Posted 2 years ago

The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

I leave this here as a lesson to all in poetry.  One of the greatest works by a true master.  But what I truly wish to quote can be found on lines 20-30.

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

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         5 Earth in forgetful snow, feeding  A little life with dried tubers.  Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee  With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,  And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,  10 And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.  Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.  And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,  My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,  And I was frightened. He said, Marie,  15 Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.  In the mountains, there you feel free.  I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.    What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow  Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,  20 You cannot say, or guess, for you know only  A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,  And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,  And the dry stone no sound of water. Only  There is shadow under this red rock,  25 (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),  And I will show you something different from either  Your shadow at morning striding behind you  Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;  I will show you fear in a handful of dust.  30         Frisch weht der Wind          Der Heimat zu,          Mein Irisch Kind,          Wo weilest du?  “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;  35 They called me the hyacinth girl.”  —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,  Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not  Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither  Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,  40 Looking into the heart of light, the silence.  Öd’ und leer das Meer.    Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,  Had a bad cold, nevertheless  Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,  45 With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,  Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,  (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)  Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,  The lady of situations.  50 Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,  And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,  Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,  Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find  The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.  55 I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.  Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,  Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:  One must be so careful these days.    Unreal City,  60 Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,  A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,  I had not thought death had undone so many.  Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,  And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.  65 Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,  To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours  With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.  There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson!  You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!  70 That corpse you planted last year in your garden,  Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?  Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?  Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,  Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!  75 You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”   
II. A GAME OF CHESS

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,  Glowed on the marble, where the glass  Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines  From which a golden Cupidon peeped out  80 (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)  Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra  Reflecting light upon the table as  The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,  From satin cases poured in rich profusion;  85 In vials of ivory and coloured glass  Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,  Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused  And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air  That freshened from the window, these ascended  90 In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,  Flung their smoke into the laquearia,  Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.  Huge sea-wood fed with copper  Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,  95 In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.  Above the antique mantel was displayed  As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene  The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king  So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100 Filled all the desert with inviolable voice  And still she cried, and still the world pursues,  “Jug Jug” to dirty ears.  And other withered stumps of time  Were told upon the walls; staring forms 105 Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.  Footsteps shuffled on the stair,  Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair  Spread out in fiery points  Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110   “My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.  Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.  What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?  I never know what you are thinking. Think.”    I think we are in rats’ alley 115 Where the dead men lost their bones.    “What is that noise?”                        The wind under the door.  “What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”                        Nothing again nothing. 120                                               “Do  You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember  Nothing?”          I remember                  Those are pearls that were his eyes. 125 “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”                                                           But  O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—  It’s so elegant  So intelligent 130   “What shall I do now? What shall I do?  I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street  With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?  What shall we ever do?”                            The hot water at ten. 135 And if it rains, a closed car at four.  And we shall play a game of chess,  Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.    When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said,  I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, 140 HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME  Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.  He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you  To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.  You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, 145 He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.  And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,  He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,  And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.  Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. 150 Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME  If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said,  Others can pick and choose if you can’t.  But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. 155 You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.  (And her only thirty-one.)  I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,  It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.  (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) 160 The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.  You are a proper fool, I said.  Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,  What you get married for if you don’t want children?  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME 165 Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,  And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME  HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME  Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. 170 Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.  Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.   
III. THE FIRE SERMON

