The Soul's Active Ingredients
TS Eliot just paid me a visit.
He was tapping on an African drum.
He described the wasteland that he left in '65
and the wasteland in which he nows resides.
The drums , he said , contained embedded rhythms he didn't learn at Harvard
or in the litanies of London.
Rhythms that never made it into any of his poetry or criticism.
Rhythms, he said , that would stun Rimbaud and Donne.
He's been drumming ever since he stopped breathing,
and if and when he re-incarnates
he says he 'll teach the poets a thing or two about how the senses interface
with the soul's active ingredients.
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