A poem / Un poema

Num. 3

La formula del engaño

Two poems

CHANGING
And then there are all
those walls and borders
and false frontiers
and lines of demarcation
renting across bellies of nations
like a vein of heart torn open
and barbed wired through
the soul of families
strung up by enemies
and sore losers.
–Lasana M. Sekou

CAMBIANDO
Y además están todos
esos muros y fronteras
y falsos límites
y líneas de demarcación
que desgarran vientres de naciones
como una vena cardiaca abierta
y alambre de púas que amarra
el alma de las familias
tendido por los enemigos
y los malos perdedores.
–Lasana M. Sekou

––––

NEW WORLD ORDER
Those
forcing the world
in their image,
making it
so palefully dread for human beings
now find it so
dark and dangerous.
–Lasana M. Sekou

NUEVO ORDEN MUNDIAL
Aquellos que
constriñeron al mundo
a su imagen,
haciéndolo
tan pálidamente pavoroso para seres humanos coloridos
ahora lo encuentra tan
oscuro y peligroso.
–Lasana M. Sekou

*All the poems are directly from Pelican Heart: And Anthology of Poems by Lasana M. Sekou and in spanish: Corazón De Pelícano: Antología Poética de Lasana M. Sekou Emilio Jorge Rodríguez, editor.

Quimbé: Poetics of Sound

1
It was pain
in this labor among saline blades
cutting into our blood
to reap pyramids of salt

3
Jouvert machines of sound
pounding a serenade of thunder
pass my sleeping window,
my heart trembles awake.

4
A balm of aloe
for endangered hearts,
a tear of pain
is a pillow of salt tending our wound of longing.

5
The face of dirty hands
smiles warmly
burns hidden candles to part lover,
conquers weakness first.

6
Heart stone
and i chisel of iron
strike no more sparks of fire,
silence now is the ball-chain vengeance of pain.
–Lasana M. Sekou

––––––––

1
Era dolor
en esta faena entre cuchillas salinas
que cortaban nuestra sangre
para cosechar pirámides de sal

3
Máquinas de sonido jouvert
machacando una serenata de truenos
pasan por mi ventana dormida,
mi corazón tiembla despierto.

4
Un bálsamo de aloe
para corazones en peligro,
una lágrima de dolor
es una almohada de sal que cuida nuestra herida de añoranza.

5
El rostro de manos sucias
sonríe con calidez
enciende velas ocultas para separar amantes,
conquista primero la debilidad.

6
Corazón de piedra
y yo cincel de hierro
ya no hace saltar chispas de fuego,
ahora el silencio es la venganza que encadena el dolor.
–Lasana M. Sekou

*All the poems are directly from Pelican Heart: And Anthology of Poems by Lasana M. Sekou and in spanish: Corazón De Pelícano: Antología Poética de Lasana M. Sekou Emilio Jorge Rodríguez, editor.

Taking Form

TAKING FORM

Beware our disguise
As a generation lost
Wearing the clothes
Of our parents' youth
Mothball fashions
As if preserving past actions
We the generation
Sporting fatigue
From the last war
Beware our disguise
Pretentious orphans
Demanding love
Behind George Washington smiles
We the generation
Hiding our behind in designer jeans
Flattening our African form
In cheaply European conforms
We the generation
The enemy calls "trapped at last
Thank my God allwhitey
I have trapped them at last"
We the generation
Battered from birth
With abject views
Of terrorfull visions
We the generation
Walking alone
With v.d. attitudes
What I mean is
If you didn't get it on your own
How can you cure it on your own/
BEWARE OUR DISGUISE
We the generation
Most unfriendly
Wayward hustlers
Looking dreamless
Like we sleeping
Planning undercover
BEWARE OUR DISGUISE
For we will not fight
Till we see the white of their eyes!
And I saw you in Grenada
In the streets of Soweto
In Brixton
In Miami
Throwing rocks at the keepers of babylon
Preliminary bouts with unholy louts
We the generation
Witnesses to effect their final days
Hanging around the bastions of the beast
From South Africa to South Bronx
I tell yo' what
We and them are going to work this out
BEWARE OUR DISGUISE
For we will not fight
Till we see the white of their eyes
Now "I tell yo'.."
There is no other way to Victory
But as One Might
So let the planets line
On the right and on the wrong
And in the coming time
Shall the people be armed
And this enemy be made to kneel.
–Lasana M. Sekou

