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 III. THE FIRE SERMON The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother's wreck And on the king my father's death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc'd. Tereu
1. Rose Booker The bank's Lent is a token: The Fasting singers of Joseph Lurch and fall into the septic tanks. The sound Crossed the yellow land, heard. The sylphs stood. Sweet Strawberry, run softly, till I end my tale. The creek bears many empty bottles, sandwich papers, old exams, cardboard boxes, cigarette butts And other testimonies of studious nights. The sylphs stood still. And their foes, the stalking husks of what might be men; Stood, leaving deep foot prints. By the pavement of Channing I sat down and laughed . . . Sweet Strawberry, run softly till I end my tale, Sweet Strawberry, run softly, for I squeak not for the mall. But at my side in a hot blast I bear The rattle of fences, and grin spread from eye to eye. A snake weaved gently through the canopy Dragging its sliver venom across each branch While I was reading in the ugly cafe On a spring afternoon round behind the campus hall Musing upon the Regents my professor’s wreck And on the Regents my peer’s death before them. Rainbow bodies clothed on the high dry ground And stones lasting in a little low wet garage, Tossed by the snake's tail only, week to week. But at my side from minute to minute I hear The wind of hours and months, which shall bring Summer to Mr. Win in the spring. Only the sun did not shine on Mr. Win And on his store He whitewashed it with his big toe. It seemed like de thing, chant chant, to do! Wip wip wip slug slug slug slug slug slug Not easily forced. On days that end with y.
You’ve lost it now; A Holy Week gone to Hell. Life falls through the cracks. Only now can you yell, help, hear. Seraphim sit. Silly, tart, beautiful wall of tall vines. Bare crates make for epiphanies, battle solid pasts, our exchanges can only break control back into older tests that slap now. Those seraphim continue. What of the demons? They stand, haunting, wanting me; I stalk, left nothing in the snow. Between the past and the choice, I cry in remembrance… Silly, tart, beautiful wall of tall vines, silly, tart, beautiful wall of sensual knots in your mouth. Put back the sound of hearing beatings you began as they shake my firmament, or grate on swings within the brain. Sapping weasels gets you so far, Damn’d into slivers venting into a break when you write of another country far off in winter beside the Campanile . Greeks regret their works run, But those regrets cannot touch your death. Regrets color skin and land, Touch rock, lengthwise, light on the ground, Tempest lead by Satan, you are weak to resist. A thorn in your side, mindlessly mild you think. Whispers help, mouths brought this Autumn on the loss of Winter. The moon refuses to grace us with her presence; She hides in shores. Face wiped of color, a tale in your brain, You chant to the Seraphim, do, help! Whip whip whip. slam slam slam slam slam slam So easily forced. Demons destroy you – you wonder why.
It's done now; the angels have fallen. Their wings fall through the clouds. Now you can sense their rosy cheeks. Just sit. Silly, sweet, phony smiles, a wall of words. Silence passes for seconds, for hours, our exchanges can break concrete into pebbles that rip skin now. Their cascades fall. What about the breaths of carbon dioxide? They stare, haunting, asking me; I step, lightly so I don't make a noise. Between the present and my decision, I fall into reveries… Slow, small, invisible wall of glass, tiny, inexplicable, wall of shattering rain in your mouth. Forget the sound of rushing water behind you as they shake through my teeth make circle on the inside of my cheek. sobbing only gets you so far, shoved into breaking alleyways when you think you've found a place alone, far beyond the reaches of a tangential mind. Homer could not create a more epic regret, but these breaths cannot touch the ground. Memories strip imagination, touch sand, vertically, light on the toes, suddenly led by water, you are trying to resist. A petal on your lips, mindlessly you blow it away. Whispers form, kisses are snakes crawling in the loss of wind. The moon refuses to shut her eyes; she casts her light on the bleeding ocean. Face cut with color, a tail on her fins, you can chant to the hymns, just try. Amen amen amen. slip slip slip slip slip So easily taken down this path-you wonder why.
4. Andy Iser Planes fall from the sky suddenly, Shooting through clouds hitting buildings decaying speed with engine explosion. Their cracked wings, their falsified inspections, God damn you FAA, If we were going to crash, we could have left on time! As the plane fell there was no screaming, just trepidation sucking away people’s souls. Like pebbles they fell into the sea. All sorts of stuff in the sky with the air, that pure air – that free fall! Noises and machine eruptions, speaking to us loud and clear. All sorts of things falling into my mouth like chocolate. All those people, memories, good times, all forgotten for eternity. But millions of miles away two lips meet, beauty all over again. Imagination running wild, stripping naked all those memories lost and forgotten. The moon setting now, nicely, over the water with the planes, and through the window. Cut faces, tail-ends separated from wings – hymms and motions in the darkness. Repetition and sweet sounds sublime, beauty forms so nicely all over again.
