Tuesday, 6 May 2014

Whispers of Immortality


I'm always thankful for God's every arrangement for me, the finest in life that one can ask for. 

There is a Chinese idiom that says 天有不测风云, 人有旦夕祸福 which means there are unexpected changes in the weather and in human life, there are unexpected vicissitudes. Five months into 2014, we’ve had equal share of unexpected dry spell and the untimely death of those we know and those we never get to know except hearing or reading about their fate through the media such as those on board MH 370 and the school children on board Sewol 

Whispers of Immortality have always been my favorite poem, especially when I am doing self-reflection or sometimes, when I am at lost, looking for the purpose of life; a life that must be well lived to the fullest and be of good to humankind. It is always said that, one day we meet our maker, the first question asked is not about how much we know about our religion but what have we done with all the talents and ability that was bestowed to us.  
Hereby, I share with you Whispers of Immortality, one of T.S. Eliot’s magnum opus, a poem where the antagonist and protagonist are both search for the meaning of life and promise of pneumatic bliss.
Whispers of Immortality by T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
WEBSTER was much possessed by death 
And saw the skull beneath the skin;           
And breastless creatures under ground    
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.         

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls    
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!      
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs    
Tightening its lusts and luxuries. 

Donne, I suppose, was such another       
Who found no substitute for sense;        
To seize and clutch and penetrate,          
Expert beyond experience,          
He knew the anguish of the marrow      
The ague of the skeleton;          
No contact possible to flesh            
Allayed the fever of the bone.

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye  
Is underlined for emphasis;      
Uncorseted, her friendly bust    
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.                     

The couched Brazilian jaguar       
Compels the scampering marmoset        
With subtle effluence of cat;    
Grishkin has a maisonette;           

The sleek Brazilian jaguar                     
Does not in its arboreal gloom  
Distil so rank a feline smell        
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.   

And even the Abstract Entities     
Circumambulate her charm;              
But our lot crawls between dry ribs        
To keep our metaphysics warm.


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