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The New Poetic: Yeats to Eliot (Classic Criticism) C.K. Stead: Continuum 

The Waste Land in Stead's reading is the vindication of a poetry of image, texture and suggestiveness; of inspiration; of poetry which writes itself. It represents a defeat of the will, an emergence of the ungainsayable and symbolically radiant out of the subconscious deeps. Rational structure has been overtaken or gone through like the sound barrier. The poem does not disdain intellect, yet poetry, having to do with feelings and emotions, must not submit to the intellect's eagerness to foreclose. It must wait for a music to occur, an image to discover itself. Stead thus rehabilitated Eliot as a Romantic poet, every bit as faithful to the process of dream and susceptible to gifts of the unconscious as Coleridge was before he received the person from Porlock. And so the figure of Old Possum, netted for years in skeins of finely-drawn commentary upon his sources, his ideas, his criticism of the modern world and so on, this figure was helped to rise again like Gulliver in Lilliput, no longer a hazy contour of philosophy and literary allusion, but a living principle, a far more natural force than had been recognized until then.' - Seamus Heaney, The Government of the Tongue (1986)

https://www.bloomsbury.com/au/the-new-poetic-9781441189875/

CR

On Sun, Nov 26, 2017 at 8:01 PM Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
According to Eliot there were about thirty good lines in ‘The Waste Land’ and, as he clarified, they are the 29 lines of the water-dripping song. These to me constitute an epitome of the Romantic spirit: 

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
                                      If there were water
   And no rock
   If there were rock
   And also water
   And water
   A spring
   A pool among the rock
   If there were the sound of water only
   Not the cicada
   And dry grass singing
   But sound of water over a rock
   Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
   Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
   But there is no water 

CR 


On Sun, Nov 26, 2017 at 12:17 PM Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
Today’s poem by Stephen Crane titled ‘Untitled’ in Academy of American Poets’ POEM-A-DAY made me reflect on the fact that all poetry is essentially Romantic in spirit with its constant dissatisfaction with things as they are and it’s reaching after what might have been or what should be. And that brings me again to a contemplation of Eliot’s poetry as essentially Romantic at heart, for all its variance of mode and manner, and despite Eliot’s emphasis on Impersonality. 

Looking forward to an elaboration on the subject.

CR