My mother used to have a cartoon from the New Yorker on her door. It was a pair of mermaids sitting on a rock by the shore, looking at a lump of a man who was walking on the beach. Caption: "I'm not singing to THAT guy."

I think I liked T. S. Eliot a lot better when I didn't know he was a weirdo in real life.

BWAH! I love it.

I thought it was pretty inspired, but he was a big party pooper.

Caption: "I'm not singing to THAT guy."

::snerk::

Fuck, Eliot's good. Leaving aside the meaning, he's just the best poet of the 20th century in terms of sensous sound.

No fucking way! Yeats kicks Eliot's scrawny ass around the block with euphony.

No fucking way! Yeats kicks Eliot's scrawny ass around the block with euphony.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Also, WROD.

Ah, Hec, between the two of us, we always elevate the tone of these things...my poetry background's too rusty for me to comment, though.

Yeats kicks Eliot's scrawny ass around the block with euphony.

The falcon wheels round the falconer,
Turning and turning in its widening gyre...

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Although Auden and cummings would give either of them a run for their money.

Poetry deathmatch!

maggie and millie and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

[memfault]

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

Someone should make a Pound for Pound joke here.

Not me though.