The Waste Land<\/b><\/p>\n
T. S. Eliot <\/p>\n
“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
\nvidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri
\ndicerent: Sibulla ti qeleiz; respondebat
\nilla: apoqanein qelw.”<\/p>\n
For Ezra Pound
\nil miglior fabbro.<\/p>\n
I. The Burial of the Dead<\/p>\n
April is the cruelest month, breeding
\nLilacs out of the dead land, mixing
\nMemory and desire, stirring
\nDull roots with spring rain.
\nWinter kept us warm, covering
\nEarth in forgetful snow, feeding
\nA little life with dried tubers.
\nSummer surprised us, coming over
\n the Starnbergersee
\nWith a shower of rain; we stopped
\n in the colonnade,
\nAnd went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
\nAnd drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
\nBin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus
\n Litauen, echt deutsch.
\nAnd when we were children, staying
\n at the archduke’s,
\nMy cousin’s, th took me out on a sled,
\nAnd I was frightened. He said, Marie,
\nMarie, hold on tight. And down we went.
\nIn the mountains, there you feel free.
\nI read, much of the night, and go south
\n in the winter.<\/p>\n
What are the roots that clutch,
\n what branches grow
\nOut of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
\nYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only
\nA heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
\nAnd the dead tree gives no shelter,
\n the cricket no relief,
\nAnd the dry stone no sound of water. Only
\nThere is shadow under this red rock,
\n(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
\nAnd I will show you something different from either
\nYour shadow at morning striding behind you
\nOr you shadow at evening rising to meet you;
\nI will show you fear in a handful of dust.
\nFrisch weht der Wind
\nDer Heimat zu
\nMein Irisch Kind
\nWo weilest du?
\n‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
\n‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
\n-Yet when we came back, late, from
\n the hyacinth garden,
\nYour arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
\nSpeak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
\nLiving nor dead, and I knew nothing,
\nLooking into the heart of light, the silence.
\nOed’ und leer das Meer.<\/p>\n
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
\nHad a bad cold, nevertheless
\nIs known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
\nWith a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
\nIs your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
\n(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
\nHere is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
\nThe lady of situations.
\nHere is the man with three staves,
\n and here the Wheel,
\nAnd here is the one-eyed merchant,
\n and this card,
\nWhich is blank, is something he carries
\n on his back,
\nWhich I am forbidden to see. I do not find
\nThe Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
\nI see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
\nThank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
\nTell her I bring the horoscope myself:
\nOne must be so careful these days.<\/p>\n
Unreal City,
\nUnder the brown fog of a winter dawn,
\nA crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
\nI had not thought death had undone so many.
\nSighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
\nAnd each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
\nFlowed up the hill and down King William Street,
\nTo where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
\nWith a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
\nThere I saw one I knew, and stopped him,
\n crying: ‘Stetson!
\n‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
\n‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
\n‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
\n‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
\n‘O keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
\n‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
\n‘You! Hypocrite lecteur!-mon senblable,-mon frere!’<\/p>\n
II. A Game of Chess<\/p>\n
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
\nGlowed on the marble, where the glass
\nHeld up by standards wrought with fruited vines
\nFrom which a golden Cupidon peeped out
\n(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
\nDoubled the flames of seven branched candelabra
\nReflecting light upon the table as
\nThe glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
\nFrom satin cases poured in rich profusion.
\nIn vials of ivory and coloured glass
\nUnstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic
\n perfumes,
\nUnguent, powdered, or liquid-troubled, confused
\nAnd drowned the sense in odours; stirred
\n by the air
\nThat freshened from the window, these ascended
\nIn fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
\nFlung their smoke into the laquearia,
\nStirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
\nHuge sea-wood fed with copper
\nBurned green and orange, framed by the
\n coloured stone,
\nIn which sad light a carv? dolphin swam.
\nAbove the antique mantel was displayed
\nAs though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
\nThe change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
\nSo rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
\nFilled all the desert with inviolable voice
\nAnd still she cried, and still the
\n world pursues,
\n‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears.
