Transelating "The Waste Land" |
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The transelations by stanza 1 | 2
| 3 | 4 | 5
| 6 | 7 | 8
| 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15
0. T.S Eliot 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 archduke'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.
April is the foolish moth, weeding. Lies make doubts from a bed pan, fixing Men or wands of fire, luring Vandal boots, whispering grain. Win to keep the swarm, hovering a brittle knife with allure. Her prized summer, winning over the lake, With a flower of raisins; we hopped in the lemonade And drank coughs, and walked until sour. Binges are kind Russians, stamina and Lithuanians, fetching Dutch. And fend for children, swaying like the arch-duke, Sly cousins, the book bent on a hedge, It was heightened. He said, Marie, Marie, fold your tights. On hounds we went. In the fountain, where you feel bees. One seed, much light, and gold splinters. Ape reels the foolish moth, weeds lies, lacks doubt from the bed , panics. Men, organs of ire, lure vandal boots, whisper “rain”. Winter keeps us warm, hovers. Earth frets, beads a lit knife with doofers. Serpentine hums careen over, the lake flows with raisins. We hop in the lemonade and drink coughs and walk dead until tomorrow. Kind gestures stem in a Lithuanian sketch. Dutch and Finnish children sway with the arch-duke’s sly cousins. The book means “forest ledge.” It is height and his head merry. Merrily folded tights announce, “weavened.” In the fountains. Where your eels be once. Eat too much light, and gold spleen tears.
3. Devin Tasker Primitives are lured like the foolish moth, Weedy lies, no doubt lacking panic from the bed. Men are organs of ire and contempt, blurred. Their vandal’s boots whisper “tempest”. They are warmest in the winter; suspended. Earth shivers. A light knife does for it. Serpents’ tongues slither over, like a lake, Of dead fruit. We jump like Lenin’s aid, Drink sickness, and walk among the dead of tomorrow. Kind gestures rooted in a sketch of lithium design. The children finish their stay with the arch-duke. Coups are sly sins. The book stated the first at the garden’s edge. His head merrily held high. Warily scolded fights renounce leaving. Bound in the water of the eels. Once too much light is consumed, tears become gold.
A pearl crawls constructing moths, seeding small sacs of heads and hands, mincing what was said and what was done, tearing lulls out with new lives. The time before was softer, soft palms hovering ears thinking the forgotten things that fell, seeding pinches at a time without using water. The next thing came like the seeds that actually grew, without water, like light penetrating scalloped walkways We stopped there in sudden water, and when it ended we emerged, surrounded by cacti, We sank into seats, thought out loud of our whole. Containers gawking in a great black city stammered at our language, at our eating habits. An era in dens, slaying roaches and nukes, mitosis shook the red back into our faces, I sighed. Husky marine, marine, loosen your grip. Endowments of lent didn't work anymore. Mounting trains we felt the air exhale and transpiration lifted us. We ride, slouch in the dark, and rise again with the rain.
5. Emma Tome Unfurled, claws destructing, months fleeting and crawling back the dead bands, flinching. The mentioned were executed, shearing. It dulled our filth, willing new lies. The rhymes and waxen fodder, crossed alms shoving, hearts sinking the rotten rings in wells, fleeting. Cinches at - muted rousing softer now. The best thing rang like weeds that flew, sans fodder, sans illumination, degrading flacid stalks, wayward we fought, shuddered, offered each other — When endings submerged, grounded and black-lit, the rank sheets rotted out, crowded wholes retaining, flocking in back-dated gritty ramblings, our languages and habits. An era ends, straying, poaches, flukes. My toes cold. It shook the credibility back into this race. It's dyed. Fusty ravine, losing, we slip; bowers don't lend their support anymore. Mounted rains, the air exhales, transportation lifted, we are couched in bark and against the grain.
6. Aly Wong Peeled, nails defaming, terror gone Slide back the dead bracken, The dead have gone, silently. it captured our dirty lines, willing the rhymes and leaving the arms beside. Closing hearts in rotting rousing softness Illuminati weeds that degrade wayward down and out we sacrificed for each other when the endings ended, grounded and black the rank sheets with holes retained no moisture Gritty ramblings, of a straying era that lies behind. My knees shaking the man inside. Dead. Steep cliff The bowers are leaning and leaning. Mountain rains exhales and transportation walks away we are couched in the trees and supressing nature
Mummified - gnats of fame, terracotta Slide back the deed, breaking - The deed has gained, slowly It swept capes round dirty lines, willing rhymes, leading arms Closing the heat from routing slick - softness Illuminate the west that degradation weighing downy clout we slaked the thirst from each other when the lendings wended - grinding back the sheets of rain with hail - retinas of tears Gritty dampenings of a staying era that leaves, ahead. Mines shaking demons in mind. Deathly cleave, the bows are kneeling, leaning Mountainous terrain exhumes transposing walking ways we are caught in the tresses of surprised elation
8. Rose Booker Not me without fa, mummified fear clots of Terra Lack sliding needs, b-b-b break - Need ain't as slow - Jet Ly Gently swept round caps limes, eddying mars Eat closing he from outing lick often -minate the East E-genderates de weight out down When lead weaned affections poems - Puritan hack Shutting hail without aim - retinas of ears itchy amplifier of an era straying Eaves up ahead De mons are in de mind Leave Breathlessly Ows are the knee curve Tainous terrain exhaust Transvestite walking - Shakespeare Caught trees elated with surprise
Nod to me while Fa mummifies friends on the Earthly coast; lay on slick needles, breaking back, not always, only sometimes, “Jammed Lions.” Get swooping razor-caped lorikeets, eagle-eyed marsupials, either closed firsts, humanizing on likened offences, mingling to the west. Renegades detested while in town, who lick with a thirst of eager offensive. Towards us, we led affected poets (purely hopeless) shutting Hell with a hammer, retaining Earth inch by inch, amplified with the staining ear. Grooves came down with the demonic, demented, lovers, breathily owing us their courteous needs, tainted terriers of Earth. Translate waking into sunrise caught by the trained evolution of sunset.
10. Jennifer Chin Not to me white mummies rely on the East Coast; Splay their knees, break their backs, Sometimes, only sometimes, “James Lives.” Caught sagging under parakeets, eagles and kangaroos, Either open hands or closed fists, humanizing Mink skins and pioneers. Deserts lay oceans, Which lick the shores with thirst. Away, we lead affected poets (purely hopeful) Opening Pandora’s box with a saw, expelling the ground Like an earthworm, amplifying the wavelengths with a straining ear. Gophers dig down With their sharp, pointed Teeth, breathily Owning up to their needs, Tainting the teal Earth. Copy my walk Caught by the trained evolution of sunsets.
11. Andy Iser White mummies, not me, rely on the East Coast. Breaking their knees and backs, not even noticing winter. If James lives in his memory and desire, only sometimes he lives then. Where did you go parakeets, eagles, kangaroos with open pouches replaced by pioneers with Mink skins eventually closed fists? Deserts were oceans licking its own shore, thirsty for tired, forgotten little fish. Away poets, artists, coffee drinkers, cousins, in Pandora’s Box. Expelling the ground looking for a key you hopeful Wall Street treasure hunters move on. Earthworms, wavelengths, the entire natural world dead to your strained ear. But gophers still dig with their pointed yellow teeth, who breathily owns up to natural needs, who taints the Earth pure, who copies, walks, catches the train from Grand Central Station, who evolves with the sunset. |
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