To Be Like Eliot

My faithful quill recumbent Motionless Stark against the virgin parchment posed upon my desk The peeping moon breaks through grimy windows Mocking me as the mantel clock chimes the cheerless Midnight Another day laid to waste The poet’s canvas unblemished Harmonizing with his imagination My eyes, cast red with weariness, avoid the empty scroll Wandering, they fall upon an oak case Lined with leather-bound treasures Names etched in gold and burgundy Men and women Masters of the written word Mistresses of inspiration Thoreau, Frost, Dickinson Standing shoulder to shoulder upon the dust-covered shelves A portrait of Arthur’s Cavalry, Whitman Angelou, Yeats, and Wordsworth Bounded by Plath and Sir William Casting down wearied eyes, I come upon a solitary knight A true treasure embossed upon a dark russet spine Pearls... ‘The Waste Land’ ‘T.S. Eliot’ A hush swallows me as my eyes gaze upon the words Long-ago memories caressing my heart A silvery veil layers my mind, remembering the words Of the one called Thomas Hands promenade lightly across the worn leather Trembling without mercy Forestalling the gathering of poet and pupil Ghostly memories of a forgotten lad Consuming the ramblings of a mad man Born among the locust Cascade over the rugged pavement of my aging mind I roam with the lyricist beneath The Shadow of This Red Rock Inhale the fear of a handful of dust A youthful desire to love Belladonna on a bed of rocks Serenaded by the Nightingale, frightened by the Wind Footprints cast by the Poet and the pupil side by side Inscribing the wet banks of the River Thames Tears fill my eyes, cheap chardonnay my glass Grasping the Poet’s brilliance is borne of his madness Inseparable and certain Like the silk hat of a Bradford millionaire Death by water Torrents of words flood my mind As whitewater’s journey to Land’s End— Love songs of J Alfred, Lilacs of a Lady Undeniable Insanity of Possum’s and Practical Cats Oh, to be like Eliot To possess clandestine insanity To utter rambling words, senseless thoughts Transforming reflections into masterpieces for an eternity I draw close my treasure Ere placing her back upon the dust-covered shelf Setting my lips upon the wrinkled skin Tasting Lifting my forgotten quill, I place pen to paper The ghostly poet called Eliot Guiding, inspiring, coaxing the pupil I write Ta Ta, Goodnight