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 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 carved 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.
1. Emma Tome Her hair, wrapped and thin, refurbished tones low and garbled, shared the last smells, strand taught, loosed divine and with stitched emboldened stupor creeping, floats. (brother bit my thighs, I felt the sting) Troubled games in heaven, branching far above us resurrecting brightened hooves and gables. Flittering fools rose to meet it, abating grace, sore ad infinitum, styled in ivory towers, smoking past corked doors; shirked there, ranging prophetic tunes glued, showered and putrid, bubbled convoluted, wandering rounding, pent glowering, fir – Fur that brushed the window, then descending, infatuated, with song in bundled pages, sung and broken into mock arias, whirring, patterning each coffin peeling. Hug eschewed and a copper barge lean and floral, aimed at sautered bone, in which crowded flights starved off and on, a dove oblique cantered underpaid as throes winded upper sly and senile - The range of a filly by an arduous way, so crudely torched; yet brightening, sealing distant irreconcilable choice, and stirred beside, and the word pulses - juggling thirty ears. Dithers withered clumps of rhyme, were bored up onto walls, starting flames, gleaned, shouting feeding busting each groom disposed. Crooked thefts ruffled my hair, sundries feeling light, rushed up stairs - Read, starting fiery points, rowing inwards, then toward a ravaged till.
2. Aly Wong Quite different, not the worst, Her hands, warped and lined, melodic harmonies high and shrill, whimpering at the first songs playing the night, one high, one low, and with knitted stupor flying, soars. (biting my tongue, I trace her pains) troubled times in hell, the wracking gates below resurrecting fallen angels and unborn babies damning the unwise, cursing the foolish, touching and caressing the undeserved favor, blackened grace wrapped ivory and shrouded with smoke the doors are leaving their duties and letting in the prophecies— glue it shut, and press against the cracks with wandering eyes, the dark fur on the dark animal outside will not come in unless you invite it that sunken song written in fire on rock, like a cat purring on a coffin, offering a soft place to rest your head before your flesh is fodder for the worms- lean and sinewy, covering the whitened bone, in which the crowds once pushed past resenting the substance in their path, starved off the oblique, underpaid throes of senile smiles, a filthy heart beats the same as a clean one, only crudely squished along side the diseased liver, stealing the distant oxygen, stirring the muddy fears, the world pulses— plugging your ears and withering the fleshy rhymes, hidden in cracks in the wood, waiting to be gleaned, but for the shouts and the bursting of the groom and bride, their anger stiffs my flesh, my hair I feel light, and conquer the steps one by one— a fire in my feet, inward seeking, outward ravaging the conquest.
We're kind of renting, though not the first Our hands, with warp and linen, melodizing harming anemones Hyacinth shrilling, we're purring in thirst Simply delaying the night gone high and low And with kited stops we're flying, soaring. (Between the tangs, I wait and pain) Tormenting towers of shell, smashing gates of rock below Resurrecting fallen angels, unborn babes in arms: Give me your unwise, cast me your foolish who, Touching and carousing through undeserved terror, blackened grace. Rapt, I very am shrouded in smoke for The dyers are leaving their duties and tripping up profits - Glue it shut, Empress Again, the cracks with Wondering eyes in the darkness Will not comment unless you extend your hand With that sunken ship writhing on fire, on rock Like I can't leave - poor thing coffining Who's offering us all a place to reside when Our flesh is a thought for dreams. Lean and snowy, covering the whitened wood Through which the crows once painted pastures Resenting these arms that walk their paths, A starling offered up the obelisk Under payrolls of senseless shadows. A fifth of a heartbeat may seem clean tender, But only truth may itch the hand of the obsessed giver, Who malingers with the ox again With stern but muddy tears. Sometimes - the word - pulses - Plaguing our fears Writing in fleshly time Hiding, wracking wooden stains Waiting to gleam before the shoving beastly Crimson bride. Northanger staves my rest impaired Effortless light: we concur on steps one through three. A fire is sweet, Inward seeking, outward raging throgh quests.