\nAnd other withered stumps of time
\nWere told upon the walls; staring forms
\nLeaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
\nFootsteps shuffled on the stair.
\nUnder the firelight, under the brush, her hair
\nSpread out in fiery points
\nGlowed into words, then would be savagely still.<\/p>\n
‘My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay
\n with me.
\n‘Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
\n‘What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
\n‘I never know what you are thinking. Think.’<\/p>\n
I think we are in rats’ alley
\nWhere the dead men lost their bones.<\/p>\n
‘What it that noise?’
\nThe wind under the door.
\n‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
\nNothing again nothing.<\/p>\n
‘Do ‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing?
\n Do you remember
\n‘Nothing?’
\nI remember
\nThose are pearls that were his eyes.
\n‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing
\n in your head?’<\/p>\n
But<\/p>\n
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag-
\nIt’s so elegant
\nSo intelligent
\n‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’
\n‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
\n‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
\n‘What shall we ever do?’
\nThe hot water at ten.
\nAnd if it rains, a closed car at four.
\nAnd we shall play a game of chess,
\nPressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock
\n upon the door.<\/p>\n
When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said-
\nI didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
\nHURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
\nNow Albert’s coming back, make yourself
\n a bit smart.
\nHe’ll want to know what you done with that
\n money he gave you
\nTo get herself some teeth. He did, I was there.
\nYou have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
\nHe said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
\nAnd no more can’t I, I said, and think of
\n poor Albert,
\nHe’s been in the army for four years, he wants
\n a good time,
\nAnd if you don’t give it him, there’s others
\n will, I said.
\nOh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
\nThen I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give
\n me a straight look.
\nHURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
\nIf you don’t like it you can get on with it,
\n I said.
\nOthers can pick and choose if you can’t.
\nBut if Albert makes off, it won’t be for
\n a lack of telling.
\nYou ought to be ashamed, I said, to look
\n so antique.
\n(And her only thirty-one.)
\nI can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
\nIt’s them pills I took, to bring it off,
\n she said.
\n(She’s five already, and nearly died of
\n young George.)
\nThe chemist said it would be all right, but
\n I’ve never been the same.
\nYou are a proper fool, I said.
\nWell, if Albert won’t leave you alone,
\n there it is, I said,
\nWhat you get married for if you don’t
\n want children?
\nHurry up please its time
\nWell, that Sunday Albert was home,
\n they had a hot gammon,
\nAnd they asked me in to dinner, to get
\n the beauty of it hot-
\nHURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
\nHURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
\nGoodnight Bill. Goodnight Lou. Goodnight May.
\n Goodnight.
\nTa ta. Goodnight. Goodnight.
\nGood night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies,
\n good night, good night.<\/p>\n
III. The Fire Sermon<\/p>\n
The river’s tent is broken; the last
\n fingers of leaf
\nClutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
\nCrosses the broken land, unheard. The nymphs
\n are departed.
\nSweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
\nThe river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
\nSilk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
\nOr other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs
\n are departed.
\nAnd their friends, the loitering heirs of
\n City directors;
\nDeparted, have left no addresses.
\nBy the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
\nSweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
\nSweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not
\n loud or long.
\nBut at my back in a cold blast I hear
\nThe rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread
\n from ear to ear.<\/p>\n
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
\nDragging its slimy belly on the bank
\nWhile I was fishing in the dull canal
\nOn a winter evening round behind the gashouse
\nMusing upon the king my brother’s wreck
\nAnd on the king my father’s death before him.
\nWhite bodies naked on the low damp ground
\nAnd bones cast in a little low dry garret,
\nRattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
\nBut at my back from time to time I hear
\nThe sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
\nSweeny to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
\nO the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
\nAnd on her daughter
\nThey wash their feet in soda water
\nEt O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans
\n la coupole!<\/p>\n
Twit twit twit
\nJug jug jug jug jug jug
\nSo rudely forc’d.