TOMANDO FORMA

Cuídense de nuestro disfraz
De generación perdida
Vestidos con las ropas
De juventud de nuestros padres
Modas de naftalina
Como conservando acciones pasadas
Nosotros la generación
En uniforme de faena
De la pasada guerra
Cuídense de nuestro disfraz
Huérfanos pretenciosos
Que demandan amor
Detrás de sonrisas de George WashinGton
Nosotros la generación
Que esconde las nalgas en jeans de diseño exclusivo
Y aplasta su forma africana
En baratas imitaciones europeas
Nosotros la generación
A la que el enemigo considera "atrapada al fin
Gracias mi Dios todo blanco
Los he atrapado al fin"
Nosotros la generación
Apaleada desde la cuna
Con ideas abyectas
De visiones terroríficas
Nosotros la generación
Que camina sola
Con actitudes de enfermedades venéreas
Lo que quiero decir es
Si no te contagiaste por tu cuenta
Cómo vas a curarte por tu cuenta/
CUIDENSE DE NESTRO DISFRAZ
Nosotros la generación
Más inamistosa
Putos caprichosos
Carentes de sueños
Como si durmiéramos
Planeando en secreto
CUIDENSE DE NUESTRO DISFRAZ
¡Porque no lucharemos
Hasta vernos frente a frente!
Y te vi en Granada
En las calles de Soweto
En Brixton
En Miami
Lanzando piedras a los guardianes de babilonia
Choques preliminares con infames patanes
Nosotros la generación
Testigo de sus dias finales
Confabulada contra los bastiones de la bestia
De Sudáfrica al sur del Bronx
Pa' que lo sepas
Nosotros y ellos lo vamo' a resolvé
CUIDENSE DE NUESTRO DISFRAZ
Porque no lucharemos
Hasta vernos frente a frente
Ahora "Pa' que sepa'..."
No hay más camino a la Victoria
Sino el que Uno Pueda
Así que dejen alinease a los planetas
Para el bien o para el mal
¡Y en tiempos venideros
Que la gente esté armada
Y obligue a arrodillarse al enemigo!
–Lasana M. Sekou

*All the poems are directly from Pelican Heart: And Anthology of Poems by Lasana M. Sekou and in spanish: Corazón De Pelícano: Antología Poética de Lasana M. Sekou Emilio Jorge Rodríguez, editor.

Images in The Yard

THEHASBEENLICKTUALS
Bring out your dead
Let them fight for your life
When you're so secure
In your fear and fatigue
Too clean
In your tie(s)
And jerky curl wigs
Too intelligent
In their miseducation
To face the monster moloch on the mountain top
Where you leave your heros bleeding to death/
About-you're not getting in the cold for a damn soul.
But washing your hands in their naked blood
Affirming on their bones
Pursuing grey rainbows
Making friends with every one but your Self
Yes, I'm going to disturb you
For calling earth images abstract
You who would recall Malcolm
For no reason at all
Nor saw Rodney's blood
Or heard Paul Roberson exiled to death
Or that Mandela is alive
And not well in South Africa's dungeons–
And all the communities need building change
Bring out your dead
See what you have
To need/to fight for
People are watching you
Mimicking their pale styles
Laughing at you/ Punking out on yourself
Aspiring to the wonderless world of the boobwobsie
Calling out your name
Shallow queens
Pretty petty kings
Pretenders to the throne
Seeking reverence from each other/ and
Giving nothing in return-
She/ frustrated/
Absorbing her eggs:
"men ain't shit."
He/ masturbating before the enemy/
Busting his nuts on vain values:
"woman is a bitch."
Yes, I'm going to disturb you
Telling you,
It looks bad from here–
It looks bad.
–Lasana M. Sekou

