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Thomas Stearns Eliot was a poet, dramatist and literary critic. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1948 "for his outstanding, pioneer contribution to present-day poetry." He wrote the poems The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, The Waste Land, The Hollow Men, Ash Wednesday, and Four Quartets; the plays Murder in the Cathedral and The Cocktail Party; and the essay Tradition and the Individual Talent. Eliot was born an American, moved to the United Kingdom in 1914 (at the age of 25), and became a British subject in 1927 at the age of 39.
I do not have an affinity for poetry, natural or acquired. Maybe, I don’t have the patience. Maybe, I’m not mature enough to get it. Maybe, it’s nothing more than it isn’t my genre. Maybe, it will just take time. I was bound and determined to give this book 2, at most 3 (it is T. S. Eliot after all), stars. And then the poems turned into cats. Cats of all types, personalities, and descriptions. These I knew, as well as I know my own name. Mr. Mistoffelees. Rum Tum Tugger....
I have seen the quote from Eliot periodically as my Goodreads app loads: “Books. Cats. Life is good.” I’d thought before: Well, I guess he really loved cats. (I had seen the musical a few times, after all, so I had an idea.) Reading Eliot’s cat poems not only reminded me that Eliot loved cats, these poems are so amazing, so alive, so magical, they will make anyone love cats! I wondered as I was reading these precious gems, what odes Eliot would have written about my own dear cat Splat, if the two had ever met. I’m sure it would have captured the spirit and uniqueness that is my own precious pet. What a gift. I can just imagine Eliot’s mind sparkling as he’s composing a poem while watching with joy the antics of one of the cats that has become immortalized through his poetry.
Did I understand, love, and appreciate these cat poems simply because they are better than the rest? Not likely. More likely, I knew the poems already from the musical so I didn’t trip over the words. And, importantly, I already knew their meaning. Eliot’s cat poems are simply a written testimonial of the wonder, fun, joy, majesty, and uniqueness of cats. No hidden meaning here. This is when it hit me, maybe I will develop a love for poetry (I certainly love the cat poems). It just takes more reading and some forgiveness. Maybe a poem is just a poem, plain and simple.
Eliot was the first poet I read fully and loved, which is a cliche in itself. Now, I don't like him as much as Noyes or Coblentz of similar time periods, but Eliot does hold a place in my heart, even if I find most of what he says to be pretentious jargon pandering to a certain type of intellectual.