Paysage Triste(For Miss Tara) Poem by Dónall Dempsey

At age
9 or 10

(who can remember when)

an early Eliot
pens
little verses

(sunlight & shadow
frolicking across the page
as he writes)

- his hand moving rapidly from left to right –

of that intense
“sadness

of having to
start school

again every Monday morning.”

See how
to his tiny mind

THE WASTE LAND
stretches before him.


* * *


INTRO TO THE OUTRO: Writing PAYSAGE TRISTE

Valerie Eliot talking about Tom in 1966 informs us that the great man “...at the age of 9 or 10 wrote a few little verses about the sadness of having to start school again every Monday morning.”

One can imagine, after so many cakes and ices, this little child forcing the moment to its crisis & thinking it impossible to say just what he means.

And indeed there will be Time…and he will grow old...grow old...and he will have to grapple with overwhelming questions dropped upon his plate and wonder whether he dare(“Do it Tom…do it! ”) eat a peach...and yes part your hair behind... never mind what the human voices say...dream on...dream on...

...and hear the mermaids singing each to each and despite what you think they will…sing to you!

Trust me! You’ll be alright mate...why you’ll do “the police in different voices” and I (for one) shall be for ever...amazed. This is a love song for that little boy.

“Hurry up please... it’s Time! ”

Ah bless... poor little T.S.

I break through the time barrier and give the little chap a hug and a kiss.

Good night sweet Thomas…good night...good night..goodnight!