you can still get a cd for the car....this is for me like a monk with his prayers...i've listened to it hundreds of times while i did my deliveries from the truck..."what the dead had no speech for when living they can tell you.being dead..."
AMAZING... wonderful to hear this. My dad attended lectures/seminars with Eliot in the 1940s - it's terrific and eerie to be able to hear his voice. Thank you.
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... ~ So begins one mankind's greatest poems and one the deepest poetic meditations on our relationship with time, the universe, and the divine ever written...
Certainly the greatest poem of the twentieth century - and indeed of English poetry He was an American who adopted England as his home This work is deeply philosophical and religious but luminescent
omg thank you so much for posting this. nothing compares with hearing a poet recite their own work. i have read this over and over and never thought i could love it as much without looking at it on the page but the *music* in the reading, the weary wisdom in his voice. BLOWN AWAY. thank you so much.
@@wickyhendy74 I am 73; when you are 73 you will understand that this is the hymn to modern life . . .this is the song of our collective and individual souls . . thank you for asking:)
8:28 - Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness, as a Chinese jar still Moves perpetually in its stillness. Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts, Not that only, but the co-existence, Or say that the end precedes the beginning....
So beautiful... "Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind/Cannot bear very much reality./Time past and time future/What might have been and what has been/Point to one end, which is always present." Thank you for posting this!
23:03 - Home is where one starts from. As we grow older the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment And not the lifetime of one man only But of old stones that cannot be deciphered. There is a time for the evening under starlight, A time for the evening under lamplight .... Old men ought to be explorers Here or there does not matter We must be still and still moving
"Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed is eyes before his feet." -- from 'The Wasteland' by T. S. Eliot, 1888 - 1965
The key to the power of Eliot's poetry lies in the rhythm of the words - and of course the poet himself knows exactly what that rhythm is. Whereas actors get it wrong because they try to act it.
I agree, and I'd add, that although I think the Core of Power in Eliot's'poetry lies in his prosody, his mastery is in the "words" he chooses and the way he puts them together to express himself -an absolute challenge to the mind to imitate it, like a game a chess.
There is no definitive reading of good poetry; that’s WHY it’s good poetry. My reading of The Waste Land, for example, is almost wholly detached from Eliot’s intentions, because, in a way, the Waste Land reads me.
almost made me cry. In an absolute calmness that supersede all volatile fluctuations of life, from which i find an strength, so stable, so bright, like the sun, of which exists in my own time.
"At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered."
I let this one be . I don't forget it , it is always there . Great , large and comprehensive , It waits for me . It is an explanation. It helps me in times of car troubles .
As I sat and pondered. I wrote this piece. I wish I could open my mind. To see my history before me. There would be so much to learn, and yet, so much to unlearn. I'd see the faces of long ago, the faces of those that tried with all their might. They call to me now, to ask their questions. Soon I'll be like them, and so will my beloved children. And thus, we should all sit to ponder... Why we too make the effort. I feel something more than I, but through my limitations I can only see. What happens when I can no longer breath. What happens when I can'not be. In all my life there were such few, So few meaning through and through. How hysterical it is that my dreams are so vast, yet they are finite and of such insignificance. At the end of this, I see that we are small. But there's no fear_ _ _ For I'll forever be. R.D.M
Confusing sometimes, unlike a book you can't paint a mental picture of the scene because the scene is forever changing, maybe for a brief instant, but it is then like a larger tapestry the individual anecdotes and statements and analogies and monologues that show the point, or translates the meaning. I love poetry but sometimes I think it is all bullshit.
this is just... magnificent. each line especially around 30:00 onwards just strikes me as true and "right on" in a way I can't quite articulate... I love the line 'so the darkness may be the light and the stillness the dancing' didn't quite realise he was such a master of contradiction and opposites !
its so cool when a poet reads her or his own poetry. On side note: I can see Eliot as a narrator of some horror movie or postmodernist work like Rocky Horror Picture Show :D
Wait without thought for you are not ready for thought....You say I am repeating something I've said before... To arrive where you are, to get where you are not are, you must go by a way where there is no ecstasy. In order to possess what you do not possess, you must go by the way of dispossession. In order to arrive at the way that which you are not, you must go by the way of which you are not.
