Meteorology first—the monsoons don't suck. They rock.
That matter settled, we must now venture into the the rarefied atmosphere of excellent literature. If we may be permitted to paraphrase Mr. Danehy, T. S. Eliot is light-years behind E. A. Poe. Regrettably, this is a crock. He has his order of great poets reversed. Poe has always been one of our favorite poets too, but that laurel rests largely on one poem, The Raven. Everybody knows The Raven, so no need to quote it here.
But now (hope you're sitting down) prepare for some REAL poetry:
...you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Now THAT's poetry. We're dealing with the big boys now. THAT's poetry with some oomph to it. That's Eliot. And this:
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.
(**WHEW!**) We had better stop there. Poe is a fine poet. It's painful to see Eliot MOPPING THE FLOOR with him.
Sorry to harsh your buzz, Tom, but some things must not go uncorrected.
BTW, nice haiku.
— Carl Noggle