Pains wail from the high sudden sea, Rooting thorough mounds sitting buildings deep caves reeds with energy ex-notions. Their stacked dings, their false fried intersections, God ran your essay, If we were blowing too rash, we would have met on rhyme! As the stain sells where was no screening, just leper nation ducking a way peeping holes. Strike trebles they melt into the bee. All warts of huffs in the pie with the stairs, that lure affair – that wee hall! Noises and my sheen erupts shins, wreaking to us sound and fear. All sorts of wings stalling win to my joust like chalk, oh state. All rose people, me worries, wood lines, all for rotten for each trinity. But mill young off-styles a way too rips beat, duty falls over a gain. Image of nations sun in the wild, whipping faked wall whose memories cost are begotten. The soon betting cow, wisely, covers the hotter withheld veins, and to the winning throw. But graces, fall-bends step a rated form of wings – him and potions in the dark mess. Repertoire and free found sub-limes, duty warms so wisely all cover again.
Nymphs wail in the high sudden sea Looting through minds, splitting bodies, hiding in deep caves. But not nymphs - something else. Their pilings, their falsifications. The Gods are with them, not us. If we were sailing too fast, we would have met on rhyme! As the ship sails there is no screaming. The danger is clear. Throw pebbles, watch them melt into the sea. We are most nervous when the sea is calm scared by the noise of our machine. They sometimes have wings, sometimes hang winglessly. They rise from ripples, from stories, from wood. But when the young man pointed a ways off, dust fell again. We find ourselves gripping the railing, light reflected from ripples, teased by wind. The soon-setting sun paints the horizon. Horizon painted! Sea painted! Painted! We forgot - to what destination did we set off? The sea makes us thirsty The humming of the engine in darkness covers us again.
7. Devin Tasker The sirens shriek in the suddenly high sea, Looting the minds of splintering bodies, storing them in sunken caves. Not sirens exactly – perhaps nymphs. They pile our plights behind fortifications. The Gods are with them, not us. Me must have been sailing too fast. Now we bet on time. The ship which continues sailing hears no wail. The danger is unseen. We throw pebbles into the sea, For the calmest seas invoke the greatest anxiety. The sound of the boat in water causes fear on the quietest of days. We give to our wings, forgetting we lack them. But something rises from the sea and the boat, like myths. There’s been too many young men who fell off, turning to water. We look down at hands gripping the rail. Below, light ripples off the sea. The almost setting sun paints the sky: A horizon perfectly painted. The sea picturesque. All of it contrived. We have forgotten where we are going. But the sea makes us thirsty, And so we drown our ears with the hum of the engine.
Odysseus is at it again, drooling on the rail passing women on the shore his hat flies off and embodies the wind, crumples into eaves Curving bodies under the sun- are they singing, as they work? they have no idea, sunning in temples, the tempests we've endured. We've sailed far and for the longest time Look at them, beads of sweat on foreheads, sheer fabrics- their eyes are on the bow skipping stones on the sea the biggest swells we've faced thus far We forget we're wingless, sometimes and too many of us see our reflections in the deep sea bubbles, perpetually rising… His hand sweats on the wooden rail, small ripples Each time the sun goes down it stains Red stains, orange, pink, black, all dripping into the sea the shore washed away We drink in the celestial ooze We drink until we can't hear the hum of the engine.
9. Emma Tome oh, die easy on us he said again, a cruel passing woven to the headboards. and riveted, tenuous slips spoke briefly , and black ties scoffed and embers shook in the winding end, rumpled in leaves swerving back to light, then, and ringing true into broken tunes, no cries undone, sounding holy in my head. these crossings over land, unheard. tempered soft and durable, we regaled ourselves for all the time we took, then, weaving red pieces of red in the foreground, sheer insolence solving the way they bowed and bowed, ripping pieces, solving puzzle faces, forgetting the way death can penetrate wingless bodies. Departed, they have left no addresses. and the myriad inflections in the death language render indistinguishable individual dialects, perpetually raising his hands, sweet sweet sun bubbles dropped made small ripples and each one remained colorless, dropping down soft windowpanes, this bestial rouse drifting offshore. sweet river run soft, (and oh the moon shone bright) sweet river sing.
10. Aly Wong Oh, die swiftly and let your woven pasts decide, and let your children bear your name instead, be proud of your black ties and leather shoes, swerving into the light, they sparkle like children's eyes. No cries unheard, no tunes unholy, cross from the land, undone. The way is tempered soft and strong, regale the emperor on your way, but snatch the red pieces of cloth from your clothes and present it ripped and destroyed. No confusion here, don't forget the way death can penetrate helpless souls. Depart to the address, learn their language before you cross the threshold. My hands, your hands, sweet sun raisens for your taking, and sip the wine once, not twice. Drop down onto the windowpane and knock, river run soft, sweet river. Goodbye.
11. Rebecca Wells Odysseus swift-footed, show us the woven paths you've trod, And let your disciples bear your words to others, Be proud of your lacking smiles, your leavened bread Spurning despite, in sparks and glistening spies. No lies have burned, nor impugned, destroyed Across the land, we spun. This day has been tempered, aloft, long. Gift the emperor with your locking hair But let not one drop of blood spill on blades - Your clothes have been presented, ripped, shredded. Nox et luminatum don't forget that day comes at last For death may peel back the layers of us all. Give us your addresses, We will learn your language and deliver them, One by one by one by one. My hands and your hands in the one-sun world we've established, Sleep inside, entwined, just once. Wake in beams through windowpanes - look! The river may run soft Sparkling in afternoons scattered like ashes But this is not goodbye. |
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© English 43b Class of Spring 2008 |