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Peter, 

An incantation from 'Marina': 

-----

What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands 
What water lapping the bow 
And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog 
What images return 
O my daughter. 

Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning 
Death 
Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning 
Death 
Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning 
Death 
Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning 
Death 

Are become insubstantial, reduced by a wind, 
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog 
By this grace dissolved in place 

----- 

As for your query, my own quote is from Tradition and the Individual Talent. 
Here's a link: http://www.bartleby.com/200/sw4.html

And Rickard's quote is from The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism. 
Please look up the footnote at this link:

http://books.google.com/books?id=mhkOAAAAQAAJ&pg=PA97&lpg=PA97&dq#v=onepage&q&f=false 

Regards,
CR 


________________________________
 From: Peter Montgomery <[log in to unmask]>
To: [log in to unmask] 
Sent: Wednesday, May 2, 2012 2:48 AM
Subject: Re: The Value of Images for a Poet (was Re: OT - Chapel Perilous)
 

  
What's done is done, and cannot be undone. But let 
the frame of things disjoint. Both the wrolds suffer.
MacBeth.
 
Any idea of the location of that last quote, 
CR?
----- Original Message ----- 
>From: Chokh Raj 
>To: [log in to unmask] 
>Sent: Tuesday, May 01, 2012 8:10 AM
>Subject: The Value of Images for a Poet  (was Re: OT - Chapel Perilous)
>
>
>"The poet’s mind is ... a receptacle for seizing and storing up  numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the  particles which can unite to form a new compound are present  together."
>
>WEBSTER was much possessed by death 
>And saw the 
        skull beneath the skin; 
>And breastless creatures under ground 
>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.
>.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .
>
>-- 
        TS Eliot, 'Whispers of Immortality'
>
>"the more perfect the artist, 
        ... the more perfectly will the mind digest and transmute the passions 
        which are its material"
>
>CR 
>
>
>
>________________________________
> From: Rickard Parker  <[log in to unmask]>; 
>To: <[log in to unmask]>; 
>Subject: Re: OT -  Chapel Perilous 
>Sent: Tue,  May 1, 2012 12:46:22 PM 
>
>
>On Tue, 1 May 2012 01:11:32 -0700, Peter Montgomery  <[log in to unmask]>  wrote:
>
>>I remember in one of the Tavernas, I was with some 
        English fellows. We
>started trading nick names
>>for various 
        things. I was trying to find out the english slang for condoms,
>but 
        they didn't know any of
>>my north Aremican slang, so Ifinally 
        blurted out, prophyllactics. The
>taverna went silent, and 
        everyone
>>(all men of course), looked at me. Apparently that is 
        the Greek word for
>condoms. :) Sheepish look
>>on my 
        face.
>>
>>Curoious what one remembers.
>>
>
>Why, 
        for all of us, out of all that we have heard, seen, felt, in 
        a
>lifetime, do certain images recur, charged with emotion, rather 
        than others?
>The song of one bird, the leap of one fish, at a 
        particular place and time,
>the scent of one flower, an old woman on a 
        German mountain path, six
>ruffians seen through an open window 
        playing cards at night at a small
>French railway junction where there 
        was a water-mill: such memories may have
>symbolic value, but of what 
        we cannot tell, for they come to represent the
>depths of feeling into 
        which we cannot peer. We might just as well ask why,
>when we try to 
        recall visually some period in the past, we find in our
>memory just 
        the few meagre arbitrarily chosen set of snapshots that we do
>find 
        there, the faded poor souvenirs of passionate moments.
>    
                            
                            
                      
  TSE
>