aghhhhh… I’m 17 on the eve of my 18th… currently listening to ts eliot and having an existential crisis about leaving childhood… Marie Marie hold on tight
Damn straight excellently excessively High Weimar Czech Splice Minister Melbourne Meiosis NuuTempPsychocis [Western Far EWashington Easterner India 🇮🇳.coco ⧫ Ξ Ξ VVARUM 🇹🇹🇻🇳🇬🇧🇹🇷🇺🇸🇨🇭Nonfiction NonRepublikaja Cantonese Caligula California Supremacy Marquis Marci Marcus Aesthetic Ariel Demotic Francisco Sanskrit 🇸🇿🇸🇾🇬🇧🇺🇸🇻🇳🇨🇭🇸🇷🇵🇷🇵🇬🇲🇽🇲🇰🇱🇷🇮🇲🇮🇲🇮🇲🇮🇲
I think it's only because this was released on vinyl and whoever made the digital recording lost the beginning, you can search for the version were Eliot reads alone, he actually says both The Wasteland and Burial of the dead. th-cam.com/video/1rpFBSO65P4/w-d-xo.htmlsi=saN-kS2B84-SLaST @@koshu4
Played by my favorite prof in some useless English class or another and I was the only one who cries. Openly and frequently as the words poured from the old phonograph. At least I made friends that day with that prof and became a lifelong devote to Eliiot. I try to pass this on but it doesn't resonate. We are on lost times. We're just lost.
My high school English teacher played this and I remember Eliot's vioce as if it was yesterday - that deadpan delivery...in an acquired pronunciation belying his mid-western roots.
@@skulleton I'm glad you wrote this. Every generation's home to those who lament... and those who pass along hope. Thank you for being among the latter.
So many strong lines in The Wasteland. Part two used to go over my head when I first read it almost twenty years ago, but the latter half makes much more sense when you realize it’s a scene at a pub and the woman has a strained marriage. A little subtle. There are so many suggestive layers throughout the whole piece. The line near the very end, “Hieronimo is mad again”, is the title of a play that was groundbreaking for its time. It’s clear Eliot knew where he was in history and how The Wasteland would be received. I’ve never found anything in criticism where they really pick that line apart. It’s a revenge tragedy. “Avenge this”, maybe he feels.
Holy shit! I grew up with my grandparents, and my grandma painted. She had a painting of Mark Twain she did, which was very ominous. It hung right next to another painting she did that always frightened me as a child. I'm 37 and just now stumbled randomly upon the "scary" man in the painting. How beautiful. It wasn't this picture though. He had on a hat and glasses.
When I started a teacher training's college in The Hague. I didn't feel the poem but when at university I loved it and used the title for my own creative writing paper. I like the hollowness of the poem yet so filled with everything.
Greetings from Ireland 🇮🇪 . A Stroke of GENIUS! 👏👏👏🍾🥂💐👏👏👏💐🍾🥂👏 100 years OLD : 15th October 2022 ( onwards ) . ARGUABLY - the MOST ~ Inspired / \ INFLUENCE; on Generations of WRITER'S and POETS = "The Waste Lands" ~ Poem. 🤔🤔 "Read by T. S. Eliot { "HIMSELF" } 🤔🤔 " !
So true. It is a poem for all times. But specially suited for the human condition in the present times. I have never come across a better commentary on the fragmentation of human psyche. Dense and deep.
@@darkpoetik5375 Much of the poem was written in 1918 while Eliot and his wife were recovering from bouts of influenza, the greatest pandemic of the 20th Century.
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 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, 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 arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 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, 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, (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. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “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, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer. Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 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. 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. 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, 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. 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! “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! “You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frère!” II. A Game of Chess 4:55 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 (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; 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 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, In which sad light a carvéd 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 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 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. ‘My nerves are bad tonight. 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 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. ‘Do ‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember ‘Nothing?’ I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. ‘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 ‘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 tomorrow? ‘What shall we ever do?’ The hot water at ten. 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, 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, 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. 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. 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.) The chemist said it would be all right, 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 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. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Ted Hughes takes over reading midway through the first section-a little unexpected, but Hughes is a great reader! Check put his recitation of Yeats' "The Second Coming."
