“Four Quartets” Revisited

what odor rises from the parting pages,

what genie is released, what dark spell broken,

as if some spirit trapped inside for ages,

By this hinge swung open were set free?

My father’s hand has jotted in the margins

its own blunt text of what must be

lecture notes, and planted his place marker

Like a flag among “The Dry Salvages”—

a UC “schedule card,” a blank

grid for weekly classes, and on the back,

O fees and late fees time alone assuages—

We know the longhand’s labored look

was mine, but why that child should scrawl

a phrase so apt for now’s beyond recall: