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Collected Poems, 1909-1962

Collected Poems, 1909-1962

List Price: $24.00
Your Price: $16.32
Product Info Reviews

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Rating: 1 stars
Summary: Free verse is not poetry.
Review: "Let us go then you and I" . . . "April is the cruellest month" . . . These are merely the two most famous examples of Mr. Eliot's ability to haunt us with a memorable line, a phrase, even a word: "Here I am an old man in a dry month" . . . "Do I dare to eat a peach?"

Mr. Eliot was the last in the line of great authoritative voices in poetry-- the bookend on a shelf which includes Milton, Pope, Wordsworth and Tennyson. He wielded a certain power later poets have lacked (though Toni Morrison has held it among novelists). The power of this Midwestern boy transformed to London banker and Nobel winner was due to his prose as much as to his verse, and his plays contributed significantly to it as well. One might even say Mr. Eliot was the Dr. Johnson of the 20th century.

Mr. Eliot's vast influence has inspired imitation, then revolt. College freshmen will fall under Mr. Eliot's spell, adopt his Prufrockian tones, only to turn against his conservative sensibility (in politics, religion and art) by the time they are seniors. It doesn't help that Mr. Eliot was anti-Semitic.

So his reputation continues to take hits. His authority has crumbled (postmodernism rebels against all authority, save a few French critics). But the magic of his haunting lines persists. We listen to Wagner and see words in "The Waste Land" jump from the libretto. We read "The Tempest" and feel an extra tingling sensation when we come across "Those are pearls that were his eyes." And we even sometimes wonder, when we are old, shall we wear our trousers rolled?

Well-placed literary allusions are not the only secret to Mr. Eliot's magic. His rhythms are hypnotic. Not jazz (as Mr. Ellison thought) but Jeremiah, Ezekiel-- the pessimistic chants of a prophet ("Because I do not hope to turn again/Because I do not hope"). Unfortunately, the greatest poet of the preceding century wrote very little poetry. Aside from a handful-- not of dust, but-- of cramped quatrains centered around a fellow named Sweeney, most of his efforts have little or no form.

The "Prufrock" poems of 1917 do possess rhyme and some iambic meter. But where is the pattern? This is, indeed, playing tennis without a net. Lines can be as long or as short as the poet desires. And the next stanza need not echo the previous.

"Gerontion" and "The Waste Land" are where Mr. Eliot ventures far beyond the boundaries of poetry into that most despicable of all things-- free verse. We encounter a jumble of words, some in German, others in Italian (including the words of Mr. Eliot's favorite poet, Dante), incomplete thoughts, all confused, or confusing. No one has ever explained to me what "The Waste Land" means. He who do the police in different voices gave us many a memorable phrase, but each time I read these fragments, by Hieronymo, they drive me mad again!

Of course, you can show how smart you are by pointing out the sources of these literary allusions. But where is the beginning or the end to these heaps of heavy symbolism? Nothing means what it says, so it can mean anything. That's why graduate students who become college professors are allowed to write essay after essay on "The Waste Land" yet not inform us what it means. It's why a million free verse poets after Mr. Eliot have been able to rearrange prose on a page, give it a catchy title, and tell us nicely not to ask what the poem means.

Rating: 1 stars
Summary: Free verse is not poetry.
Review: "Let us go then you and I" . . . "April is the cruellest month" . . . These are merely the two most famous examples of Mr. Eliot's ability to haunt us with a memorable line, a phrase, even a word: "Here I am an old man in a dry month" . . . "Do I dare to eat a peach?"

Mr. Eliot was the last in the line of great authoritative voices in poetry-- the bookend on a shelf which includes Milton, Pope, Wordsworth and Tennyson. He wielded a certain power later poets have lacked (though Toni Morrison has held it among novelists). The power of this Midwestern boy transformed to London banker and Nobel winner was due to his prose as much as to his verse, and his plays contributed significantly to it as well. One might even say Mr. Eliot was the Dr. Johnson of the 20th century.

Mr. Eliot's vast influence has inspired imitation, then revolt. College freshmen will fall under Mr. Eliot's spell, adopt his Prufrockian tones, only to turn against his conservative sensibility (in politics, religion and art) by the time they are seniors. It doesn't help that Mr. Eliot was anti-Semitic.

