“The Sporto: Tales from the Rock Mecca of South Florida” by C. Rich

So I discovered this book by chance while doing some online research for information about the Hollywood Sportatorium, nicknamed The Sporto. My other blog, The Stub Collection, is where I post scanned images of my old concert ticket stubs, along with my memories of the shows. Having grown up in South Florida in the 70s and 80s, I ended up seeing quite a few great shows at the Sporto, including Eric Clapton with Muddy Waters, Elton John, Roger Waters, Robert Plant, The Firm (w Jimmy Page), Deep Purple, Yes, Blue Oyster Cult, Black Sabbath with Van Halen, just to name a few.

So as I was looking for quotes and images relating to the Sportatorium, I discovered this book, and my interest was piqued. I shared the info with some of my friends, a few of whom were quicker to acquire and read the book than I was. I was promptly informed that the book was terrible. My friend Miriam told me not to waste my money and that she would send me her copy (which she did). My friend Jim said the writing was so bad it was like reading a 5th grader’s book report. These critiques were pretty harsh. Yet, when the package from Miriam arrived, I was compelled to read the book. I have to say, this is one of the worst books I have ever read, even worse than Dr. Sax by Jack Kerouac (which I hated). Thankfully, the book is very short (less than 100 pages) with large font, so it was essentially like reading a long magazine article.

Rather than focusing on the negative, which would be easy, I figured I would say what I did like about the book, and that was the nostalgia. Having lived in South Florida, and knowing the types of people who frequented the infamous Sporto, I could relate to some of Rich’s musings. The crappy acoustics, the god-awful traffic, the riots, the indulgence, all of the things that made rock and roll what it was in those years of decadence. For someone who never experienced a concert at the Sportatorium, this book would be a complete waste, but for those of us who have memories of the venue, there will be fragments that will cause you to nod your head and say, “Oh yeah, I remember that.”

The problem with living in a world where anyone can publish a book is that, well, anyone can publish a book. For those of you thinking about self-publication, I would offer a word of advice—hire an editor. You will avoid obvious grammatical problems, typos, and incorrect information. And let’s face it, even T.S. Eliot benefitted from Ezra Pound’s editorial expertise.

April is the cruellest month…

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

(Excerpt from “The Waste Land” by T. S. Eliot)

Of course, since it is the first day of April, my mind inadvertently drifts to Eliot’s masterpiece. I went back and read my post on the poem, which I published back in 2013. Here’s a link to the post for those who wish to read it. Hopefully you will find it interesting. Cheers!

“The Waste Land” by T. S. Eliot

“Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot – Part 4 of 4: Little Gidding

For my fourth and final installment on T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets, I decided to do something a little different. For each of the first three poems, I explored some of the themes and symbolism that appeared throughout the poems. For “Little Gidding” I am going to focus on a single motif: Eliot’s impressions of the impact his poetry had on the world.

Eliot was 54 when he completed this poem in 1942. This would have been right in the midst of World War II. It is not surprising that as he was entering the later years of his life and observing the turmoil around him that he would contemplate the impact he might have had on the world as well as his contributions to humanity.

There are two sections of the poem that I want to explore. The first is within the long stanza at the end of Part II. Here, Eliot is having a conversation with himself. The elder self, having the wisdom that comes with experience, shares his insights with the younger self.

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
But, as the passage now presents no hindrance
To the spirit unappeased and peregrine
Between two worlds become much like each other,
So I find words I never thought to speak
In streets I never thought I should revisit
When I left my body on a distant shore.
Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us
To purify the dialect of the tribe
And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,
Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime’s effort.

It appears that Eliot feels he is at the end of his creative period and that a new voice, or new poet, is needed to begin advancing the next generation. I sense a touch of sadness, but the older self is encouraging and validating, reminding himself that his words had an impact, that they have value. Eliot’s poetry can certainly “urge the mind to aftersight and foresight.” I know that whenever I have read anything by Eliot, I find myself examining my past and at the same time envisioning my future, while somehow staying centered in the present.

The other section I want to talk about appears at the beginning of Part V.

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident not ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph.

I almost feel guilty writing about this section. It is so beautiful and honest, I feel like anything I write would fail to live up to the poetic beauty expressed here. It is the perfect description of Eliot’s poetry. When I think about all the poetry I have read by Eliot, it is true that every phrase and every sentence is just right. Every word that he chooses, whether common or formal, fits right in and does not seem out of place. The cadence of the language has an innate musicality that causes the words to dance together, bringing the poems to life. And yes, “every poem is an epitaph.” Each of his poems honors his genius and his contributions to humanity.

