Hello and welcome back to the Daily Poem here on the Close Reeds Podcast Network. I'm David Kern.

One of the benefits of producing a show like this is that I can read poems that I like. We've done that for several of them already, poems that that are just that I have some kind of affection for

today's poem is another one of those poems but it's also one of those poems that makes me

angry shall we say because t s elliott wrote preludes when he was something like

22 years old that is deeply frustrating for me,

and probably for anybody who tries to write poetry,

even on occasion.

But it's also proof of the genius that is T.S. Eliot,

and as the run of this show continues,

we're going to, I'm sure, be hearing from T.S. Eliot fairly regularly.

He's often considered confusing,

or, you know, the impressionistic

nature of his work can sometimes be discouraging, can be unapproachable. But this is a poem that,

while certainly somewhat impressionistic, it's full of images that are at the heart of what poetry, great poetry aims to be.

It's the particular instances expressing something universal, and I love that about this poem.

So this is T.S. Eliot's preludes.

One.

The winter evening settles down with smells of stakes and passageways. 6 o'clock.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

And now a gusty shower wraps the grimy scraps of weather leaves about your feet and newspapers from vacant lots.

The showers beat on broken blinds and chimney pots.

And at the corner of the street, a lonely cab horse steams and stamps.

...