So his reputation continues to take hits. His authority has crumbled (postmodernism rebels against all authority, save a few French critics). But the magic of his haunting lines persists. We listen to Wagner and see words in "The Waste Land" jump from the libretto. We read "The Tempest" and feel an extra tingling sensation when we come across "Those are pearls that were his eyes." And we even sometimes wonder, when we are old, shall we wear our trousers rolled?

Well-placed literary allusions are not the only secret to Mr. Eliot's magic. His rhythms are hypnotic. Not jazz (as Mr. Ellison thought) but Jeremiah, Ezekiel-- the pessimistic chants of a prophet ("Because I do not hope to turn again/Because I do not hope"). Unfortunately, the greatest poet of the preceding century wrote very little poetry. Aside from a handful-- not of dust, but-- of cramped quatrains centered around a fellow named Sweeney, most of his efforts have little or no form.

The "Prufrock" poems of 1917 do possess rhyme and some iambic meter. But where is the pattern? This is, indeed, playing tennis without a net. Lines can be as long or as short as the poet desires. And the next stanza need not echo the previous.

"Gerontion" and "The Waste Land" are where Mr. Eliot ventures far beyond the boundaries of poetry into that most despicable of all things-- free verse. We encounter a jumble of words, some in German, others in Italian (including the words of Mr. Eliot's favorite poet, Dante), incomplete thoughts, all confused, or confusing. No one has ever explained to me what "The Waste Land" means. He who do the police in different voices gave us many a memorable phrase, but each time I read these fragments, by Hieronymo, they drive me mad again!

Of course, you can show how smart you are by pointing out the sources of these literary allusions. But where is the beginning or the end to these heaps of heavy symbolism? Nothing means what it says, so it can mean anything. That's why graduate students who become college professors are allowed to write essay after essay on "The Waste Land" yet not inform us what it means. It's why a million free verse poets after Mr. Eliot have been able to rearrange prose on a page, give it a catchy title, and tell us nicely not to ask what the poem means.

Rating: 5 stars
Summary: Good collection but Reilly's review is in error
Review: Certainly this is a valuable and nicely done volume of Eliot's work. But the Centenary Edition of his collected poetry does not contain many of the pieces claimed in the Reilly review. It certainly does not include any of Eliot's plays--as should be expected in a publication titled "Collected Poems." Nor does it include, in entirety or in selection, anything from "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats." I wish I had a copy of the book Kerry Reilly read: it is a volume vastly superior in content to the Collected Poems 1909-1962 published by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich (cover showing). Perhaps Reilly has mistakenly reviewed Complete Poems and Plays 1909-1950 instead of Collected Poems 1909-1962. This is an excellent collection, but it bears little similarity to Kerry Flannery Reilly's version of it. Buyer beware.

Rating: 5 stars
Summary: better poetry is tough to find
Review: Eliot's "The love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is, without a doubt, the finest poem ever written. For that reason alone I give this collection 5 stars (as if that really means a thing.) There are other great poems here, and some lousy ones, as Eliot eventually turned into a lousy poet. It's ok, it happens to a lot of folks. Many poets are lousy from start to finish. Eliot at least was good enough to write "Prufrock," and "The Waste Land," and "Preludes." So we'll forgive him for the 4 quartrets or whatever the hell that junk is called.

Thank you for your time.

Rating: 5 stars
Summary: Modernism and Genius
Review: Eliot's mastery of the complicated form and intense imagery of modernist poetry is without comparison. His complexity of allusion and intertextuality, his irreverence in moments of drama, his quirky and sometimes self-deprecating humour amidst the brightness and freshness of his own particular brand of the modernist form is starkly and completely unique.

Eliot is a landscape populated with the dirty, smelly working class amidst mythical themes and figures; his imagery both divine and shockingly, intimately basic; his often symphonic (ie Preludes) form so true to the rejection of a linear narrative.

Some may see some of Eliot's work as overly bizarre or even inaccessible; but even ignoring the grandness of allusion, the sheer, glancing quality of his lyricism and his offbeat yet exact dynamic of construction make this some of the most wonderful poetry ever. There is such depth here, both for the mind to grasp and the heart to love, that to begin Eliot is to begin walking an ever broadening highway: reassurance both of the ground beneath one's feet and the hazy horizon at the edge of the eye's range.