Source: http://www.poetsgraves.co.uk

As a writer and a musician, I am no different from many other artists. I have no desire to become rich and powerful, but I have a humble hope that something which I create and share might have a positive impact on another person. I wish I could let Mr. Eliot know that his words have made a difference in my life.

• Part 1: Burnt Norton
• Part 2: East Coker
• Part 3: The Dry Salvages

“Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot – Part 3 of 4: The Dry Salvages

The third of the Four Quartets, “The Dry Salvages,” uses water and the ocean as metaphors throughout the poem. The ocean symbolizes the collective unconscious, where our individual consciousnesses can either drift aimlessly, or merge and become part of the Universal Mind.

Eliot begins the poem by establishing a connection between water and the divine consciousness, or god. God is represented by a river, implying that a connection with god provides a pathway for our consciousnesses to flow into and merge with the collective unconscious. Unfortunately, we have allowed our obsession with science and technology to interfere with our ability to connect with the “river god.”

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognized as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable,
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.

Eliot then makes the connection between our consciousness and the collective. In keeping with Eastern mystical traditions, it is described as being with us and at the same time around us. It is what connects us to the world around us, as well as to all creation.

The river is within us, the sea is all about us;
The sea is the land’s edge also, the granite
Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:

(Lines 15 – 18)

In the second section of the poem, humans are depicted as lost and adrift in the sea of consciousness. Our psyches have become fragmented and we are like the wreckage of ships tossed aimlessly, instead of voyagers navigating the realm of the divine consciousness.

There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
No end to the withering of withered flowers,
To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,
To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,

(Lines 79 – 82)

JMW Turner

Later in the poem, Eliot attempts to describe the connection between the individual and the collective consciousnesses, but admits that it is something beyond verbal expression.

I have said before
That the past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations—not forgetting
Something that is probably quite ineffable:

(Lines 96 – 100)

For me, the final stanza, which comprises the entire fifth section, is the most fascinating. Here, Eliot describes our interest in the mystical arts as an attempt to guide us through the turbulent sea of consciousness.

To communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,
To report the behaviour of the sea monster,
Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,
Observe disease in signatures, evoke
Biography from the wrinkles of the palm
And tragedy from fingers; release omens
By sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable
With playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams
Or barbituric acids, or dissect
The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors—
To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams;

(Lines 184 – 194)

Source: Wikipedia

While I personally do not think this poem is as great as the first two in the book, it is still a very good poem and worth taking the time to read. There is quite a bit more in there that I didn’t cover but could certainly be explored, such as the metaphor of the train symbolizing our movement from past to future, as well as some interesting allusions to Christian and Eastern mysticism. Again, it’s definitely worth reading.

Look for Part 4—“Little Gidding”—soon.

“Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot – Part 2 of 4: East Coker

In my previous post, I looked at the first of the Four Quartets: “Burnt Norton.” The second poem in the collection is much darker than the first and offers a bleak view of modern society.

The poem is structured in a circular style. The first and last lines of the poem are mirror reflections of each other. The poem begins with “In my beginning is my end” and concludes with “In my end is my beginning.” So from a basic structural view, Eliot is challenging the reader to read the poem over multiple times, but I also see deeper symbolism. In the cycle of life, death, and rebirth, when you are born, your consciousness is separated from the Divine Consciousness and your connection is severed. Likewise, when you die, your consciousness is reunited with the Divine until it is time to be reborn again, as part of the eternal cycle.

The overall theme of the poem is that modern humans, with all our science, technology, and money, are essentially destroying ourselves and the world in which we live. It really doesn’t seem like there is much hope for us. In the poem, Eliot offers only one possible path by which to save ourselves, and that is through Christ.

In the opening stanza, Eliot sets the tone for the poem, evoking images of a crumbling society while incorporating references to Ecclesiastes, thereby letting the reader know that our world is in decline and the only chance for salvation is through biblical wisdom.

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur, and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

As the poem continues, we are provided with a view of life during a simpler time, before we became slaves to science and technology.