LOSQUESECREENLECTUALES

Saquen a sus muertos 

Déjenlos luchar por su vida

Ustedes tan seguros

En su temor y fatiga

Demasiado limpios

Atados con corbatas

Y pelucas de pelo alisado

Demasiado inteligentes 

En su mala educación

Para enfrentar al monstruoso moloch de la cima del monte

Donde dejan a sus héroes desangrarse hasta morir/

Pero no pasan frío por una jodida alma

Sino que se lavan las manos en su sangre desnuda

Jurando por sus huesos

Persiguiendo grises arco iris

Haciendo amistad con todos menos consigo

Sí, voy a perturbarlos

Por llamar abstractas a las imagines terrestres

Ustedes, que recuerdan a Malcolm

Sin razón alguna

No vieron la sangre de Rodney

Ni supieron que Paul Roberson fue exiliado hasta su muerte

O que Mandela vive

Y no bien en calabozos de Sudafrica–

Y todas las comunidades necesitan cambiar

Saquen a sus muertos

Vean lo que tienen

Lo que necesitan/ por lo que deben luchar

La gente los observa

Imita sus pálidos estilos

Se burla de ustedes/ aletargados

Aspirando al desmaravillado mundo de la burguesia

Gritan sus nombres

Reinas banales

Reyecillos lindos

Pretendiendo al trono

Que procuran reverencias unos de otros/

Sin dar nada a cambio

Ella/ frustrada/ 

Abortando sus óvulos;

"los hombres no son ni siquiera mierda"

Él/ masturbándose ante en enemigo/

Reventándose los huevos en valores vanos:

"la mujer es una puta."

Sí, voy a perturbarlos 

Diciéndoles,

Se ve mal desde aquí–

Se ve mal.

–Lasana M. Sekou

*All the poems are directly from Pelican Heart: And Anthology of Poems by Lasana M. Sekou and in spanish: Corazón De Pelícano: Antología Poética de Lasana M. Sekou Emilio Jorge Rodríguez, editor.

For The Mighty Gods

CORNER FOLKS
Stagnated badmen
On desecrated highs
With their vain females– cursing the latest talk,
Riding their superficial gods to eventual doom
They pass me, and with peaceful scorn we greet.
Contemplating their next move–
I see them trying their outermost to forget their
innermost
Flaunting their implants of self-destruct
They march the line of impulsive schizophrenia
From this to that
Raste today– Ansura tomorrow
From Islam – to – aesthetic
Tonight you sleep by the grace of a Christian Virgin–
Tomorrow you walk the tune of cosmic origin
And when you are not drunk–
And when you are not drunk
You cannot talk of Truth
But when you are high
You gesture with such divine assurance
That your children's children
Shall inherit the Earth...
And your laughter is so bold
and your laughter is so bold!
And we pass again
And we greet... Peace Brother, "Peace."
Peace Woman, "Peace."
–Lasana M. Sekou

TIPOS DE ESQUINA
Hombres malos anquilosados

En alturas profanadas

Con sus hembras vanidosas... maldiciendo el último

comentario

Llevando a sus dioses superficiales a la condena final

Pasan junto a mí y nos saludamos con pacífico desdén.

Contemplando su próxima jugada–

Veo que hasta donde pueden tratan de olvidar lo que

adentro tienen

Ostentando sus implantes de autodestrucción

Marchan por la línea de esquizofrenia impulsiva

De aquí para allá

Rasta hoy – Ansura mañana

Del Islam – a – la estética

Hoy duermes por la gracia de una Virgen cristiana–

Mañana andas al compás del origen cósmico. 

Y cuando no estás borracho

Y cuando no estás borracho

No puedes hablar de la Verdad

Pero cuando estás en nota 

Indicas con tanta seguridad divina

Que los hijos de tus hijos

Heredarán la Tierra...

Y tu risa es tan osada

¡Y tu risa es tan osada!

Y volvemos a pasar

y nos saludamos... Paz, Hermano, "Paz"

Paz, Mujer, "Paz".

–Lasana M. Sekou

*All the poems are directly from Pelican Heart: And Anthology of Poems by Lasana M. Sekou and in spanish: Corazón De Pelícano: Antología Poética de Lasana M. Sekou Emilio Jorge Rodríguez, editor.

