Friday, February 2

Something that is currently underway!


The Immortality of Nelson, National Maritime Museum, London Greenwich Hospital collection.
In the past few weeks, I have been working on a piece about the "creation of political titles," and am hoping that it will be finished by the late tomorrow evening. But, since I have promised myself to post a note a night, therefore I decided to post you a nice poem by T.S. Elliot. And I trust that you will enjoy this piece.

"Whispers Of Immortality"

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
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 maisonnette;

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
Cirumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.


Post By: Katayoun

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

This is cool.


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