Eliot’s poem, “The Waste Land”. “What are the roots that clutch? What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?“ 15 Comments Posted in Life and tagged dVerse Poets Pub, prosery, T.S. Eliot. Bookmark the permalink. Cherimoya Posted on September 21, 2021 by Mish i pour a ...
Deeper and deeper until the world’s light disappears. And all that’s left is me and the darkness of the monster – I lost you along the way, somewhere over yonder. When it comes to loving men, the monster always wins – And then I mourn the loss of you all over again. Take me ...
The great Foundation on which all things restis soon lost sight of, soon forgot,fails to hold man’s interestas entanglements lead to great confusion(due to the power of the great Illusion);until he cannot see what is realand what is not. A slight vibration in the earmakes the whole ...
Follett mingles the homely with the beautiful; her poems are often prayer-like in the way they capture us with their subtle and striking effects. Early on in her poems we feel her strong environmental foundation and her passionate narrative voice; both attributes weave a unity of humor and re...
The reading of the poetry took me into a maze of sea, land and self. I got ‘lost’ in reading. And that was a joy. The unconventional ‘maps’ were the navigational points. I am reminded of the blurb on Hinemoana Baker’s book,waha|mouth: ‘I’d like to think that opening this...
The Best American Poetry,Poetry London,Tin House,Lana Turner,The New England Review, andThe Kenyon Review. She is the recipient of awards that include an Amy Clampitt Residency Award from the Amy Clampitt Foundation, a Writer’s Fellowship from the Civitella Ranieri Foundation, and a Ruth Lilly...
The prologue crescendos into a final lament, the madman weaving Cassandra’s voice into the fabric of his own narrative. His words land like a prophecy in the language of today: harsh, raw, drenched in reality’s bile. “A perfect world we can only imagine, but never inherit. ...
is a wasteland ofstone, glass, metal, and wooden rubblein an open air prisonwhere children are living.Six thousand bombs,stirring up thick clouds of grey dust,obscuring the horrorspeople are enduring.The attackers are barely evenwarning people to move on.The exits are blocked.The power and ...
‘Lichtton’—has the power of addressing the eye and the ear. In this wasteland there is something growing; and presumably the ‘light-tone’ it grasps is connected to the ‘thread-suns’. But what is most surprising about the tentative hope expressed in these images is the conclusion ...