"Come in under the shadow of this red rock, and I will, show you something different...I will show you fear, in a handful of dust..." brilliantly dramatized. Powerful language
@@harikishore2514 the line he skips over about the shadow in the morning striding behind you, or the shadow at evening rising to meet you, he is talking about how one perceives history. He refutes that one can belong to their own history, or write the history of those people to come; to him, these are both illusions, and the true nature of a man's place in history is negligible -- hence showing you "fear in a handful of dust." and I don't want to be pedantic, filipe, but pedantism isn't a word. You're thinking of pedantry, and it doesn't mean what you seem to think it means. Perhaps you meant pretension? But defend your own unwillingness to read and interpret poetry however you want, you only insult yourself.
In April 1943 a bunch of poets gave readings of their work before the Royal Family. During Eliot's recital of 'The Waste Land' Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret were seen struggling not to giggle.
"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 Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers..... What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 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..."( T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land )
IV. Death by Water Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea 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, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
Ah, so it was Lia Williams - she does a great job. A very effective way of presenting The Wasteland. Using the 3 voices at the end was very moving. Ted Hughes has a wonderfully intense reading voice, while Eliot is so dry. Very effective contrasts.
I forget that TS Eliot was such a voice actor that he could sound like such a higher pitched woman. Truly impressive, and a shame most people know him fornhis poetry and not his fantastic mimicry. Lol.
Mr. Elliot wished to manufacture the great proceed in an attempt to negate the monstrosity of acceptable procession! So here we lay await upon the knock upon the door when the horror of the loss of our freedom is upon us... We re really in the right place and times in which we can succumb to reviving antique methods in the name or exnorating DESpotISM
I need a bit of help from some poetry enthusiasts. It's for an exam. Within the information I found about this poem, it states that the early lines are written in Iambic Meter to give the poem a false sense of stability. Iambic meter refers to multiple pairs of syllables in which the first one is unstressed and the second one is stressed. So far so good. BUT, from the very start of the poem, the supposed Iambic Meter is REVERSED. A-pril, IS-the, CRUE-llest BREE-ding, LY-lacs etc So what's up with that?
IMO it's to further that same instability. If it were just in iambic pentameter in the beginning the casual ear wouldn't feel anything differently than they do any other time they hear that pattern. So Eliot uses trochees to reverse that iambic and make the audience clue in immediately that there's an off atmosphere, it similar enough to iambic pentameter that it passes but it's just barely off
This is a sublime poem. But Elliot is not the best reader for this in my opinion. The other readers are all better. It means nothing but it is interesting.
like Eliot, I heartily recommend Jessie Weston's Ritual to Romance [1920] which as Eliot said is essential to understand The Wasteland [1922], but then why'd he refuse to translate his many lines of french, latin, greek etc at the page bottoms or at the very least in his footnotes to the Wasteland?
Thanks for the recommendation. Its pretty arrogant and elitist not to translate. Nabokov put a lot of French in Lolita - which I just read - with no translations. As mentioned I speak Chinese and a little Chichewa - an African Bantu language. If I did not translste these people would be upset. Why is French different? Because at the time no doubt the intelligensia in Europe and America were meant to know French. Academia has always been littered with elitists. But that doesnt mean they can be dismissed, or even that they are not good peoole. Its just a product of time and environment. I too have my own unpleasant and unsympatheric foibles. The Wasteland is an epic masterpiece. Eliot - like Joyce - packs it full of allusions to history and other literature. Whats wrong with that? Its worth finding out what the references allude to. Elliot certainly had something to say and said it magnificantly.
It was written for the educated. In future footnotes will not suffice, pictures will be be necessary -perhaps Western culture is doomed to hieroglyphs.
@@colinellesmere That's a pretty one-note reading of The Waste Land. Eliot translated plenty of the foreign lines and references in the poem, ie- "unreal city" is an allusion to Baudelaire's "fourmillante cîté"; "I had not thought death had undone so many" a line translated from Inferno. Many Modernist writings defined themselves as multilingual spaces for sonorous effect, to convey an impression of the speaker in the text, or to make a point about their own reading. Writing it off as elitism is simplistic at best.
