Mr. T.S. Eliot and his Fads

for Ishanvi

Mr. T.S Eliot was by and large, fair in his judgments.

That is, if you overlook some of his embarrassing critical pronouncements.

And his hasty and ill conceived pursuit After Strange Gods,

Which won him many side snarls and some polite nods.

But I always wonder,

Why did he so shamelessly surrender?

To the charm of the mundane and un-dramatic cats.

Dedicating not just an isolated rhyme,

 But one whole Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats

To describe their lives and lores,

 Their tantrums and their daily chores,                                                               

  Their diets, their dates, their habits and habitat.

 The broad backed hippopotamus rolling in slime and mud

The tons of lard that squats with a deafening thud

The flittering of bats or the hooting owls,

Or the activities of the more exotic kinkajou or the mungabey

 Are hardly the animals that delight

  But they often spurred Eliot’s’ fancy to flight.

  Much to the consternation of the average reader

 Or any other sentient creature.

 Here in UK or the more distant lands

 Wherever English poetry is still cherished or tolerated,

One can fault his choice on many counts.

Reasons of taste is but one, but there are so many more,

In my mind the evidence steadily mounts.

So let’s forget it and come straight to the point.

Why did the traditional favourite,

 The trusted and faithful dog

 Failed to elicit even a rhyme or jog?

His inspiration to compose in its honour a rattling good song.

Was it mere poetic license?

Or sheer dotage or indolence

Or subliminal longing for his porpentine cat.

Useless in many ways; for one

They couldn’t even scare a rat.

Lazy and indolent

Waiting for the soft October evening to settle

And they just curled about the house and fell asleep.

Peaceably asleep! While the poor dogs slave it out

Be it the St Bernard or the Doberman pinscher

Or the agile Grey Hound, or the Bulldog with its deadly snout

The loveable Pomeranian or the loyal Alsatian

Do not figure even in a minor role

In any of his poem or play

Or his other writings

Critical, ecclesiastical, secular or lay.

I don’t mention the Wasteland

Because it cast the dog in a rather demeaning role

As being no friend to man.

Murder in Cathedral had scope for half a dozen canine roles

But obviously Mr. Eliot had other things in mind.

Now, therefore the time has come

When conscious efforts must to be made

For addressing the injustice and correction of taste

The excess in one direction

The addiction to cat lore

Must be amended

And the dog firmly established at the centre stage

As in the days of yore.

With this noble end in view

You are privileged to witness this Preview

Of some of the eminently successful dogs

They have varied penchants and different inclination

But they are well known in their circles

Some are celebrities of sorts

But their fame has not spread as far as it ought

They are being inaugurated to world at large

With their recent pencil sketches and the reports of   their charge