Lasana M. Sekou: Pelican Heart

Life always has a way of interfering. The end of last month I spent it moving, and so far, this month of august, I've spent it getting settled into my new place. Being that the case, I haven't been keeping this literary endeavor current. Well, that will be no more. Now that I've dipped into caribbean literary soil with last month's Rey Andújar and his short stories, for august I bring the poetry of the Martinique Lasana M. Sekou. I stumbled upon his anthology of poems two days ago, a dual language anthology. And I decided, since I love poetry so much, that instead of essays for this month I will bring Sekou's poetry. Being that it is a dual-language compilation and that it is caribbean literature, I will be putting up both the english and the spanish translations.

AFTER/noon/SUN

This is how I sit
On the eve of day
Staring at the sun
Trying to let a ray
Penetrate my blue black soul
I close my eyes
Bow my head
And ask myself
Questions darker that night
Looking at the sun again
An afternoon breeze slides across my face
While the west is pulling the sun home
I hop on the wind's tail
In pursuit to snatch it from the evening sky
To string it back to high-noon
But night calls me over
Hey hunter... it whispers
Go sit at the eastern horizon
Wait there with your eyes closed
Wait...until morning summons daylight.
–Lasana M. Sekou

SOL/tras/LA TARDE

Así me siento
Al caer el día
Mirando al sol
Tratando de dejar que un rayo
Penetre mi alma negro azul
Cierro los ojos
Inclino la cabeza
Y me formulo
Preguntas más oscuras que la noche
Mirando de nuevo el sol
Una brisa vespertina se desliza por mi rostro
Mientras occidente jala el sol a casa
Salto sobre el rabo del viento
Tratando de arrancarlo del crepúsculo celeste
Y devolverlo al mediodía
Pero la noche me llama
Oye, cazador... susurra
Ve y siéntate en el horizonte del oriente
Espera allí con los ojos cerrados
Espera... hasta que la mañana llame la luz del día.
–Lasana M. Sekou

I didn't dismiss the calendar I created so lightly, I thought long and hard, and I also searched for essays in spanish, but given the circumstances and the fact that this book landed in my hands unexpectedly, I though, "What better material than another caribbean writer and poetry?"

*All the poems are directly from Pelican Heart: And Anthology of Poems by Lasana M. Sekou and in spanish: Corazón De Pelícano: Antología Poética de Lasana M. Sekou Emilio Jorge Rodríguez, editor.

The last Haiku

Well, it's official, summer is here. The days are blazing and the nights are sweltering, and I find myself in front of a fan or any A/C unit in proximity. To finish off the month of May, which happened to whiz by me, I will end with a few last Haiku to carry us all into June. The first one paints an image relating to the night, I begin with this one hoping that the blanket of the night sky will cool the heat of the day.

A lovely thing to see:
Utsukushi ya
through the paper window's holes
shoji no ana no
the Galaxy.
ama-no-gawa.

Source:
http://nevsepic.com.ua/art-i-risovanaya-grafika/
page,2,1143-raboty-ot-hirosige-utagavy-171-rabot.html

A morning-glory  vine
Asagao no
in its full bloom, has thatched
Hana de fuitaru
this hut of mine. 
iori kana.


–Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828)


And I end with a farewell to spring.


"Marvelous!" I say,
Mezurashi to
and with each single thing I see
miru mono goto ni
springtime fades away. 
haru ya yuku.


–Takai Kito (1741-1789)

Source:
http://nevsepic.com.ua/art-i-risovanaya-grafika/
page,2,1143-raboty-ot-hirosige-utagavy-171-rabot.html

*From the Anthology of Japanese Literature compiled and edited by Donald Keene.

Haiku: Tokugawa Period

Ooooh how the sun is shinning in these parts. It is oh so very hot. The rains that were pouring these passed weeks are nowhere to be seen. It's about that time to dust away the bathing suit, throw it on, and head to the beach for some cooling down. With that, here is a Haiku to versify the day.


Come to me– with each other
Ware to kite
let's play– little sparrow
asobe yo oya no
without any mother.
nai suzume.

–Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828)
Trans. by Harold G. Henderson

Source:
http://nevsepic.com.ua/art-i-risovanaya-grafika/page,2,1143-raboty-ot-hirosige-utagavy-171-rabot.html

Now I hope the rest of you out there have a sunny and lovely day wherever you are.

Source:
http://nevsepic.com.ua/art-i-risovanaya-grafika/page,2,1143-raboty-ot-hirosige-utagavy-171-rabot.html

*From the Anthology of Japanese Literature compiled and edited by Donald Keene.

