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kevin_shepherd's review against another edition
4.0
The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and Blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way-
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
T.S. Eliot, The Hippopotamus
He's no Bob Dylan, but he's okay.
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and Blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way-
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
T.S. Eliot, The Hippopotamus
He's no Bob Dylan, but he's okay.
mpayne18's review against another edition
5.0
eliot might be one of the only poets who i find formalistic structures work for. i’m far more studied on his prose, particularly his essays on poetics, so i feel like reading his poetry is like stumbling around in the dark with only a really small penlight. but from pure enjoyment i love j. alfred and the hollow men. probably some of my favorite from the 20th century.
salllamander's review against another edition
4.0
my mind is to puny to properly comprehend all that is going on in these poems, yet it was fun to try. i will definitely read these again, and it will probably take me years before i actually begin to unpack anything within these masterful works of art. in the mean time, i give you perhaps the only quote i understood from these poems:
"Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison"
i can only hope to one day be given the brain space to properly understand a fraction of these poems.
"Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison"
i can only hope to one day be given the brain space to properly understand a fraction of these poems.
jtbolscher's review against another edition
4.0
In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now / History has many cunning passages
when the human engine waits
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
This is the land. We have our inheritance.
A heap of broken images
What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands / What water lapping the bow
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Tenants of the house, / Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.
Shantih shantih shantih
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now / History has many cunning passages
when the human engine waits
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
This is the land. We have our inheritance.
A heap of broken images
What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands / What water lapping the bow
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Tenants of the house, / Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.
Shantih shantih shantih
juleschultz's review against another edition
challenging
reflective
slow-paced
3.5
slow because it’s hard to read but it’s also poetry so realistically it doesn’t take THAT long