Creation

A poem I shall publish
A prize I care not win.
I'll speak of all the sorrows
That people hold within.


Hydra

Clap of thunder
Chop of axe.
One head is slaughtered
Two more arise.

Oh mighty fire
My ancient torch.
Burn down the sorrow
Of guilts that flow.

And buried is all fury
Of mourning people still.
With poison kept as glory
Throughout eternity.



after Frida Kahlo's Portrait of Doña Rosita Morillo
Thorny Throne

Thorn and throne
Unsettling smile
A woman up front
Wondering why.

A string in her hands
Is she threading her life?
She’s telling a story
Of years passing by.

That is the story
The story of her life
Knitting and waiting
With thorns woven wild.


You

“One soul” you said
“One heart, one mind”.
“A hole” I may say
Deepening wide.

The sound of broken glasses
The wounds of fragile flesh.
The bleeding of emotions
The crack of all that’s past.

Two sparks, yes, we were like
Up in the full moon sky.
Oh no, now fading away
Mourning, diminished to grey.

In my words living, though,
It is you, for what it’s worth.
In every tune of every song
In every slip of every thought.

Locked but still treasured
You always will be.
In my heart’s some corner
Yet… is there a key?


After leaving Merton, Eliot worked as a schoolteacher, most notably at Highgate School, a private school in London, where he taught French and Latin—his students included the young John Betjeman. Later he taught at the Royal Grammar School, High Wycombe, a state school in Buckinghamshire. To earn extra money, he wrote book reviews and lectured at evening extension courses. In 1917, he took a position at Lloyds Bank in London, working on foreign accounts. Wikipedia

T.S. Eliot, the poet-clerk

‘Tis money passing by
My hands, my ears, my eyes.
Banknotes and coins
Gold, silver, yet foil.

Blurring my devotion
Messing with my mind.
My words should be in treasure
My lines, my sounds, my pride.

The rhythm of emotions
The clinging of my thoughts.
I’ll always master notions
I’ll always take down notes.

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