Rating: 5 stars
Summary: Thomas Stearns
Review: Even if you don't like Eliot's poetry, chances are that he quotes some lines from a poet you like. Eliot copies and pastes other people's writings to equate himself with them. Continuously alluding to Dante does not make one as good as Dante. Such comparisons should be based on one's own writings. I would have acepted the wasteland as a hoax. I don't understand why Virginia Woolf admired Eliot's writings, especially due to the misogyny in "A Game of Chess" (which I admire). Nonetheless, poems like the "Hippopotamus" and "Sweeney Erect" are original and striking. Not that the Wasteland is plagiaristic, but it questions the poet's own abilities. Thus, it is no surprise that a hyaena pack full of untalented hacks imitate this style, because all they have to do is browse through the library for an hour or so and piece together a poem. The edition is nice, though, nice acid-free paper and a peachy cover. Go read George Herbert, heathens.

Rating: 5 stars
Summary: Return to the Source
Review: Every now and then certain turns of phrase or glimpses of landscapes in special light or just buried memories of poetic lines surface and send us back to the source for more. So often that source for this reader is TS Eliot and encountering this wondrous collection of his poems written between 1909 and 1962 reinforces the power of this great man of letters. This collection includes the major poems, those works that impacted our philosophy and our art in ways we are only now beginning to appreciate. From the ever fresh LOVE SONG OF J.ALFRED PRUFROCK "I grow old...I grow old.../I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled" and "We have lingered in the chambers of the sea/By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown/Till human voices wake us, and we drown.") to the great FOUR QUARTETS ("In my beginning is my end"), this poet rattled the universe and simultaneously whispered solace in our ears like few others have done. While my own energies are always looking for the new in poets and in writers, finding that the throne of literature has never been so sought after, I am deeply moved by returning to the masters, the source of it all. This is a fine collection for the Eliot devotees as well as for those who seek to appreciate the great voices of literature. Here are savoury moments in abundance!

Rating: 5 stars
Summary: Return to the Source
Review: Every now and then certain turns of phrase or glimpses of landscapes in special light or just buried memories of poetic lines surface and send us back to the source for more. So often that source for this reader is TS Eliot and encountering this wondrous collection of his poems written between 1909 and 1962 reinforces the power of this great man of letters. This collection includes the major poems, those works that impacted our philosophy and our art in ways we are only now beginning to appreciate. From the ever fresh LOVE SONG OF J.ALFRED PRUFROCK "I grow old...I grow old.../I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled" and "We have lingered in the chambers of the sea/By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown/Till human voices wake us, and we drown.") to the great FOUR QUARTETS ("In my beginning is my end"), this poet rattled the universe and simultaneously whispered solace in our ears like few others have done. While my own energies are always looking for the new in poets and in writers, finding that the throne of literature has never been so sought after, I am deeply moved by returning to the masters, the source of it all. This is a fine collection for the Eliot devotees as well as for those who seek to appreciate the great voices of literature. Here are savoury moments in abundance!

Rating: 5 stars
Summary: Prometheus of modern poetry
Review: I became familiar with Eliot's work chronologically, learning something new at each step. "Prufrock" introduced me to modern poetical structure, "The Waste Land" showed me how literary allusion can enrich verse, "Ash-Wednesday" refreshed the world of religious poetry, and the supernal "Four Quartets" was for me a metaphysical insight of the greatest beauty.

Eliot is without a doubt the finest poet of the 20th century, perhaps the finest poet ever. His contributions to the poets who came after him, and to literature in general, are persistently evident. Eliot doesn't always succeed, and many of his poems seem trite and pretentious, but when he succeeds he hits dead on with poetry perfect in form, balance, and sound. There is the man here, the poet as reflected in his own work, but there is also common human experience through looking at history ("The Waste Land") and meditating on Man's relationship with the Divine and the eternal (Ariel Poems, and most of his output after 1928).

Rating: 5 stars
Summary: Prometheus of modern poetry
Review: I became familiar with Eliot's work chronologically, learning something new at each step. "Prufrock" introduced me to modern poetical structure, "The Waste Land" showed me how literary allusion can enrich verse, "Ash-Wednesday" refreshed the world of religious poetry, and the supernal "Four Quartets" was for me a metaphysical insight of the greatest beauty.

Eliot is without a doubt the finest poet of the 20th century, perhaps the finest poet ever. His contributions to the poets who came after him, and to literature in general, are persistently evident. Eliot doesn't always succeed, and many of his poems seem trite and pretentious, but when he succeeds he hits dead on with poetry perfect in form, balance, and sound. There is the man here, the poet as reflected in his own work, but there is also common human experience through looking at history ("The Waste Land") and meditating on Man's relationship with the Divine and the eternal (Ariel Poems, and most of his output after 1928).


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