Transelating "The Waste Land" |
|
|
The transelations by stanza 1
| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
| 6 | 7
| 8 | 9 | 10
| 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15
0. T.S Eliot 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. Od' und leer das Meer. Wet are the roots that drink; wet branches glow out, in this stone near a bush. Son of man, you can knot sayings or guesses, for you know only a web of pulsing images. Beware of the sun that beats, and the debt regives snow shelter; the cricket knows relief. And the driest tonal sound of water – Only here does shadow wander this red rock. (come and smell the shadow of this red rock), And I will smell something different from your shadow at morning striding behind your shadow at evening rising to meet your eye. Well, show your fern a hand full of dust. First you wet the wind, then he met you. The Irish kind. “Who are you?” “You gave him hyacinths first a year ago, right?” “I wanted to, but I never did.” --Yet when they came back, ate from the Hyacinth garden, mouths full, hair wet, he could not speak, and his eyes feasted, he was definitely living, and he knew nothing but hunger, his heart light, the silence. Let him eat in peace.
2. Devin Tasker The branches fall under weight as the roots drink everything From this arid stone, surrounded by forest. Adam’s children, You tangle words and guess at their meaning, for you only know The material world. You fear what might be behind the burning sun, And bury yourself in snow – and debt. Crickets know more freedom, And listen to the driest sound of water. Careful, greed runs through this bloody stone. (You can smell it to the core of the rock), But I still smell something worse: Your shadow at sunrise, which is no different, Than that at sunset. You can see both. Life turns to dust in you hands. You tried to drown the wind, And that’s when he met you. Just the luck you needed. He knew of the shadow, And you gave him promises to rid it, didn’t you? But no action came, no results. And when we came back, he too lived in shadows, Mouth full, hair slick, unable to speak. His eyes gorged on everything. He was of your living, knowing nothing But hunger. The light of his heart silenced. Let him eat in solitude.
I don't understand the things that grab, that cinch into piles of cast offs. Nat Turner, slaying cans, dresses, forests of knowledge into pools here, under broken mirrors, another drinking another whip, another endless sound, dirges crumble in this dry place. On deeds here that hide in a valley of monuments where shadows lengthen under solitary stacks of ancient sea creatures, packed under years of pressure into burning slabs, jabbing against the sun and heavy horizon (sun into sun into shade and onto sky they burn), Irises doused in another ether, the hottest part trailing from your heels will reveal how it really walks and the coldest part how it really sings; Dust storms frequent this place and fling red earth against the air. Finding what the wind does hitting you my iris kindling whittled dust "I got the last of the blooms before a God tore them away; "I was branded reaper." -We set sacks, plates, homes of cinched rows of blooms, dulling our embrace, and you a harlot, I pushed to say, but my irises had already faded away, and I knew her I knew she was dead, dust locking the parts of speech. Ships disintegrated on dry waters.
4. Emma Tome Idols underpin the flinging drab, crying onto punctured castings, soft. Naturalized, turning, slating candles for destruction. Burnt, forced foliage. sins too cruel here, undid broken mirrors. a brother sinking, mother hips. Another lessened pounding another lesson directed rumbling, christened with grace. On feet weary and riding the swallowed mountaintops, where shadows sink into daylight, creating ephemery, racking expired algae, compacted and pressurized, fearing puncture – burnt, grabbing for last pieces of horizon (run and run and into the sky we turn.) Irises methylated creatures the lost parts failing to conceal, revealed congealed frozen ears, ringing – Rust forms sequined faces and filth flung against the air sighing, the winding does subsist, too my eyes resist melting, whitened, lost (I fought and fought and fought and fought) wetted, slackened backbones racked and hardened, I knew we had reddened, rust locked our parts in place, hips undistinguished fixtures.
