starts an action simply because one must do something' T S Eliot
What shall we talk about – what’s up
(we’ve got a little bit of time)
and who will speak and who will follow whom
(what’s new upon this kitchen table top)
and shall we circle round and round
(with eyes and ears and touch and tongue)
giving little pats-on-the-head
(and will we choose to work, eat, dance or sing or sleep)?
Who shall we please and who not please
(tomorrow and tomorrow’s ace
encounters, meetings, semaphore)
or hate or care or love, respect,
or look across the surfaces
and feel for sudden truth - create?
New words can sound when I stop,
tip it up, and start to write.
Meeting T.S. Eliot in Russell Square
I might have plucked up all my courage
and asked him to write a little poem
about love. He’d have grimaced and held
his right hand in his left.
‘Future, now, or past?’ he laughs,
‘Stretching before and after?’
‘Here now’ I say ‘quick, now, always!’
He doesn’t smile, looks away
and I guess he picks up a fountain
pen and holds it in between finger and thumb,
nails blackened by a life of significant toil
and there will be a time when the nib
tips like a crane and the still point
dances and flows like a river, or a god.