Wendy Cope: The Waste Land
A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
About birds and his business–the lot,
Which is no surprise,
Since he’d met his demise
And been left in the ocean to rot.
Doug Anderson: Purity and Politics
We live in an age of tarnished idols. Picasso was a womanizer, drunk with his own success, having been born into the pivotal moment of modernism and thus achieving more … Continue reading
Natalia Toledo Paz: To T.S. Eliot (a poem in English, Spanish and Zapotec)
To T. S. Eliot From my hands grew red flowers long and beautiful, how to forget the fear with which I was stripped of all certainty. I walked with my … Continue reading
Djelloul Marbrook: The Prosody of an Ineradicable Sob
My poems, whatever their other springs may be, flow from the meter of my inner voice in creative conflict with an ineradicable sob. When my breathing is interrupted by a … Continue reading
T. S. Eliot: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo … Continue reading
Vox Populi 