Haiku: Tokugawa Period

The summer is speeding up in its arrival and I'm finding myself with more free time than usual. To get back on track in sharing more Haiku, here are two more.

If the times were good,                                      Yo ga yokuba
I'd say, "Sit down!–one more of you!"              mo hitotsu tomare
flies around my food.                                         meshi no hae.


I found this one oddly cute, even though it's about flies circling in on the food that is being eaten.
This last one is also about insects, but it is less unappealing.


In its eye                                                           Toyama no  
the far-off hills are mirrored–                            medama ni utsuru
dragonfly!                                                         tombo kana.

Scrolls of The Tale of Genji, Bamboo River. Source:
http://dailylife-tokyo.blogspot.com/2009_11_01_archive.html

*From the Anthology of Japanese Literature compiled and edited by Donald Keene.

Haiku: Continued...

It's midnight now where I live, and here are a few more Haiku for those that enjoy fleeting and beautiful imagery.

Edo Period Art. 

Blossoms on the pear;                     Nashi no hana
and a woman in the moonlight        tsuki ni fumi yomu
reads a letter there...                        onna ari...
–Yosa Buson (1716-1784)








A one-foot waterfall                         Isshaku no
it too makes noises, and at night       taki mo oto shite
the coolness of it all!                         yusuzumi.





*From the Anthology of Japanese Literature compiled and edited by Donald Keene.

Edo kinko hakkei. Tamagawa shugetsu. By Utagawa Hiroshige. Edo:
Sanoya Kihei, c.1833. 1 print: woodcut, col.
Source: http://www.ndl.go.jp/nichiran/e/data/L/K/K34-001l.html

The Haiku: Matsuo Basho

Spring is slowly giving way to summer and before that happens I would like to capture the essence of spring, present and passing, while welcoming the warm summer months. This being said, I am going to dedicate the month of May to the Haiku. Definition from The New Oxford American Dictionary:

 haiku |ˈhīˌkoō; ˌhīˈkoō|

noun ( pl. same or -kus )a Japanese poem of seventeen syllables, in three lines of five, seven, and five, traditionally evoking images of the natural world.• an English imitation of this.ORIGIN Japanese, contracted form of haikai no ku ‘light verse.’

Matsuo Basho, Autumn. Source:
http://montanawriter.com/2010/12/31/poetry-review-matsuo-basho/

I find the Haiku beautifully expresses nature in a concise and vivid form. Every couple of days during this month I will share a Haiku ranging from Matsuo Basho and his school to the late Tokugawa period or Edo period (1603-1867) in Japanese history. All of the works featured will be taken from my Anthology of Japanese Literature compiled and edited by Donald Keene. Since I have both the english translation and the romanized japanese words, I will be included both, the english and the japanese. The first is going to be by Matsuo Basho, one of the most famous and iconic Haiku masters. 



A village where they ring                     Kane tsukanuno bells! –oh, what do they do             mura wa nani wo kaat dusk in spring?                                haru no kure.–How very cool it feels:                        Hiya-hiya to taking a noonday nap, to have           kabe wo fumaetethis wall against my heels.                 hirune kana.

Matsuo Basho. Source:
http://petrumihaisacu.blogspot.com/2012/03/basho-haiku-o-primavara-nevazuta-de.html

The Fire Sermon in The Waste Land

Here is the third part of Eliot's The Waste Land, The Fire Sermon (taken from a sermon preached by Buddha against the things of this world, all figured as consuming fires).

