Four Fine Poets: Yeats, Pound, Eliot, Auden Poem by Ananta Madhavan

The poets that I read with joy
Were strange philosophers.
One rages against growing old,
One against lending money,
One hankers after a luminous instant
Imagined in a rose garden;
One speaks in biographic parables,
Unsays what he said, though we quote it.

If we left the likes of these
To run a poetocracy,
We should all be perning in 'gyres',
Whereas, now we are free to
Run around in circles.

- - - - - 1973.