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf  Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind  Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. 175 Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.  The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,  Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends  Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.  And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180 Departed, have left no addresses.  By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept…  Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,  Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.  But at my back in a cold blast I hear 185 The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.    A rat crept softly through the vegetation  Dragging its slimy belly on the bank  While I was fishing in the dull canal  On a winter evening round behind the gashouse. 190 Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck  And on the king my father’s death before him.  White bodies naked on the low damp ground  And bones cast in a little low dry garret,  Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. 195 But at my back from time to time I hear  The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring  Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.  O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter  And on her daughter 200 They wash their feet in soda water  Et, O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!    Twit twit twit  Jug jug jug jug jug jug  So rudely forc’d. 205 Tereu    Unreal City  Under the brown fog of a winter noon  Mr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant  Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210 C. i. f. London: documents at sight,  Asked me in demotic French  To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel  Followed by a week-end at the Metropole.    At the violet hour, when the eyes and back 215 Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits  Like a taxi throbbing waiting,  I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,  Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see  At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220 Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,  The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lights  Her stove, and lays out food in tins.  Out of the window perilously spread  Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, 225 On the divan are piled (at night her bed)  Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.  I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs  Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—  I too awaited the expected guest. 230 He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,  A small house-agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,  One of the low on whom assurance sits  As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.  The time is now propitious, as he guesses, 235 The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,  Endeavours to engage her in caresses  Which still are unreproved, if undesired.  Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;  Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240 His vanity requires no response,  And makes a welcome of indifference.  (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all  Enacted on this same divan or bed;  I who have sat by Thebes below the wall 245 And walked among the lowest of the dead.)  Bestows one final patronizing kiss,  And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…    She turns and looks a moment in the glass,  Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250 Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:  “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”  When lovely woman stoops to folly and  Paces about her room again, alone,  She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, 255 And puts a record on the gramophone.    “This music crept by me upon the waters”  And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.  O City City, I can sometimes hear  Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260 The pleasant whining of a mandoline  And a clatter and a chatter from within  Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls  Of Magnus Martyr hold  Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. 265   The river sweats  Oil and tar  The barges drift  With the turning tide  Red sails 270 Wide  To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.  The barges wash  Drifting logs  Down Greenwich reach 275 Past the Isle of Dogs.              Weialala leia              Wallala leialala  Elizabeth and Leicester  Beating oars 280 The stern was formed  A gilded shell  Red and gold  The brisk swell  Rippled both shores 285 South-west wind  Carried down stream  The peal of bells  White towers              Weialala leia 290             Wallala leialala    “Trams and dusty trees.  Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew  Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees  Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.“ 295   “My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart  Under my feet. After the event  He wept. He promised ‘a new start.’  I made no comment. What should I resent?”    “On Margate Sands. 300 I can connect  Nothing with nothing.  The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.  My people humble people who expect  Nothing.” 305         la la    To Carthage then I came    Burning burning burning burning  O Lord Thou pluckest me out  O Lord Thou pluckest 310   burning   
IV. DEATH BY WATER

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,  Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell  And the profit and loss.                            A current under sea 315 Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell  He passed the stages of his age and youth  Entering the whirlpool.                            Gentile or Jew  O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320 Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.   
V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

After the torch-light red on sweaty faces  After the frosty silence in the gardens  After the agony in stony places  The shouting and the crying 325 Prison and place and reverberation  Of thunder of spring over distant mountains  He who was living is now dead  We who were living are now dying  With a little patience 330   Here is no water but only rock  Rock and no water and the sandy road  The road winding above among the mountains  Which are mountains of rock without water  If there were water we should stop and drink 335 Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think  Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand  If there were only water amongst the rock  Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit  Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340 There is not even silence in the mountains  But dry sterile thunder without rain  There is not even solitude in the mountains  But red sullen faces sneer and snarl  From doors of mud-cracked houses
                                If there were water 345 And no rock  If there were rock  And also water  And water  A spring 350 A pool among the rock  If there were the sound of water only  Not the cicada  And dry grass singing  But sound of water over a rock 355 Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees  Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop  But there is no water    Who is the third who walks always beside you?  When I count, there are only you and I together 360 But when I look ahead up the white road  There is always another one walking beside you  Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded  I do not know whether a man or a woman  —But who is that on the other side of you? 365   What is that sound high in the air  Murmur of maternal lamentation  Who are those hooded hordes swarming  Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth  Ringed by the flat horizon only 370 What is the city over the mountains  Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air  Falling towers  Jerusalem Athens Alexandria  Vienna London 375 Unreal    A woman drew her long black hair out tight  And fiddled whisper music on those strings  And bats with baby faces in the violet light  Whistled, and beat their wings 380 And crawled head downward down a blackened wall  And upside down in air were towers  Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours  And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.    In this decayed hole among the mountains 385 In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing  Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel  There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.  It has no windows, and the door swings,  Dry bones can harm no one. 390 Only a cock stood on the roof-tree  Co co rico co co rico  In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust  Bringing rain  Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves 395 Waited for rain, while the black clouds  Gathered far distant, over Himavant.  The jungle crouched, humped in silence.  Then spoke the thunder  DA 400 Datta: what have we given?  My friend, blood shaking my heart  The awful daring of a moment’s surrender  Which an age of prudence can never retract  By this, and this only, we have existed 405 Which is not to be found in our obituaries  Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider  Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor  In our empty rooms  DA 410 Dayadhvam: I have heard the key  Turn in the door once and turn once only  We think of the key, each in his prison  Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison  Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours 415 Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus  DA  Damyata: The boat responded  Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar  The sea was calm, your heart would have responded 420 Gaily, when invited, beating obedient  To controlling hands                          I sat upon the shore  Fishing, with the arid plain behind me  Shall I at least set my lands in order? 425   London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down    Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina  Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow  Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie  These fragments I have shored against my ruins 430 Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.  Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.          Shantih    shantih    shantih 
Posted 2 years ago

Hi tumblr, it’s been a while.

Since facebook has become uninteresting to me, when I write something I’ll just post it here. 