Surely somebody has already mentioned this (I'm not trolling through comments to confirm it): but that's Ted Hughes reading at c. 1:10, not T.S. Eliot.
it took me a few times to read and re-read it, when I realized he was talking about the shelling, and distant sounds of shelling, and how afterward everything is silent absolutely silent... also the thirst for water I wonder if that's related to gas/chemical weapons?
Arthur y do u like this poem a lot? I never understood this poetry. My father used to bring his grand man violets he said to be nice she died in 1951. I heard a quote "Forgiveness is the scent a violet sheds on the HEEL that has crushed it." What does it mean I don't get it
I like how the poem is presented like a dialogue between three oracles/voices,reminds me of the Gospel reading of Christ's Passion and death during Holy Week...
I'd prefer hearing Eliot's voice all the way through. It's amazing how different it sounds with a different voice reading. Like a different performer of a piece of music. The second voice is far too pretentious and I lost interest immediately after he chimed in.
Victor Grauer I agree. I always prefer to heer the voice of the poet himself. (sadly, only the modern poets) a good example is Ezra Pound, the way he reads his poems.
stayloosebob I agree Eliot does a good job himself. Paul Scofield did an excellent reading of Four Quartets as well. It's on TH-cam but broken up into lots of short videos. My preference is for Scofield's reading of F.Q. over Eliot's own on balance. But that's just my taste
Genius awakens Genius... Light delights in Light... Did you know that T.S.Eliot was awakened to his poetic 'mission' in life by reading Edward FitzGeralds world famous poem The Ruba'iya't of Omar Khayya'm ? Charles Mugleston Omar Khayyam Theatre Company
Amina Temsamani I think it was him being put on trial for TREASON! the only reason he wasn't convicted and most likely EXECUTED was because he was declared INSANE.
+MrSottobanco i dont want to get in to it but surly u must know we live in a backwards world if u check the facts you might find he was a tru patriot..check out the works of eustace mullins and then tell me he was a sell out.. plus he got out the insain assalyum after 12 years..thats just yale and oxford history..check out some organic knwledge and if u still think the same cool..just my thourts.. still love elliot..joyce..but without the edertings of pound they would b third rate..just my view😀
Hi everyone! I am currently studying this text and it is brilliant! I am completely mazed by it! I have a question though, why are some parts ready by a lady? and who is this lady?
This volume includes the full contents of Prufrock and other poems (1917) Poems (1920) and the waste land (1922) Together with an informative introduction and a selection of background material. First and foremost, the protagonist is starring right at you in this tutorial, which to me, indicates a plea for incentive, never mind the during or after, it should cost you and you. Whether, the combustion is costing you highly, he shou shou's you for him alone. Lisa
اقرا كثيرا في الليل واسافر الى الجنوب في الشتاء ....هل تعرف اللاشيئ ، هل تتذكر اللاشيئ ؟ ....على رمال ( ماركيت ) اربط اللاشيئ باللاشيئ .....ارى حشودا تسير في دائرة ....( كورليونس ) المحطم .....(( ايها القارئ ، صديقي ، شبيهي ، ايها المنافق )) ...
I'm trying to listen to this book for a class and I don't get wtf is the point of this book or how this relates to the modernism section of books in our class.
The Waste Land BY T. S. ELIOT FOR EZRA POUND IL MIGLIOR FABBRO 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 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, 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 arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 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, 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, (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. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “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, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer. Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 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. 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. 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, 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. 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! “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! “You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frère!”
Considering Eliot and Erzra Pound corespondence, haiku and Chinese poem are influenced their style which known as 'imagism'. Btw, Shiki and Issa haiku did come to my mind.
No way. I love Haikus. Ezra Pound and Elliot both knew certain Tang poetry styles which are very similar to Haikus and they knew about Haikus. You cant compare the two forms and shouldnt try. Haikus are evocative. The Wasteland is an epic in my view.