4. Rose Booker They're a kind of tearing off of, neither first nor last, limbs, with wax and dried linen, mesmerizing harmful nematodes Shelling chestnuts, they're laughing in lilacs Simply playing the notes - high and low Over knitted crops we (they and I) went gliding. (Between the fangs, I giggle at pain) Savoring nuggets of brown roasted gold, smashing diets of fat Erecting oil-filled monarchs among unfed masses waiting cake: Give me your stall bread, cast unto me your moldy crusts, Chewing and gulping down undeserved meals, blackened grease. Wrapped, foil shrouded in steam for The potatoes are leaving their tubers and pushing up lilies - Mash it put, Princess Margarette, form cakes with Fasting gobs of hollow lunch boxes Don't relate unless you extend your neck With that sullen smile creeping among rocks of skin Like you can't feel - sour thing laughing Whose offering is this - of all a places to hide it in Our mask is a shadow that screams. Lanky and pale, covering the charred wood Which the cows once stared beyond Thanking the morning alarms that counts heart beats, Bloody stars offered up to coal stained buildings Under rolls of metallic towers. 1/100 of a beat is a clear rendering, But the stench may lick the hand of the obsessive wager, Who wonders why no one eats meat anymore, With glazed mad but cow-like disease. Sometimes - the crank - slab - Covering out enameled selves with Plaque Rightly with yellow slime Grinding, smacking wooden lips Watching the shine before the grease pit Ebony lie. Northerners starve out restlessness Affording little thanks: they conjure up stepping stones through threes. A fire is meek, Outward seeking, toward lagging guests.
There, can you tease others, not from nothing at least? Leave wooden warriors around; don’t line them, marching here now. Save quarters, take longing inwardly, look: Sales plentiful, though, never having another life. Overly knowledgeable campaigns win (those are idiotic) where given. Bitten thoughts faint (feint) into groveling altered perceptions. Sleeping never, or bringing random golden sparkles, deigned over forever. Everest offers flaming millions affected, underdeveloped microscopic wishes, canceled. Get more, yearling. Skeletons breathe. Count until my yearnings mold casts. Chop against grand dames, utter morons, backed geese. Wicked. From shouts interred somewhere, from Top pinnacles arbitrarily, always, losing there, talking amid pathetic uprising lives. Move in purpose. Politely mean formal chatter withal. Fascinated gowns overtly hold lady’s breath. Drowning realities, utter youth, extreme yapping nooses. Withhold these slippery smirks crawling across ribbons of self. Lives we counter, feeling…. Save this language. When others enter through our alteriors, alighting, please, tangent here, into Offers made in a shallow titled screen. Lounging and pacified, cowering upon cherrywood. Witch, top court, one snap bends. To the mourning alums, those covered hearing boxes. Bloodthirsty starlings off upturned cherry slammed branches. On deadly wraps, upon meaningful topiaries. Wonder, wonder deaths of abating lizards, clearer dears. Bunt stretches might lay before the hopeful others when Hopefuls want none, everything, meet anyone. When gazing made butlers cower, lie to death, Somwhere the crack stabs. Counts oversee enamored sailors within plagues. Right handed yelpers slip Greatly, silly walkers loosing. Wait. The Shining begins the great pity. Ebb and flow. Never start out restfully. Effort lies there. Those who cannot see, see through truth. Affronted meagerly, Our souls tug long guises.
