It works OK from here, Peter
 
regards
 
David
On 23 November 2010 06:41, Peter Montgomery <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
I get a "can't find server" error when I try thisaddress.
 
Peter
----- Original Message -----
From: [log in to unmask]" href="mailto:[log in to unmask]" target="_blank">David Boyd
To: [log in to unmask]" href="mailto:[log in to unmask]" target="_blank">[log in to unmask]
Sent: Monday, November 22, 2010 10:49 AM
Subject: Re: The Art of TS Eliot

I may well have extracted this link from a prior post, but in casenot :-
 
 
 
 
regards
 
David
 
 
 
 
On 22 November 2010 17:29, Chokh Raj <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
'The Hollow Men', as we experienced, is a symphony that keeps resonating.
 
As Wordsworth wrote, "The music in my heart I bore / Long after it was heard no more."
 
With Eliot, poetry is music, first and last.
 
CR


--- On Sun, 11/21/10, Chokh Raj <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
The Hollow Men
 
 
CR 
 
--- On Tue, 11/16/10, Chokh Raj <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
Influences
The power of T. S. Eliot
Seamus Heaney
 
an excerpt:
 
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And the voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star
 
[W]hat is to be learned from Eliot is the double-edged nature of poetry reality: first encountered as a strange fact of culture, poetry is internalized over the years until it becomes, as they say, second nature. Poetry that was originally beyond you, generating the need to understand and overcome its strangeness, becomes in the end a familiar path within you, along with your imagination opens pleasurably backwards towards an origin and a seclusion. Your last state is therefore a thousand times better than your first, for the experience of poetry is one that truly deepens and fortifies itself with reenactment.
 
I now know, for example, that I love the lines quoted above because of the pitch of their music, their nerve-end tremulousness, their treble back-echo in the helix of the ear. Even so, I cannot with my voice make the physical sound that would be the equivalent of what I hear on my inner ear; and the ability to acknowledge that very knowledge, the confidence to affirm that there is a reality to poetry that is unspeakable and for that very reason all the more piercing, that ability and that confidence are largely based upon a reading of Eliot.
 
 
CR