![ผัวเถื่อน - ยูริ โตเกียวมิวสิค [ OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO ]](http://i.ytimg.com/vi/P08ORRVDGl8/mqdefault.jpg)
What if we kissed under the red rock, haha jk
...unless? 😳
April really is the cruellest month after all...
yeah bro, it pierces me to the root
So says the jugg jugg bird
My mom had me memorize this as a kid hundreds of times lol 😂
your mom is awesome, dude haha
did she also make you memorize parts of Paradise Lost? what about other poets? which ones?
Lmao how traumatizing
I made myself memorise it word for word before my English lit degree finals...only to find out we were aloud the text in the exam 👀👀
I believe men learnt this poem to woo ladies of the time according to mr eustace mullins who was mentored like ts elliot by ezra pound
she was correct, although it's like memorizing Beethoven's 9th, be grateful you can even recognise it
The inner monologue of my life, since I was 20 ... I'm 59 now ...hurry up please it's time
What do you understand by that line (hurry up please its time). I only ask because I don't know myself
@@jackmellon861 they used to say that in pubs in UK. Near closing time. Also it brings a sense of urgency to that section
aghhhhh… I’m 17 on the eve of my 18th… currently listening to ts eliot and having an existential crisis about leaving childhood… Marie Marie hold on tight
@@nikhilsingh-gt2ws it gets harder
You ok bud
20s kids had the best music
Damn straight excellently excessively High Weimar Czech Splice Minister Melbourne Meiosis NuuTempPsychocis [Western Far EWashington Easterner India 🇮🇳.coco ⧫ Ξ Ξ VVARUM 🇹🇹🇻🇳🇬🇧🇹🇷🇺🇸🇨🇭Nonfiction NonRepublikaja Cantonese Caligula California Supremacy Marquis Marci Marcus Aesthetic Ariel Demotic Francisco Sanskrit 🇸🇿🇸🇾🇬🇧🇺🇸🇻🇳🇨🇭🇸🇷🇵🇷🇵🇬🇲🇽🇲🇰🇱🇷🇮🇲🇮🇲🇮🇲🇮🇲
Elliot Wave-incoming.
The nineteenth century produced alot of great writers . Must have been all that sexual repression .
They even grew up with better songwriters than today's talentless hacks and one-hit wonders.
Add a beat and it reminds me of Aesop Rock.
0:01 - the burial of the dead
4:56 - a game of chess
10:36 - the fire sermon
18:31 - death by water
19:14 - what the thunder said
at 9:17 ... "Hurry up please, it's time" ... as read by King Friday!!!
Why does he omit the title of part 1 but include the titles of every other part
I think it's only because this was released on vinyl and whoever made the digital recording lost the beginning, you can search for the version were Eliot reads alone, he actually says both The Wasteland and Burial of the dead. th-cam.com/video/1rpFBSO65P4/w-d-xo.htmlsi=saN-kS2B84-SLaST @@koshu4
@@antonioaugusto6746 thank you!!
April, you say?
Played by my favorite prof in some useless English class or another and I was the only one who cries. Openly and frequently as the words poured from the old phonograph. At least I made friends that day with that prof and became a lifelong devote to Eliiot. I try to pass this on but it doesn't resonate. We are on lost times. We're just lost.
My high school English teacher played this and I remember Eliot's vioce as if it was yesterday - that deadpan delivery...in an acquired pronunciation belying his mid-western roots.
We're not lost. I think you may need to open a window and take a look around.
@@skulletonyou are right. My 19 year old nephew recommmended Kate Tempest to me. Let them eat chaos is to me a modern masterpiece.
@@skulleton
I'm glad you wrote this. Every generation's home to those who lament... and those who pass along hope. Thank you for being among the latter.
So many strong lines in The Wasteland. Part two used to go over my head when I first read it almost twenty years ago, but the latter half makes much more sense when you realize it’s a scene at a pub and the woman has a strained marriage. A little subtle. There are so many suggestive layers throughout the whole piece. The line near the very end, “Hieronimo is mad again”, is the title of a play that was groundbreaking for its time. It’s clear Eliot knew where he was in history and how The Wasteland would be received. I’ve never found anything in criticism where they really pick that line apart. It’s a revenge tragedy. “Avenge this”, maybe he feels.