\nTereu<\/p>\n
Unreal City
\nUnder the brown fog of a winter noon
\nMr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
\nUnshaven, with a pocket full of currants
\nC.i.f. London: documents at sight,
\nAsked me in demotic French
\nTo luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
\nFollowed by a weekend at the Metropole.
\nAt the violet hour, when the eyes and back
\nTurn upward from the desk, when the human
\n engine waits
\nLike a taxi throbbing waiting,
\nI Tiresias, though blind, throbbing
\n between two lives,
\nOld man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
\nAt the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
\nHomeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
\nThe typist home at teatime, clears her
\n breakfast, lights
\nHer stove, and lays out food in tins.
\nOut of the window perilously spread
\nHer drying combinations touched by the sun’s
\n last rays,
\nOn the divan are piled (at her night bed)
\nStockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
\nI Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
\nPerceived the scene and foretold the rest
\nI too awaited the expected guest.
\nHe, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
\nA small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
\nOne of the low on whom assurance sits
\nAs a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
\nThe time is now propitious, as he guesses,
\nThe meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
\nEndeavours to engage her in caresses
\nWhich are still unreproved, if undesired.
\nFlushed and decided, he assaults at once;
\nExploring hands encounter no defence;
\nHis vanity requires no response,
\nAnd makes a welcome of indifference.
\n(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
\nEnacted on this same divan or bed;
\nI who have sat by Thebes below the wall
\nAnd walked among the lowest of the dead.)
\nBestows one final patronising kiss,
\nAnd gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit …<\/p>\n
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
\nHardly aware of her departed lover;
\nHer brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
\n‘Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’
\nWhen lovely woman stoops to folly and
\nPaces about her room again, alone,
\nShe smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
\nAnd puts a record on the gramophone.<\/p>\n
‘This music crept by me upon the waters’
\nAnd along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
\nO City city, I can sometimes hear
\nBeside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
\nThe pleasant whining of a mandoline
\nAnd a clatter and a chatter from within
\nWhere fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
\nOf Magnus Martyr hold
\nInexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.<\/p>\n
The river sweats
\nOil and tar
\nThe barges drift
\nWith the turning tide
\nRed sails
\nWide
\nTo leeward, swings on the heavy spar.
\nThe barges wash
\nDrifting logs
\nDown Greenwich reach
\nPast the Isle of Dogs.
\nWeialala leia
\nWallala leialala<\/p>\n
Elizabeth and Leicester
\nBeating oars
\nThe stern was formed
\nA gilded shell
\nRed and gold
\nThe brisk swell
\nRippled both shores
\nSouthwest wind
\nCarried down stream
\nThe peal of bells
\nWhite towers
\nWeialala leia
\nWallala leialala<\/p>\n
‘Trams and dusty trees.
\nHighbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
\nUndid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
\nSupine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’<\/p>\n
‘My feet are at Moorgate and my heart
\nUnder my feet. After the event
\nHe wept. He promised “a new start.”
\nI made no comment. What should I resent?’<\/p>\n
‘On Margate Sands.
\nI can connect
\nNothing with nothing.
\nThe broken fingernails of dirty hands.
\nMy people who expect
\nNothing.’
\nla la<\/p>\n
To Carthage then I came
\nBurning burning burning burning
\nO Lord Thou pluckest me out
\nO Lord Thou pluckest<\/p>\n
burning<\/p>\n
IV. Death by Water<\/p>\n
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
\nForgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
\nAnd the profit and loss.
\nA current under sea
\nPicked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
\nHe passes the stages of his age and youth
\nEntering the whirlpool.
