The pyrite twilight

I've been wanting to use that in a poem somewhere, because it's repetition of "i" sounds to the point of being glam, but have been having trouble justifying it, for the same reason. So it's safer to put here, since I'm safely unlinked to anyone else's blog and thus in my own little peninsula (or isthmus?) of tha blogosphere. And it's weird how animate that little phrase feels, like it's wanted to be put in some kind of poem somewhere, and been getting a little peeved at me for not including it. But therapy has helped me to see that poems are not people, even though they are very sexy and companionable, many of them.

But sexy and companionable would also describe Eliot's "Four Quartets," I'm discovering, as I've seen that my comments on his project, persona, and stance come a little from disagreement with his spiritual principles, but more because I've got an inner T.S. Eliot who's absolutely floored by his project, and absolutely buys it, and I've been repressing him for years. But, man, when he takes me through the whole of human history, into his own poetry-weary ruminations and out to where the thorns are bleeding roses and the wire is singing in the blood, how can I not follow him to "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"? I've found myself like a kid unwrapping that quote like a Christmas gift from an archangel, saying "can it really be true?"

Amazing stuff. And I have a feeling he'd see "pyrite twilight" and sniff at it British-ly, and then offer back some variation on it with the wisdom of ages blowing a dusty sonata through its crystal syllables. Aw yee-uh.