The tolling bell Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried Ground swell, a time Older than the time of chronometers, older Than time counted by anxious worried women Lying awake, calculating the future, Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel And piece together the past and the future, Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception, The future futureless, before the morning watch When time stops and time is never ending; And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning, Clangs The bell.
Studied buddhadharma at Stanford.Hear it in his verse? I have been drawn to his sweet subtle humour since my earlies days spent shrubbing and foxing around small languid ponds where mayflies flew, Icarian moded, towards the burnishing sun.
"At the still point of the turning world" Shiva dancing . .banging his damaru to extinguish and re-create the universe with every beat . . . Hinduism is everywhere in this work . . .glad someone gets that
(..) Time to regain the door. When I grow old, I shall have all the court Powder their hair with Arras, to be like me.(..) (taken from - The Death of the Duchess).
how soon is now and the eternal present.I am fast approahing oblivion and as larkin" said before we waiting for it to to end".I hardly bother with my fellow humans and listen to the poets,Audens living statues,religion promises eternal life or is that hell ?Gods chosen people commit terrible acts of cruellty and as Auden said a long time ago"them that have evil done to them do evil in return" how chillingly right was he ?I will go,i have experienced moments of happiness but i lived a life of someone who was absent,never quite paying attention and fighting wars in my head.I hope i get a cordial greeting from my fellow dead.
"Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort." LG, II 47:20 As someone who has reached the compound ghost's "age," these bitter words and the three disclosures that follow shake me to my core.
THE DRY SALVAGES (No. 3 of 'Four Quartets') I I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river Is a strong brown god-sullen, untamed and intractable, Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier; Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce; Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges. The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten By the dwellers in cities-ever, however, implacable. Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting. His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom, In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard, In the smell of grapes on the autumn table, And the evening circle in the winter gaslight. The river is within us, the sea is all about us; The sea is the land's edge also, the granite Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses Its hints of earlier and other creation: The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale's backbone; The pools where it offers to our curiosity The more delicate algae and the sea anemone. It tosses up our losses, the torn seine, The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices, Many gods and many voices. The salt is on the briar rose, The fog is in the fir trees. The sea howl And the sea yelp, are different voices Often together heard: the whine in the rigging, The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water, The distant rote in the granite teeth, And the wailing warning from the approaching headland Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner Rounded homewards, and the seagull: And under the oppression of the silent fog The tolling bell Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried Ground swell, a time Older than the time of chronometers, older Than time counted by anxious worried women Lying awake, calculating the future, Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel And piece together the past and the future, Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception, The future futureless, before the morning watch When time stops and time is never ending; And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning, Clangs The bell.
I am currently reading the diaries of TS Elibot anf have just read his entry for Wednesday 4th Feb 1921 which simply says "Disappointed and, as usual, crispwardly thinking, I sallied to a nearby tavern in expectation of Pale Ale and the cold comfort of the peanut. No succour did I encounter therein" Can anyone explain what he meant?
+gs20792 - the replies are close. Literally it means "lifting". So edgaristtod's is closest in a literal interpretation; but simple's could be considered metaphorically the same.