The poem was published exactly 100 years ago in the October issue of _The Criterion_ #TheWasteLand100
Holy shit! I grew up with my grandparents, and my grandma painted. She had a painting of Mark Twain she did, which was very ominous. It hung right next to another painting she did that always frightened me as a child. I'm 37 and just now stumbled randomly upon the "scary" man in the painting. How beautiful. It wasn't this picture though. He had on a hat and glasses.
When I started a teacher training's college in The Hague. I didn't feel the poem but when at university I loved it and used the title for my own creative writing paper. I like the hollowness of the poem yet so filled with everything.
It's literally on a different level to any other poem I've ever read.
@@97epicman Relax, read more. And dude I think that's plagiarism?
Willem Parshley What is your favourite poem then?
@@97epicman 'Poem in October' by Dylan Thomas :)
>I read much of the night and go south in the winter
WTF I love T.S. Eliot now
Can't believe a band copyright claimed this. Hate the adverts so much
Really, it is a penetrating experience and feeling to hear the great T.S.Eliot..on his own verses..
I got penetrated while listening to this and it was definitely an experience.
Greetings from Ireland 🇮🇪 .
A Stroke of GENIUS!
👏👏👏🍾🥂💐👏👏👏💐🍾🥂👏
100 years OLD : 15th October 2022 ( onwards ) .
ARGUABLY -
the MOST ~ Inspired / \ INFLUENCE;
on Generations of WRITER'S and POETS =
"The Waste Lands" ~ Poem.
🤔🤔 "Read by T. S. Eliot { "HIMSELF" } 🤔🤔 " !
It's a sin to put ads on this.
I agree. It had a copyright claim against it and then the rights holders added the ads.
"these fragments I have shored against my ruins"
So here we are, 100 years later, finding ourselves in the midst of yet another war and all the destruction, terror and misery which can only follow 😔
Recommend you also his four quartets ( written during the WWII)and Tolstoy's bethink yourselves~
Exactly.
I have been listening to this poem regularly since the pandemic began...now. it makes perfect sense...
So true. It is a poem for all times. But specially suited for the human condition in the present times. I have never come across a better commentary on the fragmentation of human psyche. Dense and deep.
@@darkpoetik5375 Much of the poem was written in 1918 while Eliot and his wife were recovering from bouts of influenza, the greatest pandemic of the 20th Century.
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
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,
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 arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
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,
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,
(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.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“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,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
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.
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.
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,
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.
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!
“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!
“You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frère!”
II. A Game of Chess 4:55
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
(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;
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
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,
In which sad light a carvéd 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
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
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.
‘My nerves are bad tonight. 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
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.
‘Do
‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
‘Nothing?’
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
‘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
‘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 tomorrow?
‘What shall we ever do?’
The hot water at ten.
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,
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,
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.
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.
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.)
The chemist said it would be all right, 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
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.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Ted Hughes takes over reading midway through the first section-a little unexpected, but Hughes is a great reader! Check put his recitation of Yeats' "The Second Coming."
"Come in under the shadow of this red rock, and I will, show you something different...I will show you fear, in a handful of dust..." brilliantly dramatized. Powerful language
Can u explain meaning
@@harikishore2514 the line he skips over about the shadow in the morning striding behind you, or the shadow at evening rising to meet you, he is talking about how one perceives history. He refutes that one can belong to their own history, or write the history of those people to come; to him, these are both illusions, and the true nature of a man's place in history is negligible -- hence showing you "fear in a handful of dust."
and I don't want to be pedantic, filipe, but pedantism isn't a word. You're thinking of pedantry, and it doesn't mean what you seem to think it means. Perhaps you meant pretension? But defend your own unwillingness to read and interpret poetry however you want, you only insult yourself.
@Filipe C. F. Vargens "Pedantry". You are a functional illiterate.
