[Holly Martins]

As a Margate resident I've always claimed that Eliot wrote 99% of The Waste Land in the shelter just down the way from where I live and not the 2% the experts believe. Now they want to pull the shelter down!

http://www.thisiskent.co.uk/margate/...l/article.html

On Margate Sands,
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.

[Jerome Betts]

Holly, you say they want to pull the shelter down, but the newspaper article you link to merely says they want to have it listed, and it was, anyway, restored in 2000. Do you have other information about some threat of it being pulled down?

[Cally Conan-Davies]

There is no way to avoid his seminal presence in my life. I can't get away from him, and I don't want to. I had to make pilgrimage to St Michael's in East Coker. These literary sites are sacred places. And must be preserved, as long as we have imagination, all the while knowing that -

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.

The shelters and churches will fall, but we must help them stand as long as we can.






I was deeply moved by the ancient female goddess figure that stands beside Eliot in his corner of the church. I can't explain how that abiding feminine presence alongside him pierced my soul.



Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.


Holly, it has made my day to know that you live close to the shelter. I never wanted to leave East Coker, one of the most beautiful villages I saw in England. I am so glad Eliot lies there. The spirit of the place evokes him powerfully for me. He is there.

[Holly Martins]

Thanks for the brilliant pics, Cally!
Jerome, unfortunately Thanet Council are resolutely anti-culture and not to be trusted. They have allowed many fine historical local buildings to go to the wrecking ball and their interest and support of anything to do with T.S. Eliot has, up to now, been nil.

[John Whitworth]

Re Culture, The Council of Thanet
Prefer its exponents would can it,
And re Eliot T.S.’s
Whole oeuvre, my guess is
They’d pan it and burn it and ban it.

[Jerome Betts]

Holly, there's more on the shelter and Eliot in today's Observer:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009...margate-shrine

Incidentally, there's a plaque commemorating his baptism in Holy Trinity Finstock, Oxfordshire, along with one for Barbara Pym the novelist.

[Holly Martins]

Thanks for this, Jerome. The Albermarle Hotel where Eliot stayed - just round the corner from me - was demolished without ceremony about ten years ago. It's actually in Cliftonville and is at least a mile from the Nayland Rock shelter. He must surely have visited other shelters on his walks so I'm not sure why the Margate shelter has been singled out.

[Gail White]

Loved the pictures, Cally. I wish I could have a plaque like that when my own time comes (some hopes!)
But – (hush! Speak the heresy in whispers!) - the truth is, I could never really warm up to Eliot. The only poem of his I ever took to my heart was “The Hippopotamus”, and for the benefit of those who may have overlooked it, I give it here.

THE HIPPOPOTAMUS

(I omit a Latin quotation from St. Ignatius about the orders of the clergy).

And when this epistle is read among you, cause that it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.

The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems to firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way--
The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapped in the old miasmal mist.

[Gregory Dowling]

Thanks for this, Gail. In fact, as a posting it would equally well on the neighbouring thread, "The poem you wouldn't expect..."

[Holly Martins]

A 30 minute programme on BBC Radio 4 yesterday discusses Eliot's current reputation. Apart from the awful background music from 'Cats', it featured some interesting stuff about the 'Quartets'.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode..._21st_Century/