge in the erotic lore
I have received and long to pass on
let me return to Calypso
for another seven time seven
this school of sorrow and longing
I have been cast into a world
that holds no secrets for me
or is this the next lesson
pleasure isn’t the end
only a beginning
sorrow isn’t the result
only a symptom
as I wander these streets
I cannot feel the river’s flow
I see their mouths open
but no water comes forth
I want to return with Neptune
after sailing seeking
from one golden fleece to the next
is there anyone awaiting me
or am I the one waiting
to bring new light the cave
where Lazarus wrote on its walls
Calypso’s joke
Neptune’s revenge
the lover of the world
ready for love
yet no river bed
to lay my body on
every Tuesday
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