Speaking of which…

All is silent through doors of the void
All is still down the path of the still dark
Over the cold windswept shores of thought
comes a rider on the wings of words
a messenger of fate that scoffs at destiny
the harbinger of all the things to come
But blind is he now to the meaning
Deaf to the telling sounds of a darkened wind
Thus I cannot see through the veil usually transparent
I cannot bring sense to the maelstrom of noise
I seek a council at the monarch’s court
The gods at the highest seat are loved by me
The queen at her throne a cruel thorn
My puzzlement at the princess and the one at her side
I fear the knave for he is unknown to me
The jester lurks behind them, I know not his intent
and the court’s magician always standing at my back
whispers in my ear what he might do
but I cannot trust his judgment for he is wicked
No true answers given for one that seeks them
No true peace given for one that seeks rest
Returned once more to the darkened banks
All is still down the path of the still dark
All is silent through doors of the void

Posted 3 years ago

I write.

I write about things that are indescribable.

I write because that’s how I feel.

I write to give meaning to the words in my head.

I write to make you happy.

I write to make you sad.

I write to make you think.

I write because maybe you will understand.

I write for love.

I write for loss.

I write for heartbreak.

I write for hope.

I write for my wildest expectations.

I write for clockwork.

I write for day.

I write for the night.

I write for music.

I write for poetry.

I write for a turning coin.

I write for playing cards with paper holes.

I write for the cat’s cradle.

I write for a cloudy sky.

I write for the cool rain.

I write for jungle parks in the middle of cities.

I write for cats that nuzzle your leg.

I write for the cool side of the pillow.

I write for home.

I write for far away.

I write for my elders.

I write for those whom I will teach.

I write for the stars.

I write for a moon with a cheshire cat grin.

I write for my enemies.

I write for my favorite.

I write for elegance.

I write for purity.

I write because I can.

I got on here to write, but couldn’t think of anything.  Writer’s block, if you will.  I then asked myself why even write when, sometimes, it’s hard.  Then I remembered…  I write because words are everywhere and in all things.

Those that master the word have taken the world.

"By the power of truth, I, while living, have conquered the universe."

Posted 3 years ago
Yup.  I’m just the only one of my sex that I know who would actually admit it.  But for a proof of concept, you’re welcome.
:)

Yup.  I’m just the only one of my sex that I know who would actually admit it.  But for a proof of concept, you’re welcome.

:)

(Source: leilockheart)

Posted 3 years ago

And So the Wind Speaks

Who shall listen when no one’s left to hear

The cries and screams of our enlightened fear

Ones who know and the countless ancient souls

Guardians of the most hallowed scrowles

The sentries who gaze with eyes of jade

Seeing the world and the fools we’ve made

The harbingers of peace to those who seek

The will and knowledge to rightfully speak

Come now those, who might the world defend

Come now those, the riders who chase the wind

Posted 3 years ago

Lament for Gray

Walking along with our brisk intent,

The cool and gray were our only friends.

I searched my mind for the message you sent.

And I search my soul for the wound it mends.

The time trickled down like grains of sand,

And so did our sanity with each step we took.

Heads pounding in the wind we traveled the land;

And against the might of nature our bodies shook.

 The lashing wind at our faces like a whip;

The rain like fire tearing at our skin;

That bitter march, my heart did rip.

Our task ahead was one of bitter sin.

 The rain and wind sow the seeds of discontent;

So our hearts and minds sing a cold lament.

Posted 3 years ago

Credit to Amanda and Ellie for helping me with the rhyme scheme. :p

Before our past was a pungent blight

Time went on in our eternal fright;

To tarnish sanity and melt the brain

on and on as the endless rain

A hope remained, it’s a simple mirage

What’s left of our mind; delicate as a corsage

But then came the sun burning bright yellow

To put our bodies at ease and ourselves mellow

Then the happiness fell through as a spiral

Our emotions and thoughts spread so viral

We found ourselves then in a blissful calm

And a comfort for us inside your palm

Posted 3 years ago

A prayer for healing fire

A thousand prayers said to a moonlight night

A final lament and a desperate plea

Silently they chanted that mystical rite

The legend unfolded for all to see

The phoenix’s flame they would bring to light

The last bastion to set their minds at ease

Behold that fire; an ever humbling site

The eternal blaze that would never cease

So bring forth the myth that all thought was dead

Hearken his words and never forget what was said

 

Posted 3 years ago

I looked to the east and saw fire burning golden cracks through the gray morning sky.

I looked to the west and said a word of silent reflection for the life giver burning golden scarlet as it was laid to rest.

I looked to the north and saw brilliant creations of man piercing the sky like monoliths and felt the north winds fill my lungs with precious life.

But those memories became ash as I turned to the south;  There I saw the January sky reflected in pale sapphires, and a gaze meant only for me.

Posted 3 years ago

O, goddess of insanity’s impossibility,

Won’t you come to my dreams tonight,

and chase away the demons that plague my mind.