My favorite part
@@tetryst anything is a word if you wordify it
In April 1943 a bunch of poets gave readings of their work before the Royal Family. During Eliot's recital of 'The Waste Land' Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret were seen struggling not to giggle.
Pure evil
@@emersonsmithereens2094
Equally so to judge, 'tis true.
"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
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.....
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
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..."( T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land )
Your lie in april, thus april is the cruelest month
This would probably sound superbitchin' in Klingon.
This might have saved my life. These are the words I needed, and the words I was searching for.
I've read him when in English class. It was just a new world opening.
Me too …in 1976
and i in 2024
IV. Death by Water
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
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,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
The waste land has dominated my life. Whatever shall I ever do? Thinking of the key confirms the prison
Eliot moved past The Waste Land so you should too.
Try Four Quartets
Ah, so it was Lia Williams - she does a great job. A very effective way of presenting The Wasteland. Using the 3 voices at the end was very moving. Ted Hughes has a wonderfully intense reading voice, while Eliot is so dry. Very effective contrasts.
Check out Alec Guiness' reading of this poem.
Ted Hughes is the second voice
tremendous
Unbelievable to have multiple adverts paced throughout this reading. Shame on you!!
Unfortunately a copyright claim was made at which point ads were added by the claimant. 😢
I forget that TS Eliot was such a voice actor that he could sound like such a higher pitched woman. Truly impressive, and a shame most people know him fornhis poetry and not his fantastic mimicry.
Lol.
Son of man
You cannot know or guess
For you know only a heap of broken images
What multiplicity of voices XD Suits the poem.
It seems to me this poem is about one thing---fear.
It's a shared prize , for me , as per the shittiest of months : - January can be a real honker.
Mr. Elliot wished to manufacture the great proceed in an attempt to negate the monstrosity of acceptable procession! So here we lay await upon the knock upon the door when the horror of the loss of our freedom is upon us... We re really in the right place and times in which we can succumb to reviving antique methods in the name or exnorating DESpotISM
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
One of the finest poems of all time.
Richard Lovegrove DONT see how anyone can’t see it
I just wish the foreign languages were translated. Not everyone knows Latin!
This has been an experience ™
The woman's voice is lovely. Anyone know who it is?
Lia Williams
The misleading title of this video...is it meant to be intentionally deceptive? I think so. It is certainly a falsehood--I would call it a lie.
It's Eliot but he do the police in different voices.
Ayn, please find me. I am 74 almost.
I need a bit of help from some poetry enthusiasts. It's for an exam.
Within the information I found about this poem, it states that the early lines are written in Iambic Meter to give the poem a false sense of stability. Iambic meter refers to multiple pairs of syllables in which the first one is unstressed and the second one is stressed. So far so good.
BUT, from the very start of the poem, the supposed Iambic Meter is REVERSED.
A-pril, IS-the, CRUE-llest
BREE-ding, LY-lacs etc
So what's up with that?
IMO it's to further that same instability. If it were just in iambic pentameter in the beginning the casual ear wouldn't feel anything differently than they do any other time they hear that pattern. So Eliot uses trochees to reverse that iambic and make the audience clue in immediately that there's an off atmosphere, it similar enough to iambic pentameter that it passes but it's just barely off
Fear in a handful of dust!
My goodness this is purely amazing
This is a sublime poem. But Elliot is not the best reader for this in my opinion. The other readers are all better. It means nothing but it is interesting.
I recited this poem and won a prize 🤗deep poem !!
So strange and Psychedelic ..puts you in a trance as the words flow by forming images.
Sounds like a Bob Dylan song.
Eliot influes Dylan and influes a great part of progresive rock (like In the court of the crimson king and Selling England by the pound)
May anyone name all the reading voices, most preferably, in a chronological order? Thank you.
like Eliot, I heartily recommend Jessie Weston's Ritual to Romance [1920] which as Eliot said is essential to understand The Wasteland [1922], but then why'd he refuse to translate his many lines of french, latin, greek etc at the page bottoms or at the very least in his footnotes to the Wasteland?
