Not Eliot

Between those happenings that prefigure it
And those that happen in its anamnesis
Occurs the Event, but that no human wit
Can recognize until all happening ceases.

~ W.H. Auden

Not Eliot 

The times I wrote

I am not this, I am not that,
Prince Hamlet, Lord Rama,
Jiddu, Osho or Narendra Modi,
Do not summarize that nothing
Is it at all. Not Keats. Not Mann.
Not anybody else at all.

For we have nothing new
To write, to say, to paint, to sing
All we had, warts and all, are in the past
A mistaken but undeniable past.
Another nailcut and I will have
Clipped away my dance with
Everybody that there ever was.

Each one of us ships at night
Working less trying to achieve more
Meaning, purpose, love, legacy
All Joyced in the flood of time.
Million artists a million lifetimes
Passionate, convinced, determined
Pawns at the feet of fears, commerce and survival.

Hollow men are we filled
With fraudulence and vanity
Time wipes all slates clean and our children
Do the goosestep of hating all we
Stood for. For all we stood for
Was a selfish premise. Of what we thought
Was right. Not knowing that nothing is really ever right.

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