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 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.
1. Andy Iser With phlegm in the back of his throat he sends fourteen death wishes via his Blackberry. While he walks along the city streets with headphones blacking-out his ears, with caffeine pulsating through his skin, he doesn’t notice the crane, 22 stories tall, falling above his head. No matter, executive or plumber, lawyer or accountant, he walked East 51st a million times, the wheel turned, the wind blew, it could have been you.
Withheld in the rack of history note heathens four teens deal dishes via Hezbollah weary. Vile he talks along dusty feats with red stones backing stout scissors, while calf weans pulse gaping to fizz sin, he doesn't note ice so vain, Twin tea two store ease fall, hauling a bone of lead. No matter, exempt of plums her, law yours for account ants, she talked beast filthy one a mill of rhymes, the heel churned, the bend knew, it should have seen you.
Held in the note in the history rack, he thins fourteen delicious meatballs weary. Will he talk? Long dust defeats red stones. Baking stout schnitzels, while half leaning. Pulse gaping; fizzing in, as noted, ice. Sovereignty wins; Two teabags tear, fall easily. Hauling a bag of flour, never mind. Exempt of her plums, her rosy cheeks, her fingers always yours to count. She stalked beastly; one millimeter of rhymes- The heel turned (the bend knew). It could have been new.
4. Devin Tasker So much is held in history. Racks of knowledge. Like how delicious thin mints are. And to be weary of too many. He reads it all, but will he speak of it? Dust gathers. Most tomes sit untouched. Baking trout is dust free though. Pulse racing, fizzing with the knowledge that hasn’t been learned. A few cups of tea to remain awake in this library. So that some food can be stacked atop the racks. Brainless work – bypass the mind. She carries plum. He knows her face, her fingerprints. Always studying that. She swayed rhythmically – a beast stalking the stalker. He lost all focus; nothing new. It could have been you.
Intravenous (Jousting Twins) The Old must leave. Their dead skin, their surviving hairs, gather. Wavering bodies barely able to sweat, the taste is timeless. Knowing nothing anymore, dry tongues cannot spit…salt encrusts. Will they loosen their parched grip on fading papers? They hold pots and saucepans with swollen knuckles at the ends of shaking wrists boil meat into soup into water into steam. Herbs soaking soaking soak into limp fronds from a deforest eyes close lids hide on shelves too high Old bones move, sinewless- juices long evaporated A woman bulges…copies and limbs unfold inside of her She ignores the dusty fingers Her bulge expands- lint gathers in navels Everything weened on the other side of skin…pushing and now you.
6. Emma Tome Bold leaves reddened, surviving, faltering dead, Shaving softly, bare, stable and wetted: a hastened deep sea swell. no -ing. any more rungs on this ladder will split the coast in half. Willing, loosend, parchment stripped of meaning, emboldened trepanned and swollen with seawater at the ends broiled meat grouper losing water losing streams sure something seems defrosted, blinking. lidded hides reshelved and nigh - cold, alone, shoved and peerless. solemn and saturated - awls shawl and cover bulges, blossoming and bleeding and stays the course, the rust - it lingers and cells divide, dust gathers in the crevices singing 'we need' softy, softly, pushing pushed and still tall and small, escaping.
7. Aly Wong Death by another Silky leaves grey, floating to their graves, Singing so freely, they bear the weight of the deep sea swells. Knowing the coasts by heart, the hills by name they loose their minds to the air and strip their slates, once saturated with seawater Boiled eggs turning white and solid ensuring the destruction of the embryo inside. Defrost the night and blink once to whet the lids twice to warm the retina. As clothes to cover the bulges, let your eyes blossom and bleed. Let the red come down and redden as dust. Let the crevices scream and shriek in the night, peaceful protestation of a fate, inescapable.
Deathly others Silk blots bleed gray, floating, engraven, Sinking so fleetly, they bear to wake, the deep sea tells. Know thy heart by rote - thy hills by name They lose minds in air, tripping over slates once woken in water. Bold dregs tuning night and stolid Ensuring defamation of embers in light. Lead on to sight and drink Once to whet your lives Once to warm your souls. As clothed to cover, belatedly, let ice Blossom in greed. Let the dead Sing down and redden in lust. Let the devices of screams speak through night, Please proclaim a nation of late Delusional.
9. Rose Booker Dung beetles Smelly brown bugs breaking, rolling, enriched bull shit, Stinking so freely, they bear the weight of new generations, Knowing that Swift made a mockery out of what they thrive in, They lose nothing to sensual sensations, tripping over Old grass covered dung, cows making pie solid in the noon time sun Ensuring fame in a slide by a former vice president Leading into an era of CH4 factories Where slaughter houses once stood One litter to warm the steak. As Humble pride, let the Hybrids Soar down redden highways, souring a lust for muscle. Let the Ipods scream stolen songs throughout the night, Proclaiming a nation intellectual and aesthetic thieves Hypocrisy.
10. Jessi Redfield Dig this now: Cool cats borrowing a bong, breathing, retching, intoxicated. The stick enough to weigh down deprived lungs. Knowledge apparently doesn’t come swiftly, the mockery thriving, They lose only brain cells and sensations they can trip over. Odor’d grass, counted as dung, cannot simply disappear into nothing. Insurance doesn’t cover this, even if it’s the VPs favorite pastime. Lead used to kill them slowly, manufacturing Slaughter in the silent way, standing In for other causes of death. Humble yourself, but keep pride in the Hybrid that is you. Simmer down. Red asphalt savors for the lust of musclecars. Let me out, I scream, plead, refuse that I stole the night Prelude to the actual conversation of idea thieves. Hallow.
11. Jennifer Chin Hot dog stands feeding those toxic people, the bun light enough to fly above a feather. Apparently something went wrong, the birds softly mock the breadcrumbs, they lose only hunger and gain heat. Odors of dung disappear slowly. This space will not contain us, even if it's only the dog's pastime. Songs used to kill them slowly, whispering surrender in the most sinister way, secretly contrived for other causes of happiness. Patience requires home and heart to be in. Stop yourself, but only stand with pride. Stand up. Red roads save the lust of minivans. Pull me in, I whisper, remember that you stole the moon that night the aftermath of an arbitrary conversation over leaves. Hollow. |
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© English 43b Class of Spring 2008 |