Thanks for the recommendation. Its pretty arrogant and elitist not to translate. Nabokov put a lot of French in Lolita - which I just read - with no translations. As mentioned I speak Chinese and a little Chichewa - an African Bantu language. If I did not translste these people would be upset. Why is French different? Because at the time no doubt the intelligensia in Europe and America were meant to know French. Academia has always been littered with elitists. But that doesnt mean they can be dismissed, or even that they are not good peoole. Its just a product of time and environment. I too have my own unpleasant and unsympatheric foibles. The Wasteland is an epic masterpiece. Eliot - like Joyce - packs it full of allusions to history and other literature. Whats wrong with that? Its worth finding out what the references allude to. Elliot certainly had something to say and said it magnificantly.
It was written for the educated. In future footnotes will not suffice, pictures will be be necessary -perhaps Western culture is doomed to hieroglyphs.
@@colinellesmere That's a pretty one-note reading of The Waste Land. Eliot translated plenty of the foreign lines and references in the poem, ie- "unreal city" is an allusion to Baudelaire's "fourmillante cîté"; "I had not thought death had undone so many" a line translated from Inferno. Many Modernist writings defined themselves as multilingual spaces for sonorous effect, to convey an impression of the speaker in the text, or to make a point about their own reading. Writing it off as elitism is simplistic at best.
i'm doing a project o him and this is the only thing I can quote him on because all his poems are about sex. rip me
this poem is about sex too lmao but its nonconsensual sex so.
what? No they're not.
@@emmaw3697 wrong.
"about sex" - rather like the bible, eh.
Much better when Elliott reads it himself.
Surely somebody has already mentioned this (I'm not trolling through comments to confirm it): but that's Ted Hughes reading at c. 1:10, not T.S. Eliot.
This recording mixes Eliot's voice with other actors.
oh really?
Thought he grew up in Missouri….
TS Elliot is truly a Veteran of Formidable Design in his poetry
like not even trying to be rude... why does he sound like that? ?
Volto aqui de tempos em tempos para ouvir a voz do poeta.
Best poem of the last century along with Tabacaria
and Prufrock.
It would be nice if the captioned text was corrected!
The starting lines from "What the thunder said" by Eliot were pure terror. After the torchlight red on sweaty faces ...
it took me a few times to read and re-read it, when I realized he was talking about the shelling, and distant sounds of shelling, and how afterward everything is silent absolutely silent... also the thirst for water I wonder if that's related to gas/chemical weapons?
Arthur y do u like this poem a lot? I never understood this poetry. My father used to bring his grand man violets he said to be nice she died in 1951. I heard a quote "Forgiveness is the scent a violet sheds on the HEEL that has crushed it." What does it mean I don't get it
April was our covid month full of death and isolation,stay at home,protect the NHS,SAVE LIVES said the hollow men who tested no one in care homes
who is the lady reading?
Angela Shaw who cares?
Choraldiscourse Thanks, I was intrigued.
miliss maram What a stupid thing to say.
10:36 - the fire sermon
قد يحميك الله ورعايتك 💜
في أمان الله ☝ ️
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This is a poem from hell
TS Eliot is awesome! More advanced than physics and manga combined (physics is cool; can't say the same about manga).
I like how the poem is presented like a dialogue between three oracles/voices,reminds me of the Gospel reading of Christ's Passion and death during Holy Week...
‘The Waste Land’ is the milestone in the history of British Poetry.
Jeremy irons
Does someone else start reading after the first couple of minutes?
yes, a woman reads after a few minutes. FRAUD!
Pet shop boys brought me here
he do the police in different voices
>I read much of the night and go south in the winter
WTF I love T.S. Eliot now
Man...this is ficked up...santi santi santi
he wuz' a good one, he wuz'
Ted Hughes,second voice...
he's so metal
I'd prefer hearing Eliot's voice all the way through. It's amazing how different it sounds with a different voice reading. Like a different performer of a piece of music. The second voice is far too pretentious and I lost interest immediately after he chimed in.
Understandable. However, having more than one reader helps one see the change in scenes/characters who tell their stories.
