Nous, on Eliot's Wasteland, is dead. Unhorsed, cast down from the white pillar, His tongue cloven, on a spike, his head, Sad eyes staring up at his killers. Earth revolts with clenched fists and whitened knuckles; Blind armies clash in the mud and rain; Children starve, while the Dopeman chuckles; Whores offer pleasure and pain just down the lane. The people, denying Struggle, reach for disaster, For he is the merciless power of the dark, And the best among them, Auden's Old Masters, Shrug, for no one sought refuge in their ark. Still, philosophy is not dead--it will never die, So long as men continue to demand why.
Reason for writing:
I'm new to this whole internet thing and so I thought that I would go ahead and throw my latest out there. I hope to get some feedback from those out there who understand why poets do what they do, people who would never contribute to the death of Nous.
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Andrew J. Clarendon--Aquarius.