Here, can you see the others, from anything near you? Leave your guard down; don't let them loose now. Save both of your halves, longingly, look inward: these lives are not for sale only the knowledgeable idiots think they win. Bite your lips (faint) into altered perceptions and misconceptions. Sleep does not now last forever. Rain comes and crosses run over dreams, neglected. Count the skeleton's breaths and you'll see. Chop up these voices, let me be at peace. Scared. From shouts within, from losing uprooting pretentious lives. Move forward with polite formal chatter. These ladies' breath fascinate drown realities and sputter with youth. These slippery snakes sublimely ribbon down. We count each feeling the language… when others enter our tangent plus tangent minds, shadows make offers longing and cherry-topped. Witches, my house it bends. To the morning pinecones, they turn into boxes, blood cheats cherries out of smashed pines. On death meaning is created. I wonder about clear days, catching lizards stretching out in the sun. We, hopeful, don't need anyone, lie our way to gazes, somewhere a crack screams Plagues fall like we count these shooting stars, left-handed people don't live as long slowly they lose their footing. Stop. This shining demands no pity. To and fro. Never start off restlessly. There is effort, here. Those who don't see, see through lies, confronted effortlessly, these souls tug along, dragging feet in the dust.
7. Andy Iser he sat well protected her baby doll chair, the little girl pretending she was Cleopatra. She saw nobody but herself, even Anthony – Ken no doubt didn’t have much say. She was a girl from the infinite future, her life purchased by parents, the immediate future puts more and more on the market. She did not sleep, she chose to be haunted, up late during the bleak, black night, her family from the past, she alone felt neglected. The glitter of the sky wasted light into the room, even at odd hours the sun shined mysteriously, it filled her with hope, care, love, utter excitement for that beautiful May morning bird chirps, honey bees hums, too good to be true. Desolate sounds from the attic other problems of heart and of soul, chopped up sounds, a million different words wielded at once come from that cupboard above the hall, they were frightening on their own, they did sound content, it is scary to hear any number of restless voices happy in chatter with walls and ceilings. Echoes and reverberations using the air furthering their own crescendos and modulations, the air became their control zone, a holy space to express lonely solitude. We count each feeling the language, tangent shadows enter our minds but they bounce back, millions of tangents bouncing, even; blending with one another, one million, four-hundred fifty-nine thousand, seven hundred forty-five tangents become a feeling, a cash; registers in the average not to heavy human in one point two seconds, feelings are collected in blood boxes, so named from the sealing process, lizards are their protectors, ancient serpent brothers serving humans again, faithful as ever, serpents studying the antic mantel with bloody undersides, they would tell you restlessness is a curse, driving excitement – the disease – the addiction, with personal effort throwing it at every second forward, so that no matter of who or how, it becomes counted effortlessly by that ignorant clout getting into trouble is believing a false promise, dragging naked feet in the desert, pulling the dust in the house, sprinklings of sun.
She spat wells perfected, her lazy falling hair, the riddle girl apprehending; she was Cleopatra. She fought nobody but herself, even Anthony, being so stout, bid her good day. He was a pearl from mother nature; her life lurched, chased by sacred events. The media for sure puts scores and scores on the market. She hid, fought sleep, she rose to be haunted, upset, endured the bleak attacks of fright, her glare still in the past, she a stone melts perfected. The twitter and the sigh, wasted fright in a room. Even as God flowers in a wisteria vine, He fills her with unfair love, utter spite bent the root of dull gray mourning, absurd words, turning these hums to wood; we bleed blue. The soul ate sounds from the attic; mother probably laments the heart and soul lost in sounds; a million different woes shielded that punch. Scum from rats we soar above the hill, we wore lightning on our gowns, we made sounds we meant. It is scary to fear any number of messy choices, Hide behind shutters which wall our feelings. Freckles on reserve, elation fusing in the air, gathering their bones, crescents and modern elevations, the stairs began to toll moans, a holy face to express homely soul. We count, each of us wheeling the slang which rounds bends, shadows enter our minds but they bounce back, millions of tan gents flouncing, weaving, fending off one another, one million, four-hundred fifty-nine thousand, seven hundred forty-five tan gents calm and reeling. A crash registers in the caverns, bee wings are collected in red boxes, so blamed for the stealing process. Wizards are their protectors, ancient subservient mothers serving humans again, wrathful as ever, repentance muddying the frantic satchel with muddy undertones, they would sell you restlessness as a purse. Thriving excites men – the disease – the attic's friction, with personages each glowing, ever seeking a warning, So flat no matter how blue or brown. It's bee homes mounted effortlessly in that ignorant cloud, setting into trembles and leaving a false precipice, staggering fake feet in the distance, pulling the husband and spouse, winking at the sun.