I think having a medley of different readers was a bad idea. Alec Guinness made a very fine recording which yo might enjoy
Victor Grauer I agree. I always prefer to heer the voice of the poet himself. (sadly, only the modern poets) a good example is Ezra Pound, the way he reads his poems.
Bad idea to have different readers. Eliot does a good job himself with his work. See his reading of 4 Quartets on TH-cam.
stayloosebob I agree Eliot does a good job himself. Paul Scofield did an excellent reading of Four Quartets as well. It's on TH-cam but broken up into lots of short videos. My preference is for Scofield's reading of F.Q. over Eliot's own on balance. But that's just my taste
Just amazing...
Genius awakens Genius... Light delights in Light... Did you know that T.S.Eliot was awakened to his poetic 'mission' in life by reading Edward FitzGeralds world famous poem The Ruba'iya't of Omar Khayya'm ? Charles Mugleston Omar Khayyam Theatre Company
Espléndido comentario. Pero , ¿podrías decirme cuál es la fuente de tu comentario?
Mentored by ezra pound who then mentored mr eustace mullins.
r.i.p..ezra pound
+Amina Temsamani The traitor?
+MrSottobanco??? how did u get to that conclusion??? without Pound this guy woul be an unknown..
Amina Temsamani I think it was him being put on trial for TREASON! the only reason he wasn't convicted and most likely EXECUTED was because he was declared INSANE.
+MrSottobanco i dont want to get in to it but surly u must know we live in a backwards world if u check the facts you might find he was a tru patriot..check out the works of eustace mullins and then tell me he was a sell out.. plus he got out the insain assalyum after 12 years..thats just yale and oxford history..check out some organic knwledge and if u still think the same cool..just my thourts.. still love elliot..joyce..but without the edertings of pound they would b third rate..just my view😀
Amina Temsamani He worked for MUSSOLINI and admired HITLER. Pull your head out of your posterior. He was a TRAITOR!
Hi everyone! I am currently studying this text and it is brilliant! I am completely mazed by it! I have a question though, why are some parts ready by a lady? and who is this lady?
This volume includes the full contents of Prufrock and other poems (1917) Poems (1920) and the waste land (1922) Together with an informative introduction and a selection of background material. First and foremost, the protagonist is starring right at you in this tutorial, which to me, indicates a plea for incentive, never mind the during or after, it should cost you and you. Whether, the combustion is costing you highly, he shou shou's you for him alone. Lisa
اقرا كثيرا في الليل واسافر الى الجنوب في الشتاء ....هل تعرف اللاشيئ ، هل تتذكر اللاشيئ ؟ ....على رمال ( ماركيت ) اربط اللاشيئ باللاشيئ .....ارى حشودا تسير في دائرة ....( كورليونس ) المحطم .....(( ايها القارئ ، صديقي ، شبيهي ، ايها المنافق )) ...
Eliot, Pound, and Kipling are S tier.
Is this the whole poem?
I'm trying to listen to this book for a class and I don't get wtf is the point of this book or how this relates to the modernism section of books in our class.
Was that Crowley?
Who is reading Madame Sosostris?
+Lucy Fisher Some bird with the tang of the Thames.
The Waste Land
BY T. S. ELIOT
FOR EZRA POUND
IL MIGLIOR FABBRO
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
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,
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 arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
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,
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,
(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.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“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,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
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.
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.
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,
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.
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!
“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!
“You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frère!”
Great with different voices as well as Eliot's
Kinda sounds like a young Boris Karloff
This isn't being read by ts eliot!
I think a Haiku could convey the same sentiment in a couple of lines !
Considering Eliot and Erzra Pound corespondence, haiku and Chinese poem are influenced their style which known as 'imagism'.
Btw, Shiki and Issa haiku did come to my mind.
go on then
nothing as profound as this masterpiece
No way. I love Haikus. Ezra Pound and Elliot both knew certain Tang poetry styles which are very similar to Haikus and they knew about Haikus. You cant compare the two forms and shouldnt try. Haikus are evocative. The Wasteland is an epic in my view.
can someone explain this to me?