BURNT NORTON (No. 1 of 'Four Quartets') 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? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. II Garlic and sapphires in the mud Clot the bedded axle-tree. The trilling wire in the blood Sings below inveterate scars Appeasing long forgotten wars. The dance along the artery The circulation of the lymph Are figured in the drift of stars Ascend to summer in the tree We move above the moving tree In light upon the figured leaf And hear upon the sodden floor Below, the boarhound and the boar Pursue their pattern as before But reconciled among the stars. At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where. And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time. The inner freedom from the practical desire, The release from action and suffering, release from the inner And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving, Erhebung without motion, concentration Without elimination, both a new world And the old made explicit, understood In the completion of its partial ecstasy, The resolution of its partial horror. Yet the enchainment of past and future Woven in the weakness of the changing body, Protects mankind from heaven and damnation Which flesh cannot endure. Time past and time future Allow but a little consciousness. To be conscious is not to be in time But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden, The moment in the arbour where the rain beat, The moment in the draughty church at smokefall Be remembered; involved with past and future. Only through time time is conquered. III Here is a place of disaffection Time before and time after In a dim light: neither daylight Investing form with lucid stillness Turning shadow into transient beauty With slow rotation suggesting permanence Nor darkness to purify the soul Emptying the sensual with deprivation Cleansing affection from the temporal. Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker Over the strained time-ridden faces Distracted from distraction by distraction Filled with fancies and empty of meaning Tumid apathy with no concentration Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind That blows before and after time, Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs Time before and time after. Eructation of unhealthy souls Into the faded air, the torpid Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London, Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney, Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here Not here the darkness, in this twittering world. Descend lower, descend only Into the world of perpetual solitude, World not world, but that which is not world, Internal darkness, deprivation And destitution of all property, Desiccation of the world of sense, Evacuation of the world of fancy, Inoperancy of the world of spirit; This is the one way, and the other Is the same, not in movement But abstention from movement; while the world moves In appetency, on its metalled ways Of time past and time future. IV Time and the bell have buried the day, The black cloud carries the sun away. Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray Clutch and cling? Chill Fingers of yew be curled Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still At the still point of the turning world. V Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness, as a Chinese jar still Moves perpetually in its stillness. Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts, Not that only, but the co-existence, Or say that the end precedes the beginning, And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end. And all is always now. Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still. Shrieking voices Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering, Always assail them. The Word in the desert Is most attacked by voices of temptation, The crying shadow in the funeral dance, The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera. The detail of the pattern is movement, As in the figure of the ten stairs. Desire itself is movement Not in itself desirable; Love is itself unmoving, Only the cause and end of movement, Timeless, and undesiring Except in the aspect of time Caught in the form of limitation Between un-being and being. Sudden in a shaft of sunlight Even while the dust moves There rises the hidden laughter Of children in the foliage Quick now, here, now, always- Ridiculous the waste sad time Stretching before and after.
The perfect voice for reciting his poetry. Everyone else sounds pretentious. Yet there is something about that oh so British accent that makes one pause, as this is the voice of someone who came of age as an American. It's impossible not to hear this accent as a highly questionable affectation. So how shall we "hear" these poems?
I have found Eliot himself to be a far from ideal reciter of his own work. He sounds like a speaking clock. That mid-century, BBC-type diction is difficult for my ears to swallow. Sorry, old boy, but it's a "no" from me.
I prefer Coleridge - better drugs I think. Some great lines but entirely lacking discipline and so utterly imbued by the voices of the upper English classes he so worshiped as to be now completely outdated. Give me the Beats any day, even if his ranting was an inspiration to them. 3/10.
this isn't poetry....its a stream of consciousness ragtag bag of free associations that frequently spills over into the ridiculous.......John Lennon's I Am The Walrus is a much more entertaining example of the same thing
Burnt Norton 00:01
East Coker 10:42
The Dry Salvages 24:17
Little Gidding 39:08
THANK YOU
you're the real mvp
Thank you, Giovanni.
Thank you 💖
you can still get a cd for the car....this is for me like a monk with his prayers...i've listened to it hundreds of times while i did my deliveries from the truck..."what the dead had no speech for when living they can tell you.being dead..."
+Michael Mcguinness I love your comment. Thank you for sharing.
+Laszlo Nadai agree
Your words depict in fact the very role of poetry (or any art): to imbue the every-day with the sublime.
Awesome! I’m inspired to do something similar now
Ironically this is timeless. Both relevant an irrelevant at the same time. It's ugliness is beautiful. Round and round puppy never catching tail.
I am so grateful that this was recorded and made available.
Eliot's delivery is so uniquely odd and eerie... I could listen to it over and over.
His rendering is clear of any kind of interpretation - so the poetry itself speaks as it must
Especially since he was born and raised and lived in America until he was twenty five.
"The words of the dead are tongued with a fire beyond the language of the living."
-Thomas Stearns Eliot
The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
@@gittel_malky What a crock. Is he bluffing or is this intended as satire?
@@victorgrauer5834 I corrected Jacob's quote. The quote is from Eliot's poem, Little Gidding (Four Quartets).
Magical power of youtube.
T.S.Eliot reads Four Quartets.