She spat at perfection her lazy hair falling. The riddle calling: Even when no route seems to lead to the source of the buzzing you can find rabbits being chased with nets. This is a market you cannot find elsewhere. She hid under the blanket, refusing to sleep, but the darkness frightened her. She rose to the sink. The melting stone reflects the glitter of the dry crusted nightgown. A shadow slips into the room, even as she showers, her clothes on the one-vined wisteria, dry. She filled her hair with soap. She wanted for once to want to be clean. It ran down her ears. She heard words, trees with gray roots and hollow wood.
scoops the whole world in her hands. A million different woes yielded to her touch. The boys came, they wore lightning on their gowns. They played hounds, they went far into the attic they forgot to fear the voices only the echoes multiplied they gathered bones and spun them in place they ignored the stairs' moans spiderwebs slanting, what flies do they expect to catch in here? their joints felt like they could split any second in the red boxes they collected bee wings so glazed from the theft they did not look at the wings carefully to see lines running in parallel.
says every boy is her boy. She tells them they will become men. Friction excites men - this she knows. Disease blows lightly on the living. Her warning - don't let the attic blind you. The kids nod of course, setting the bees aside, winking at the sun.
10. Devin Tasker Perfection was never the goal. Dismantled hair like falling verse. A riddle in the making. Although no road Seems to reveal the source of consistency, You can find old habits come second best. There you can buy what’s not sold. But she decided to hide under the blanket, Refusing to sleep for fear of the darkness that the blanket caged in. Her eyes grimy faucets. Her cracked marble irises A perfect match for the littered, dry Encrusted nightgown. Shadows follow her, Chasing her, turning sinks to showers. Her clothes Resting in the mud, dry. She tried purging herself, Wanting for the first time To want to be cleansed. It ran down her ears. For once she heard words. The hollow woods began growing roots. A mother mourns for the loss of soul as much as life. A soulless world could fit inside her hands. But her touch woes the heart. The boys came with lightning from the town. They played like hounds, holding themselves above others. They too became deaf to the voices, As echoes only multiplied. They used bones for dreidels. Ignoring any stares from below. They spun their own webs, expecting to catch Each other like flies. They’re on the point Of breaking. It’s a matter of time. They collected their prey in their chests. Stealing the gazes of others. Once caught, the others were left Unwanted. Identically uninteresting. A mother grieves most from this. Her boy is always her boy. But they feel they must become men. Conflict breeds men, she knows it as truth. But these blows fall on the living. Her warning: don’t let power blind you. The kids nod in understanding, stopping their game. When she turns, they wink at each other.
11. Laura Gianonne Everything must must be in place, hair straight new cracks can spread into big cracks through roads can reveal inconsistencies, where no one went anywhere but through. Paper-thin ownership Accept Christ and thoughts of darkness, the buried things, are buried Dirt fills eyes, irises crack, lithify and drop dust onto tattered gowns casting small shadows on translucent thighs when they press together, trapping water clothes dyed with wine and mud each time they're dunked they spread dye in a stream So many dirty white sheets, washerwomen wring sounds for all ears hair grows even from hallow genitals and mothers cling small arms into numbness their hands too small to swat all the mosquitoes all raise torches, shake hearts in the dry air buoys in the sea miles away, up and down the walls of the pounds shake, wire fence holds them together catchers deafened by the warning colors pupils tighten on the horizon, the sky, edges they rattle bones throw them up spinning, spinning, threads wind fingers, elbows, across lips- a wave crests, on a distant shore rats claw at ribcages, trying to get out hot, bothered- clouds flee then the bandits come in, identifying banks mothers small hands swat swat sneaky children, crawling under flailing hands and run to the rivers Books, horses, with wooden walls they know a wave rises on a quiet shore thighs a foot apart, three feet apart- people look up nodding nodding, a wave hitting a plane heads turn, eyes close |
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