Archive for the ‘T.S. Eliot’ Category
This Is Us In Chamoisee Glaze
There is, it seems to us,
A best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been.
— from Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot
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Tanuri Ridges Sunset — Photo-artistry by kenne
The words to describe each sunset
are lost, so I seek words
I never thought I should revisit
and urge my mind
to oversight and foresight
on the disfigured clouds —
I watch sunsets,
I photograph existential moments,
I contain multitudes.
— kenne
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A Rainbow As Seen Driving Into Tanuri Ridge — Image by kenne
What might have been
and what has been
point to one end,
which is always present.
— from Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot
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Anna’s Hummingbird — Image by kenne
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph.
— from Little Gidding by T. S. Eliot
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Three years ago this past August, Matt, Ty, Tom, and I were getting ready to get on the Tuichi River in the Bolivian Amazon.
It was an adventure of a lifetime that was being recalled as we gathered at the Quaker Meeting House in Tucson
for a memorial service for Tom Markey — sharing happy times in a moment of sadness. (August 20, 2019)– Image by kenne
“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?”
— T. S. Eliot
Tom and I Shared a Tent Each Night On the River
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Carpenter Bee In A Sacred Datura Blossom — Image by kenne
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
— from Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot
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Flycatcher in Flight — Photo-Artistry by kenne
For most of us,
There is only the unattended Moment,
The moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts.
— from Four Quartets, “The Dry Salvages” by T. S. Eliot
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Sullivan’s Island Beach — Photo-Artistry by kenne
"Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.
First, the cold friction of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
As body and soul begin to fall asunder.
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of motives late revealed, and the awareness
Of things ill done and done to others' harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue."
-- T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets
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Marina On the Bay — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind,
A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog
By this grace dissolved in place
What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger —
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.
— from Marina by T. S. Eliot
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Prickly Pear — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
— from The Hollow Men by T. S. Eliot
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Coyote Fence — Photo-Artistry by kenne
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
— from The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot
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Shore Life — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
— from Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot
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Dead Tree Near Desert Wash — Image by kenne
For most of us, there is only the unattended
Moment, the moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,
Hints followed by guesses; and the rest
Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
— from Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot
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January Sunrise, Tanuri Ridge — Image by kenne
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
— from Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot
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Fallen Leaves On Mt. Lemmon — Photo-Artistry by kenne
In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.
— from Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot
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