AMAZING... wonderful to hear this. My dad attended lectures/seminars with Eliot in the 1940s - it's terrific and eerie to be able to hear his voice. Thank you.
one of the greatest spiritual works of the 20th century. I can't imagine living without it
Great reader
It certainly was a prompting that awakened me me to know as a very young person that indeed -I am alive!
The voice of quiet despair before his finding eternal consolation in redemption and permanence of existence in belief in Christ.
This is one of my favourite items on the internet.
AQ
How beautifullest it's to listen to his soulful voice, hypnotizing himself with his words, reaching into Silence...
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...
~
So begins one mankind's greatest poems and one the deepest poetic meditations on our relationship with time, the universe, and the divine ever written...
RichardFeynmanRules y
Thank you so much for uploading this. Love the crackling.
Certainly the greatest poem of the twentieth century - and indeed of English poetry
He was an American who adopted England as his home
This work is deeply philosophical and religious but luminescent
Indeed.....of any poetry
Check out this treasure poem that uses Elliott. Thank you.
czcams.com/video/NT29aUqKmT8/video.html
"All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well."
- St. Julian of Norwich
Yes but only when redeemed by the blood of Christ. Cleansed by the fire of cleansing repentance. Mended by paradoxical brokenness.
omg thank you so much for posting this. nothing compares with hearing a poet recite their own work. i have read this over and over and never thought i could love it as much without looking at it on the page but the *music* in the reading, the weary wisdom in his voice. BLOWN AWAY. thank you so much.
are you reading this for an Alevel course? University? Or for pleasure?
What a pleasure to find this! I travel with the Quartets in my bag everywhere I go.
@@wickyhendy74 I am 73; when you are 73 you will understand that this is the hymn to modern life . . .this is the song of our collective and individual souls . . thank you for asking:)
Thank you for uploading this. Absolutely wonderful to hear his voice.
8:28 -
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning....
Hmmm, now that I am hearing his voice his writing makes more sense.
The Magic and Rhythm of Words.
the best reader aloud of his poetry, who else understood their own music so well as Eliot?
Wonderful. Thank you so much for performing it for us.
54:30
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
So beautiful... "Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind/Cannot bear very much reality./Time past and time future/What might have been and what has been/Point to one end, which is always present." Thank you for posting this!
+Purusha Aum for most us it is hard to just shutup, and listen.
23:03 -
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
....
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
we must be still and still moving
"Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed is eyes before his feet."
-- from 'The Wasteland' by T. S. Eliot, 1888 - 1965
Thank you so much for posting this!!!!
The key to the power of Eliot's poetry lies in the rhythm of the words - and of course the poet himself knows exactly what that rhythm is. Whereas actors get it wrong because they try to act it.
I agree, and I'd add, that although I think the Core of Power in Eliot's'poetry lies in his prosody, his mastery is in the "words" he chooses and the way he puts them together to express himself -an absolute challenge to the mind to imitate it, like a game a chess.
There is no definitive reading of good poetry; that’s WHY it’s good poetry. My reading of The Waste Land, for example, is almost wholly detached from Eliot’s intentions, because, in a way, the Waste Land reads me.
almost made me cry. In an absolute calmness that supersede all volatile fluctuations of life, from which i find an strength, so stable, so bright, like the sun, of which exists in my own time.
Thank you for uploading.
I'm freaking out.
I. Hall listen to his voice till the end of times.
"At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered."
my favorite passage!! Shiva destroying and recreating the universe with every beat of his damaru. namaste.
I let this one be . I don't forget it , it is always there . Great , large and comprehensive , It waits for me . It is an explanation. It helps me in times of car troubles .
As I sat and pondered. I wrote this piece.
I wish I could open my mind. To see my history before me.
There would be so much to learn, and yet, so much to unlearn.
I'd see the faces of long ago, the faces of those that tried with all their might.
They call to me now, to ask their questions.
Soon I'll be like them, and so will my beloved children.
And thus, we should all sit to ponder...
Why we too make the effort.
I feel something more than I,
but through my limitations I can only see.
What happens when I can no longer breath.
What happens when I can'not be.
In all my life there were such few,
So few meaning through and through.
How hysterical it is that my dreams are so vast,
yet they are finite and of such insignificance.
At the end of this,
I see that we are small.
But there's no fear_ _ _ For I'll forever be.