On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie─
A dignified and commodiois sacrament,
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,

(Lines 25 – 34)

The imagery here makes me think of a pagan ritual. Villagers are gathered together and partake in rituals celebrating the union of man and woman. I would even venture to suggest that Eliot is likely depicting a Beltane ritual, where the symbolic sexual union of man and woman evokes a sympathetic type of magic resulting in the fertility of the earth. I also love the shift in language to an “Olde English” style. It is almost like reading Chaucer.

The Dance by Matisse

After this pastoral section, the poem takes a darker turn. We are presented with a prophecy, one in which astrological signs and omens point toward the inevitable destruction of humanity.

Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

(Lines 58 – 67)

The following lines impacted me the hardest. Here, Eliot describes the root of our demise, the rich and powerful who view the world as theirs and seek to exploit the planet and all those who dwell upon it, dragging us along with them on the path to destruction.

O dark dark dark. They all go dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury.

(Lines 101 – 111)

These lines terrify me. They could have been written today. As I look around at what is happening to our world, I see a handful of people taking the rest of us along with them to the grave. And when we reach that point of collapse, there will be no one left to bury the dead. We will decay along with all our creations and everything that we built. Ultimately, we will succumb to ourselves.

But Eliot sees one chance for us to save ourselves, and that is through the acceptance of Christ’s teachings. He sees Christ as a healer, able to cure our societal ills and disease.

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fevered chart.

(Lines 147 – 151)

Source: Wikipedia

Near the end of the poem, Eliot writes: “As we grow older the world becomes stranger.” This is true on two levels. On a personal level, as we mature we no longer live the lives of simplicity that were ours as children and youth. On a societal level, our culture and society changes as it ages. Technology and science have replaced our wonder at the mysteries of life and existence. As a result, we find ourselves strangers in a strange land, in a world that becomes stranger and less recognizable with each passing day. It is a sad possibility that one day we may awaken into a world which is completely unrecognizable to us. I hope that day does not come.

Look for Part 3—“The Dry Salvages”—soon.

“Four Quartets” by T.S. Eliot – Part 1 of 4: Burnt Norton

I read T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets early on in college and really didn’t grasp it. I think the fact that I read it on my own and not as part of a class was what made it difficult for me to grasp. Anyway, I decided to read the collection of poems again and to write about them one at a time. So this is my first of four posts on the Four Quartets.

“Burnt Norton” is a poem about time, essentially, the cycle of time and how the past and the future relate to the present. I found it to be very spiritual and it seems to me that Eliot was drawing inspiration from Eastern religions. The language and the metaphors he uses conjured images of a mandala, where the present is the center and the past and future revolve around, folding into and out from the central point.

From the poem’s opening lines, you immediately get the sense that time is not linear.

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.

There is a definite impression that everything that ever was and everything that will come into being already exists in the now. Time is relative to our point of existence in the universe. The infinity of possibilities extends in every direction, emanating from our point in space.

Since time and possibility surrounding us is infinite, there is no way that our consciousness can grasp its depth. As Eliot expresses in the following lines, we are only able to grasp an infinitesimal amount of reality, and that is symbolized by the present.

Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

(Lines 42 – 46)

Since we cannot fully grasp the past or the future, since both are infinite, all we can do is focus on the present. The only thing we can grasp completely is the moment in which we exist. In order to do this, one must still the mind, as expressed in the following lines.

Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
T be conscious is to not be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbor where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.

(Lines 82 – 89)

So in order to become fully conscious, we must transcend time. The way that we transcend time is through meditation. When we enter a deep meditative state, time is no longer linear. Everything exists within the single moment of our awakened consciousness. At that point, the past and the future become one with the present in our psyches. This is the only way that we can truly comprehend time and existence.

Later in the poem, Eliot offers a great description of how it feels to enter the deep meditative state.

Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.

(Lines 114 – 126)

As I read these lines, I recalled experiences I have had while meditating. There is a sense that you lose touch with the world around you, and yet, at the same time, you are fully connected with the world and with all existence within that one moment. It is something that is very hard to describe because it transcends our ordinary reality. The closest you can come to expressing that feeling is through poetry, and Eliot does a great job here.

There is much more to this poem than what I have covered here; for example, I noticed symbolism of time as an eternal circle which I personally associate with the ourosboros. In addition, the number 10 appears in the poem which for me is a very mystical number. Finally, there are references to various Eastern and Western mystic traditions. Any of these could be explored deeper in another post. But I will leave some for you to explore. I encourage you to read this poem, even if you have read it before. It is deeply spiritual and profoundly inspiring.

Look for Part 2—“East Coker”—soon.

