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 A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain
1. Devin Tasker A womb drawn from long black strokes, Whispering music while fiddling with each brush. Above dangle bats with baby faces in violent light Whistling concertos, their wings beating the orchestra. They crawl down the blackened canvas, Crawling down castles like stalactites, Trumpeting the second movement The grass signs to the dim moon: Lacrimosa. The grass covers forgotten graves in front of the chapel, The empty chapel, abandoned, left only for nature to engulf it. There is only a single entrance, but even fewer ways to escape. Forgotten dreams can harm no soul. Death called from outside Go go go go go go go go go go go here. Lightning struck. Then a drowning gust, Bringing relief.
A tomb draws veils A bass thumping thumping pushing out eardrums And cranes swoop down their wiry cables snap mid-flight Their beaks too long too narrow to open anymore They bust through windows, canopies slip through sand, pipes they are powerless swans, they write on blackboards swallowing sighs whole but saving the seeds for the criminals. A death chant, a death chant spread through mossy rows echoing from a bare-walled room, where black cranes roost Their wingspans link from window to window to door, they leave no openings Their death chant- silent, escaping puffs of steam from sealed lips, Condensation of the bile from their sleep They scatter as a fire engulfs their empty walls NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO nowhere Arson plucked each feather. A dry wind scattered black ashes They mixed with the damp air, and dropped a coat on all the graves
3. Emma Tome These plumes set sail And aces trumping trumpeting urging shouting fear, drums And planes crews sown up among their wiry frames at night. Streaks to fawn and harrow open our moors They, crusted and widowed rancor, Flipped and handed pipes they borrowed. and power is gone, they are blackened hordes followed high, null bits waiting to feed an inimical rant – a breathy dance spread, grew tossed and slow echoed down each bare tomb, blackened soot. their singing fans from widow to widow, each board and eave awakening, Their phantom violent; scraping tufts from seams of fingertips, reparation all the while for their weeping. They flatter, transpire gulfstream enthalpy tall, Non sequiturs non matters non entity non platters and platters of arms and puckered leather. A wry sender flattened back pages betwixt dead hair, and flopping, floated on the waves.
4. Aly Wong The sailboats are coming Their masts are pointed toward the sun, And men's faces are screaming fear, drums And the crews throw their frames against the wind, against the night. Streaking to open up the doors They, rusted and wet, their hatred Flips and moves the pipes Borrows their power from their reserves, they are black havens Followed by inimical null bits, waiting to Rant--a lagging waltz spreading, Slowing to the tossing wind Sending them one by one to their Sepulchers in the sea. The burning blows from window to Window on shore, each home Awakening to… Violent phantoms, sending sparks From their feet to their fingers, A debt waiting to be paid. The women cry, perspiring salty Wetness, Not following not mattering not not Not dishes of Flesh and puckered organs. A sad Messenger leans back Sighs and flattens down the hair of the dead And sends it away on the waves.
The Grail seekers are coming Their masters harping towards the one - Amen to places, seeming, sheer - comes One who trows again against the wind, against the fight. Speaking to moan against the moors We trusted to forget. Our dated Fortress flips and smooths and wipes; Tomorrow its power will wane into a black heaven Followed by universal narwhals, waiting to Rain, lagging, svelting, stretching, prowling in the mossy sea - Spending them (two by two) as Moses might cast to sleep. The urn - it glows in those windows and more, each one gaping to Violet phantasms - see, it sparks - it wants to be found in fingers in feet: 'Tis adept at being saved. The women might die, for aspiring to seas of Forgetfulness - Knock - running - knock - making - knock - bang - bang down - This is Flesh and fucked up organs, this story. Be glad the messenger wears black When he flies to say flattered tales that would raise the hair of the dead. The Grail meanwhile sails softly among the waves.