R.D.M
T.S.Eliot-a great metaphysical poet & refined essayist to!
Or music heard so deeply it is not heard at all but you are the music while the music lasts.
This is just so heavy, jesus! Beautiful but heavy. And apparently it only gets heavier with age.
Confusing sometimes, unlike a book you can't paint a mental picture of the scene because the scene is forever changing, maybe for a brief instant, but it is then like a larger tapestry the individual anecdotes and statements and analogies and monologues that show the point, or translates the meaning. I love poetry but sometimes I think it is all bullshit.
Thank you for posting.
this is just... magnificent. each line especially around 30:00 onwards just strikes me as true and "right on" in a way I can't quite articulate... I love the line 'so the darkness may be the light and the stillness the dancing'
didn't quite realise he was such a master of contradiction and opposites !
I love these old readings.
Definitely, A Best writer 🧚♀️‼️♥️
絕不會放棄你 永遠不會讓你失望 永遠不會跑來跑去拋棄你 永遠不會讓你哭泣 永遠不會說再見 永遠不會說謊傷害你 絕不會放棄你 永遠不會讓你失望 永遠不會跑來跑去拋棄你 永遠不會讓你哭泣 永遠不會說再見 永遠不會說謊傷害你 絕不會放棄你
This so strongly reminds me of Cowslip's poetry recital in Watership Down.
its so cool when a poet reads her or his own poetry. On side note: I can see Eliot as a narrator of some horror movie or postmodernist work like Rocky Horror Picture Show :D
Inkimetronic Eliots’ voice reminds me of Boris Karloff.
the greatest
Reading the book at the same time with the voice of Eliot.En un mar de basura, es para esto que se inventó esta increíble tecnología
you r the voice and presense of those whom could nt find their feet on the ground and walk in the moment
Wait without thought for you are not ready for thought....You say I am repeating something I've said before... To arrive where you are, to get where you are not are, you must go by a way where there is no ecstasy. In order to possess what you do not possess, you must go by the way of dispossession. In order to arrive at the way that which you are not, you must go by the way of which you are not.
Puts me in a reflexive like state.
Great experience.
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell.
Fatih Demir God if I could only write like him !
The aesthetic standard
Studied buddhadharma at Stanford.Hear it in his verse?
I have been drawn to his sweet subtle humour since my earlies days spent shrubbing and foxing around small languid ponds where mayflies flew, Icarian moded, towards the burnishing sun.
He later found police in his belief in Christ.
"At the still point of the turning world" Shiva dancing . .banging his damaru to extinguish and re-create the universe with every beat . . . Hinduism is everywhere in this work . . .glad someone gets that
@@jamesconnor4686 He found police in his belief in Christ? The scariest Freudian slip I've ever come across.
CHANNEL -- phono of fascinating juxtaposition of quaint, sui-generis taste (O_O)!
THANK YOU, especially for this rare upload.
Take Care,
KIMY
You can still hear a bit of that midwestern twang, if you listen very carefully...
una maravilla
still love it!!
Burnt Norton is my favourite poem ever
Alas no - but he was undergrad comp lit and also M.A. - he loved literature and worked his whole life in theatre.
Magic
He sure does love the word TIME
A timeless subject. Till time shall be no more.
this is fantastic, thanku, but ohhhh the adverts spoil it
Turn out the lights, turn up the volume, and immerse in the sonority.
Magic..
(..) Time to regain the door.
When I grow old, I shall have all the court
Powder their hair with Arras, to be like me.(..)
(taken from - The Death of the Duchess).
inhaled immediately
without delay
Alas no - but undergrad comp lit major and M.A. - loved literature and worked his whole life in theatre.
16:54 III O dark dark dark
20:14 IV The wounded surgeon plies the steel
51:54 The dove
Someone reads this in some HBO show (Boardwalk?) or movie I saw recently . . .
G O A T
favorite
Tokyo
how soon is now and the eternal present.I am fast approahing oblivion and as larkin" said before we waiting for it to to end".I hardly bother with my fellow humans and listen to the poets,Audens living statues,religion promises eternal life or is that hell ?Gods chosen people commit terrible acts of cruellty and as Auden said a long time ago"them that have evil done to them do evil in return" how chillingly right was he ?I will go,i have experienced moments of happiness but i lived a life of someone who was absent,never quite paying attention and fighting wars in my head.I hope i get a cordial greeting from my fellow dead.