“The Waste Land” by T. S. Eliot

April is the cruellest month, which is why I have so often found myself reading “The Waste Land” in April. I’ve lost track of how many times I have read Eliot’s poetic masterpiece, but I never tire of it. It is, in my opinion, one of the greatest poems ever written.

One could certainly write a dissertation about this poem, but if I did, I doubt many people would spend the time reading it. So for this post, I will focus on the theme of death and rebirth.

In the notes to the poem, it is stated that Eliot was influenced heavily by Frazer’s The Golden Bough. While I have not read it in its entirety, I read enough to understand the concepts of rebirth that are explored in that work.

Eliot prefaces the poem with a quote from Petronius’ Satyricon, which Wikipedia translates as follows:

I saw with my own eyes the Sybil of Cumae hanging in a jar, and when the boys said to her, Sibyl, what do you want? she replied I want to die.

So immediately, one gets the impression that the cycle of rebirth is not a blessing, but a curse. Eternal life is equated with eternal suffering. This sets the tone for the poem’s famous opening lines:

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

Spring begins the cycle of life and death again. Flowers push up through the soil and bloom, only to wither and die again. There is also the impression that death, symbolized by winter, is desirable. It is associated with warmth, rest, and the bliss that comes with forgetfulness.

Next I’d like to look at line 30: I will show you fear in a handful of dust. This is the destiny that we all face. We will all turn to dust and once again become one with the dead land. But that will not be the end. We will return and face the same sad fate over and over again.

Near the end of the poem, the theme comes up again:

He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying

These lines are really interesting. The “He” is someone separate from the “We.” My guess is that He represents any one of the figures associated with the rebirth mythology: Christ, Osiris, Adonis, etc. So the god is dead, and we now follow in our own deaths. But like the god, we will be resurrected and and face another cycle in a world that is becoming more and more fragmented and chaotic. So we are like the Sybil, unable to find the true solace of death.

This poem is very deep and intense, and it is challenging to read, but that should not discourage anyone from reading it. No poem better captures the fragmented nature of modern society. Even if you have read it before (and if you are reading my blog, changes are you have), I encourage you to read it again. For those who need, click here to read it online.

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot

T. S. Eliot

I realized that in my last blog post I might have been a little harsh on the modernists, so I decided to balance my criticism by reviewing a modernist poem that I think is truly an amazing work, and that is “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” This poem is a masterpiece that successfully evokes imagery and emotion in a way that the average person can relate to, while at the same time incorporating allusions and imagery that will challenge erudite readers. I have to say, as far as poetry goes, this is flawless.

The poem is essentially the musings of a person nearing the end of his life and contemplating what he has and has not done. This is a feeling everyone can relate to, regardless of age. Who can honestly say they have not sat alone and relived scenarios from their past, or played out events in their heads where the outcomes were different, running through the endless possibilities?

The poem is prefaced with a quote from Dante’s Inferno (Canto 27; Lines 61 – 66), which is followed by what may be the greatest opening lines ever:

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;

The first two lines are kind of the set up, creating a pleasant sense that is then slaughtered by the third line. This sets up the motif of juxtaposition that carries through the rest of the poem, where images of sickness and death are superimposed upon those of beauty and life.

The following short stanza repeats several times throughout the poem, almost like a refrain:

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

Something about this has haunted me for years, but I could never put my finger on why until today. Prufrock finds himself in a social situation, where people are engaged, talking with each other and comfortably interacting. But Prufrock is alone, an outsider who is unable to participate in the play of life that unfolds before him. He is a classic introvert. This explains why the lines affect me on such a visceral level, because like Prufrock, I am painfully introverted and feel like an outsider in social situations, watching life unfold before me but unable to step in and participate. Even as I write this, I feel like I am somehow going through a cathartic experience.

There is one more line that I want to write about:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

This line is deeper than it appears. While it sounds like what is being stated is that he was not meant to be Hamlet, we must keep in mind the classic “to be or not to be.” It is a rephrasing of the great existential question and he is saying that he is not meant to live, to participate, or to be a part of existence. Hamlet, despite his hesitance, eventually acts, and then dies tragically and magnificently at the end. But not Prufrock. He feels that his life has been little more than a “Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.”

While this has turned into one of the longer blog posts I’ve written, there is still so much to say about this poem. You can read it over and over and continue to uncover new ideas and imagery. This is, without question, poetry at its finest.

Click here to read the poem online.