\nGentile or Jew
\nO you who turn the wheel and look windward,
\nConsider Phlebas, who was once handsome and
\n tall as you. <\/p>\n
V. What the Thunder Said<\/p>\n
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
\nAfter the frosty silence in the gardens
\nAfter the agony in stony places
\nThe shouting and the crying
\nPrison and palace and reverberation,
\nOf thunder of spring over distant mountains
\nHe who was living is now dead
\nWe who were living are now dying
\nWith a little patience<\/p>\n
Here is no water but only rock,
\nRock and no water and the sandy road
\nThe road winding above among the mountains
\nWhich are mountains of rock without water
\nIf there were water we should stop and drink
\nAmongst the rock one cannot stop or think
\nSweat is dry and feet are in the sand
\nIf there were only water amongst the rock
\nDead mountain mouth of carious teeth that
\n cannot spit
\nHere one can neither stand not lie nor sit
\nThere is not even silence in the mountains
\nBut dry sterile thunder without rain
\nThere is not even solitude in the mountains
\nBut red sullen faces sneer and snarl
\nFrom doors of mudcracked houses
\nIf there were water
\nAnd no rock
\nIf there were rock
\nAnd also water
\nAnd water
\nA spring
\nA pool among the rock
\nIf there were the sound of water only
\nNot the cicada
\nAnd dry grass singing
\nBut sound of water over a rock
\nWhere the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
\nDrip drop drip drop drop drop drop
\nBut there is no water<\/p>\n
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
\nWhen I count, there are only you and I together
\nBut when I look ahead up the white road
\nThere is always another one walking beside you
\nGliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
\nI do not know whether a man or a woman
\n-But who is that on the other side of you?<\/p>\n
What is that sound high in the air
\nMurmur of maternal lamination
\nWho are those hooded hordes swarming
\nOver endless plains, stumbling ion cracked earth
\nRinged by the flat horizon only
\nWhat is the city over the mountains
\nCracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
\nFalling towers
\nJerusalem Athens Alexandria
\nVienna London
\nUnreal<\/p>\n
A woman drew her long black hair out tight
\nAnd fiddled whisper music on those strings
\nAnd bats with baby faces in the violet light
\nWhistled, and beat their wings
\nAnd crawled head downward down a blackened wall
\nAnd upside down in air were towers
\nTolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
\nAnd voices singing out of empty cisterns and
\n exhausted wells.<\/p>\n
In this decayed hole among the mountains
\nIn the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
\nOver the tumbled graves, about the chapel
\nThere is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
\nIt has no windows, and the door swings,
\nDry bones can harm no one.
\nOnly a cock stood on the rooftree
\nCo co rico co co rico
\nIn a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
\nBringing rain<\/p>\n
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
\nWaited for rain, while the black clouds
\nGathered far distant, over Himavant.
\nThe jungle crouched, humped in silence.
\nThen spoke the thunder
\nDA
\nDatta: what have we given?
\nMy friend, blood shaking my heart
\nThe awful daring of a moment’s surrender
\nWhich an age of prudence can never retract
\nBy this, and this only, we have existed
\nWhich is not to be found in our obituaries
\nOr in memories draped by the beneficent spider
\nOr under seals broken by the lean solicitor
\nIn our empty rooms
\nDA
\nDayadhvam: I have heard the key
\nTurn in the door once and turn once only
\nWe think of the key, each in his person
\nThinking of hte key, each confirms a prison
\nOnly at nightfall, aethereal rumours
\nRevive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
\nDA
\nDamyata: The boat responded
\nGaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
\nThe sea was calm, your heart would have responded
\nGaily, when invited, beating obedient
\nTo controlling hands<\/p>\n
I sat upon the shore
\nFishing, with the arid plain behind me
\nShall I at least set my lands in order?
\nLondon Bridge is falling down falling
\n down falling down
\nPoi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
\nQuando fiam uti chelidon-O swallow swallow
\nLe Prince d’Aquitaine ?ls tour abolie
\nThese fragments I have shored against my ruins
\nWhy then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
\nDatta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
\nShantih shantih shantih<\/p>\n
=================<\/p>\n
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The Waste Land T. S. Eliot “Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Sibulla ti qeleiz; respondebat illa: apoqanein qelw.” For Ezra Pound il miglior fabbro. I. The Burial of the Dead April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-183","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-weblog"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pfkwZS-2X","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hyungsuk.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/183","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hyungsuk.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hyungsuk.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hyungsuk.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hyungsuk.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=183"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.hyungsuk.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/183\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hyungsuk.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=183"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hyungsuk.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=183"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hyungsuk.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=183"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}