5. Aly Wong Gods in the dripping under-pinings, sobbing onto the broken structures, seeping. unnatrual. The candles are burnt and awaiting destruction, lonesomely in the forest night. Empathy and sins, masking glossy mirrors. A mother dying, her brother's hips poudinging the ground with a misdirected feat of grace, his face and feet shallow the moutaintops whole Shadows sink with delight and then die expired. Compact and pressurized, Burnt. Fleeing and fleeing from the irises, the mythical creatures the lost parts failing to reveal the frozen rust forms with the old familiar faces the sighing and winding lose the battles and the whiteness Such savage attempting backbone hardness of Red. The rust kept them together.
Ghosts in the griping, pining softly into the brought structures, sleeping strangely The candles are learned, waiting demarcation, winsomely in the firelight Empty signs that make clots, mires Amethyst drying, her brought ships poaching the sea with a mighty face of greeting - this foot - place - shadow in tumultuous tops hale Shades think with the light, then expire with sighs. Come back - pressured, learned. Seeing and sleeving, frame the lilies, mystical creations frothy rights dream of ancient unknown visage the flying and writhing Loss, battailles, wickedness Such saving, temptation, one bone soft are read - In the dust we read them together.
7. Rose Booker Dave Chappelle in the grip, pines softly into UPN buying CSW, sleep without the writers, learned, democratic strict, win some in the lost fire Umpteen signs make clothing, hire Amy dying, her hope brought ships broached on land With a lighted face Eat -- his hand lace dow sha ni Tumultuous lops ale Shades ink with blood, en pire x with lies ack cum pressured, Earn education in sleeves dame framing he lies, stical my eat Kyria Frothy rights beams of young known visser fly withering moss, Bastille Much shavings tempt the soft bone reading dust them together
Drunken captains on great peaceful seas, upon bright clouds, slumber withheld. White letters divide suns with savage, longing filled flames. Dump some make-shift cloth here, overboard, depths hopeless with shipwrecked, broad islands withheld by lounging Earls, whose handsome faces, down, shown now. Tremendous loping alps shake into blood, like ink in pens crossed; within liars, axes come sharpened. Even educated on slick domains framed heatedly, lying, cynical, mind eating crystal delves the stoical ailments of ill-fortune. From writing becomes unknown visions; flutter, wings, moss, begin. Mulch shaves time from silken branches, readying, the dust template.
Sober fish drift on oceans wide and bright, never closing their eyes. Black numbers multiply moons with peaceful, longing filled digits. Perfect this painting here, overdone, and yet hopeful with narrow lines withheld by a painter's handsome strokes brushes, up, sideways. Puny loping apes dot the border, like ink in brushes crossed; within the air, arrows fly taut. Although educated on fire and heat, lying, horrific, controlling diamonds separate the torments of the future. From writing comes unknown visions; flutter, wings, breath, stop. Mold steals time from silken arms, solidifying; the dust template.
10. Andy Iser Boring fish floating in oceans wide and bright multiply in the blackness of the moonlight, the son of man as an overdone painting turned in late, who is hopeful that the nervous lines of a true painter are seen in the right light, who knows apes evolve both ways, just depends on the way ink’s crossed, the first time around hiding within the shadow of a red rock, educating by fire and heat, in day and night, the torments of the future are known not, no blood diamonds, liars, horrifying atrocities, just writing and vision, fluttering wings, whistling branches, things solidifying from dust. 11. Sandra Khalifa Soaring, swish, floating in potions, writhing fights divide the white moon's fright. The sun of man as an overtone faint and, burned in fate. Who helps the fool - the nerve; he dines by blue paint, or green in the red light. Whose nose gapes, revolves two ways, in the deep end of the winter, The worst time for biding, while the shallow bed rocks. Edge of the gate, by wires and feet, in black and white, the remnants of the future are in knots - noble blood, diamonds, friars, war-defying black cities, fighting precision, stuttering slings, wistful mansions, wings soggy like wine from rust. |
|
|
|
|
DHTML Menu By Milonic JavaScript |
© English 43b Class of Spring 2008 |