6. Rose Booker The Mall stalkers are treading Their wallets vomiting thousands of one's - A man places plastic over furniture, seeing shedding dogs- One can be too careful carrying bags, caring the nutrition. Coos to cries toward the cemented skies We tossed in our weight. Checking expropriation dates Fortifying fibers and sweets and baby wipes; Tomorrow we'll be back wanting something we forgot Funny how something small (pick up eggs) can lead to a truck load, Singing, pulling, lugging, stretching, placing the packets away - Spending too much as usual, the baby can't sleep. Should've churned that butter myself for the price - under the credit card Violet pjs - see, it's smooth - they wanted 10 I found it for 5: Show adaptability to save. Women might live, aspiring for immortality within a 3 pound pooh-dispenser Lock - check - lock - ing - lock - every - shut down - thing To keep out that boogy man full of worms. Glad to have fairy tales When she lies down flattened by tales that would lock the lids down The Mall softly hums the suburb to sleep.
Maverick stems from trembles. Walls’ voices taken away. Many patients put fake smiles, stuck in place on their face. Only carriers brought to camps can bright careful (k)nights. Come, crying tokens, secreted sorrows Will only take willful chagrin off your explanatory death. Force freedom away, since baleful widows Can only take back wishes sometimes, more like never. Find now, how sometimes smells (pickled eggs) can bring in tons of love, Memories of sleeping, praying, loving, screaming, playing in the dark. Spent morning understudying the beautiful creatures swinging. Shoulders turning, backs breaking for peace, lining the credentials Violent perennially – stop, smell – wishing for treaties when I fight for failure. Save awhile for snow. Wild men mean what they say, immorally thriving on drives. Lest – check – check – ing – any – silly drammamine – thriving Be a best kept worship, a given failure, As malevolent sorrows bring such luck.
Mack trucks make roads tremble. The birds' voices have been taken away. Patience is a lost virtue, hidden behind fake smiles and dolled-up faces, only the careful seem bright enough, although, crying, they lose their secrets to greater sunsets. We will explicitly explain your sudden death, force the ambiguity away, come as coveted widows. We can only take back promises so many times, find out these clean smells, bleach over the walls like splattered emotion. I spent this morning as an understudy for the trees singing. We turn shoulders, roll elbows, live our soldiers in a row. Annually violent-waiting for failure and wishing for the smell of bleach. Stop the rain for a minute. Sincere men don't mean what they say, immortality driving their lives. Finally affirm-affirm-ing stop this thriving be the worshiper and a predestined believer only tears will bring you this much luck.
9. Andy Iser My woman tried many rotten treatments. The boys voices have been her comfort. Patience is a lost virtue, hidden be nine fake lives and rolled-up places, only that could seem boring now, she’s dead, gone, the times her body fought it. Be strong, especially you secret death, from the abyss days come new ones. We can only take back people so many times, find out the clean days, bring them keep them close in. I spent this morning as a tree seeping into the ground. My tears falling in a row. Apples very-ripe for eating and washing away the taste of misery with sweet juice. Stop the juice for a moment. Sincere men need what they say, womem driving their lives. Stop this mourning and belief in tears.
10. Sandra Khalifa My woes may buy many rotten sweet mints. The coy voices of wind hear calm spurts. Patients at a loss stir to hidden bees vying for wives and holed-up spaces, lonely, that wood seems boring now. She’s dead, gone, the rhyme disembodies distraught wit. Be wrong, especially you, seeking death, from the bliss of frayed sums draw ones. We can only wake up weeping so many times, find routes, the gleaming haze, lingering deep hymns, closing in. I went into mourning as a free spirit in true grounds. My fear of failing goes. Apples very ripe for beating and squashing away the waste of misery with bleak truce. Pop the brute for a pro gent. Sin seers men, feeds what they say with men, conniving, by lies. Stop this morning and reap in years.
11. Yehonatan Sella My woman buys me rotten fruits. The coy voices of seeds purr. Patience at a loss, hidden bees producing honey in holed-up places. That wood seemed lonely once. She's instead gone to rhyme "disembodied" with "distraught." The young ones seek bliss from the heat of frayed sun. We can only wake them up by weeping many times. Find the route away from the gleaming haze. Fingertips closing around something cold. I climbed up the mountain and emerged a free spirit. My fear of falling became a fear of ripe apples, the beating and squashing of the taste of growth, this bleak juice, drop by drop absorbed by the ground. These men eat what they grow. They count their crops during morning, and in their dreams reap the years. |
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