III. The Fire Sermon
The river's tent is broken: the last finger of leaf / Clutch and sink into te wet bank. The wind / Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. / 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; / Departed, have left no addresses. / By the water 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 of long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear / The rattle of te 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 / 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. / But at my back from time to time I hear / The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring / Sweeny to Mrs' Porter in the spring. / O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter / And on her daughter / 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 / Tereu / Unreal City / Under the brown fog of a winter noon / Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant / Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants / C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French / To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel / Followed by a weeken at the Metropole. / At the violet hour, when the eyes and back / 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
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, / The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins. / Out of the window perolously spread / Her drying combinations touched by the sunn's last rays, / 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. / He, the young man carbuncular, arrives. / A small hourse agen'ts clerk, with one bold stare, / One of the low no whom assurance sits / As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. / The time is now propitious, as he guesses, / The meal is ended, she is bored and tires,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses / Which still are unreproved, if undesired. / Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; / Exploring hands encounter no defense; / 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 / And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows on 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; / 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,
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, / The pleasant whining of a mandoline / And a clatter and a chatter from within / Where the fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls / Of Magnus Martyr hold / Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. / The river sweats / Oil and tar / The barges drift / With the turning tide / Red sails / Wide / To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. / The barges wash / Drifting logs / Down Greenwech reach / Past the Isle of Dogs. / Weialala leia / Wallala leialala / Elizabeth and Leicester / Beating ours / The stern was formed  / A gilded shell / Red and gold / The brisk swell / Rippled both shores / Southwest wind / Carried down stream / The peal of bells / White towers / Weialala leia / 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." / "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. / I can connect  / Nothing with nothing. / the broken fingernails of dirty hands. / My people humble people who expect / Nothing." / la la / To Carthage then I came / Burning Burning Burning Burning / O Lord Thou pluckest me out / O Lord Thou pluckest  / Burning

/ = lines breaks in the poem, the same applies for the capitalized words except the names of places. 

A Game of Chess, The Waste Land

This is part two/2/II of Eliot's The Waste Land.
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 / (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 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 / 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 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 / 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 eyers and waiting for a knock upon the door. / When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said- / I didn't mince my words, I 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 five 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. / Other 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 et 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.

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T.S. Eliot's Waste Land I. The Burial of the Dead

Hello all who pass by here. This is this weeks' video, or rather, the first part of a five part video series, in which I am reading T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land. It is a five part poem and consequently I will be uploading a new part every day this week. I will be adding to the last, fifth part, a video in which I delve into The Waste Land. Here is the first part of the poem to follow along with my reading.

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 [a lake near Munich, Germany] / With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, [a park in Munich] / And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. / Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. [I'm not Russian at all; I come from Lithuania, a true German] / 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 [Fresh blows the wind]
Der Heimat zu [To the homeland] / Mein Irisch Kind, [My Irish child]
Wo weilest du? [Where do you wait?] / "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. [Desolate and empty is the sea]
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 os 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 lectuer!-mon semblable,-mon frère!" [Hypocrite reader!-my likeness,-my brother!]

/= the line breaks in the poem.

Alfred Tennyson's "Ulysses"

It little profits that an idle king,  

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d 

Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when 

Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honour’d of them all; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’ 

Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades 

For ever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! 

As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains: but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

 This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— 

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild 

A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees 

Subdue them to the useful and the good. 

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 

Of common duties, decent not to fail 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 

Meet adoration to my household gods, 

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

  

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 

Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me— 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; 

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; 

Death closes all: but something ere the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.  

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 


Here is a poem for the week. It is Tennyson's Ulysses. In this poem Tennyson takes the medieval hero in Dante's Inferno and Homer's Odysseus from the Odyssey and merges the two to create the speaker in this poem, a mature Ulysses. This is a dramatic monologue and in it we glean a Ulysses that has been in Ithaca for a time now, after returning from the long voyage depicted in the Odyssey. This Ulysses expresses his desires to seek new worlds, the sea beckons, adventure calls and facing all this he feels he cannot rest in his safe and humdrum Ithaca while out in the world there is much to see.


I identify perfectly with this poem and I love it, the words are full of strength and courage, yearning and discoveries. Aside from the general idea the monologue transmits, I also find that this poem proposes unique and interesting ideas. Experience is knowledge that is learned as one moves and travels, learning and seeing new things. Experience is also a vitality that adds energy and drive to one's life. Life isn't what happens as one sits still, in one place, but what one sees and learns as the adventure grows and takes us to new places, sights and people. 


Technically, the poem is divided into three parts, in the first he is speaking to the general audience surrounding him, in the second he is referring to Telemachus his son, to whom he is leaving his whole inheritance and Ithaca itself, and in the third part he is referring to his sailors, those who have ventured and battled with him, arming them with courage for the new adventure that begins and the closing of the poem.


As you, dear reader reads this poem I hope its' words infuse you with inspiration and courage. It is a wonderful poem, and it might help if it is read out loud, with ardor.