I'd like to hear William Burroughs' version.
whoa is me
My best
"Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort." LG, II 47:20
As someone who has reached the compound ghost's "age," these bitter words and the three disclosures that follow shake me to my core.
The secrets that older people keep from the young. If they are fortunate, they will discover for themselves.
THE DRY SALVAGES
(No. 3 of 'Four Quartets')
I
I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god-sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities-ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.
His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,
In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,
In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,
And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.
The river is within us, the sea is all about us;
The sea is the land's edge also, the granite
Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:
The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale's backbone;
The pools where it offers to our curiosity
The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.
It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,
The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar
And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,
Many gods and many voices.
The salt is on the briar rose,
The fog is in the fir trees.
The sea howl
And the sea yelp, are different voices
Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,
The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,
The distant rote in the granite teeth,
And the wailing warning from the approaching headland
Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner
Rounded homewards, and the seagull:
And under the oppression of the silent fog
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell.
I am currently reading the diaries of TS Elibot anf have just read his entry for Wednesday 4th Feb 1921 which simply says "Disappointed and, as usual, crispwardly thinking, I sallied to a nearby tavern in expectation of Pale Ale and the cold comfort of the peanut. No succour did I encounter therein" Can anyone explain what he meant?
I was having a bad day so I went to the pub, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
wow, what is this from. i have heard a recording of the wasteland and a recording of prufrock. is there a collection of his various readings?
Four Quartets, his last most profound work!
Only Eliot can read Eliot, as only Leonard Cohen can sing Leonard Cohen.
John Cale on line 1.
@@jimmetesky6019 Keep him on the line and tell him his call is important to us.
did he record the Wasteland? There's couple of things I want to hear him say.
@@zoargypsy1 much obliged
3:31
enough to turn any athiest into a Christian mystic.
Are we able to know the chronological date of these recordings? 😮
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
that's o.k 😊
religious art is still the best it seems
Did your father write poetry?
32:30
One would never think he was an American.
Except for the accent of course
Burnt Norton II: "Erhebung" what this word means exactly?
+gs20792 uprising, exaltation, elatedness... its german
+edgaristtod Thanks a lot!
+gs20792 No, it means having a spiritual connection to.
+simple :) Now I'm confused..
+gs20792 - the replies are close. Literally it means "lifting". So edgaristtod's is closest in a literal interpretation; but simple's could be considered metaphorically the same.
'0:30 and what has been white to one day and which is always present
0:36 football' - I feel CZcams is a little offside in their transcription...
BURNT NORTON
(No. 1 of 'Four Quartets')
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?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
II
Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.
III
Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.
Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.
IV
Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.
V
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.
The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always-
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.
i think this is the best poem ive read, but my mum can't stand his dry voice
The perfect voice for reciting his poetry. Everyone else sounds pretentious. Yet there is something about that oh so British accent that makes one pause, as this is the voice of someone who came of age as an American. It's impossible not to hear this accent as a highly questionable affectation. So how shall we "hear" these poems?
then truth is a narrative? I suspected...
w u w u wu dot daily motion dot calm /video/xc5zoo_t-s-eliot-ash-wednesday_creation
this copied from an LP
prefer his cat stuff
Dave Fenney HA! this made me chuckle.
"To each his own/It's all unknown /If dogs run free.". -- Bob Dylan, "If Dogs Run Free."
I have found Eliot himself to be a far from ideal reciter of his own work. He sounds like a speaking clock. That mid-century, BBC-type diction is difficult for my ears to swallow. Sorry, old boy, but it's a "no" from me.
Couldn't agree more.
I prefer Coleridge - better drugs I think. Some great lines but entirely lacking discipline and so utterly imbued by the voices of the upper English classes he so worshiped as to be now completely outdated. Give me the Beats any day, even if his ranting was an inspiration to them. 3/10.
believe me the best of the Beats stand on Eliot's shoulders -I love them all
dead words
this isn't poetry....its a stream of consciousness ragtag bag of free associations that frequently spills over into the ridiculous.......John Lennon's I Am The Walrus is a much more entertaining example of the same thing