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 Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest - I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: "Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over." When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.
Never-realized dreams never bowing down to a wily noose. Mount Everest, Siberian menace never saved, without peaceful courage. Can it feel Lennon, downed inside, always memorizing damned friends at brunches on Canon-Fodder Café, frequently weaseled on the Metro? In our violent evergreens, behind us, take a turn from beneath drownings, where the humanity of engineers awaits. Living in a taciturn strumming of water, in tired eyes, through brightness, trust with alive round elder women who wink at male breaths, can’t see our violent evergrees, when the clock strikes. Bound, and brought, the savior returns. Typecast, he drinks beer, even for breakfast, can shove forgotten tan cups away. Through the door he sees, privately a woman drying in the moon’s cold beams. Upon a chez lounge (his home for now), savings and stocks and certificates mean nothing. In tired eyes, through brightness, trust with alive round persistently surveying the forecast. In eyes I want to expect questions. She the young, Smarter than she had banished him, yet love had no match for persuasion, and a soft look which means more than money proposes a timeless offer. The meandering begins, exciting and cruel, endless engagements with the caress of blood. Still unproven, completely desired, fast and decisive, the attack begins. Exclamations have no answer, her veracity recaptures nothing and a mat of disappearances weakens. (In tired eyes I surveyed the forecasts encasing the same lounge and home; eyes that had thieved lives from wailers yet waltzed between the highest of society.) Bless them with a first pathetic glance, then gravitate toward finding in the stars… He takes leave from momentum and gloss, happily unaware of a deathly last blessing. More formed than through white donned gladiolas. What lust would stop for favors, pacified around a moon always? Smothering the heart that hops autonomously, a receipt of grammar is placed.
Unthought of fears, never shaking with false hopes. High snow-capped Siberian tigers, never counted, always hidden. Can you feel the lemons, downing them, always memorizing the citrus burn in glass cups at expensive restaurants, who really wants lemon innards in their ice water? With our never ending colors behind us, take a turn from the drownings, with the dolphins behind us. Living in the quiet hum of water with tired eyes, we can see through darkness, trust those older women with blue eyes, although they don't know our violent turnings when the clock ticks. Bought, and bribed, the savior returns. Stereotypically, he drank coffee for breakfast, left the mugs on the tabletop. Through his glasses, he sees privately, a dog digging up dirt. Upon a moonshine (his dream for now), money and stocks and savings can do nothing now. With quiet eyes, persistently gazing I want to know answers. I want to form questions with those eyes, leave answers in my ears. Forget these desires, furiously pushed away. Silence holds no answers, these moonbeans, moonshine, moonlight and a web of words shatters. (With an open mouth I called out to the same glass, the same breaking; a mouth that had shattered open while I cried.) Bless her head with a glance then shift to staring at a blank screen… It leaves after the sun sets, blissfully aware of a sudden change in color. More formal than white satin dresses. What step would stop for pennies, quieted and hushed by the bright sky, smothering the breath that comes naturally a receipt for tip only is placed.
3. Andy Iser Fears and false hope all combined in a cup of thick tomato soup. Siberian tigers, unicorns, centaurs, all extinct the night is one giant black dark spot. And what idiot plants the apple tree over the ocean? Follow the dolphins out to sea, they usually know the way and like to get wet. They are tired and sick up playing the same games everyday, not unlike us – we’re really quite alike, though I’ve never met a dolphin who did not like me. Did you see the savior get up
this morning? Passionate and
free. Glorious The romance of numbers is sickening so many people, as are glasses in the wrong prescription thanks health care, thanks over-worked doctor or optometrist whatever you are. You want answers – well start looking for solutions and stop eating so much bread. It’s not about your eyes and ears, use your mind: you watch the same movie over and over again and you wonder why you don’t like anything else on the television. Did you really start using your diary – pretty, pretty, pretty weak. Words shatter like the teeth in your mouth when you get hit in the face look up you fool it was coming a mile away! The sun sets like a cracked back – prosperity does not last forever. Just ask the forgotten garden, the weeds prone to wild fire, blissfully aware of something greater but unable to achieve anything until boom!
Bears and walruses mope all confined in a muck of thick to medium goop. Sigh bearing the tigers, one horn, cent wars, ball ex-tint the fright is won lenient stack mark dot. And but i didn't want the grapple fee rover the motion. Fellow the doll fans out to
see, bay usually grows the day
and bikes to fret yet. They are wired and stick up weighing the game
same
everyday, not under bus – where feeling right amuck, bows
I’ve forever set as
golfing hooted not like fees. Did you see the sailor bet on this
mourning?
Passion innate in trees. Glorious homes and sparks? The The sun hits like a stacked crack – possibility does not pass for better. Just mask the four boughten guard dens, the seeds moan to mild shire, hiss fully a glare of dumb things hater but unstable to a chief any brings unto you!
Bare walls mope, confined to a muck of layers of paint. Sigh, bring the tiger out, blow the horn, recall centuries of fright. We won! It is marked with a dot. And we will never have to grapple free of this notion. Follow the dull fan's hum. You will see they usually glow in the day and grow in the night. They fire, and stink of guavas - the same smell every day. Not underdressed, and feeling white we walked, bowed. Our eyes never met the eyes of the emperor in the tree. Did you see the sailor set out this morning? Passionate in his glorious voyage and afraid? The romance of thunder is fickle and brings so many people to sea. In passing, he pressed his finger to the sculpture, whispered farewell, hovered at the dock. Tear open tingling spaces wherever you are! Your plant grows fast, the stars cooking. For saluting and heart-beating seem old. It's not a route you can find by searching. You catch the firefly circling over and over again and you wonder why you won't spot anything metallic on the mountain peak. Did they tie their hearts to the mast? Swish swash swish swash. Birds cry of the rain in your pouch when you looked out your window and said, "What a fine day! For sailing!" The sun flits. A natural crack. Possibility does not pass this border. The four encumbered guards sleep, their guns rest on their laps. To hear calls of the unimaginable!
6. Devin Tasker Dilapidated walls tilt, confined to layers of peeling paint. The grout between the tiles can be blown out after centuries of plight. The single pristine dot marks the spot of victory. The victory that blinds us. The dull fan hums as salty winds continue to erode. The sea grows at night. Fire ravaged through here before – the smell still lingers. Properly dressed, we walked by in perfect white. Our eyes never met. The trees watched us avoid the error. “Did you see the sailor set out in mourning?” Impassioned by his latest voyage. “And afraid?” The romance of storms and life’s fickleness draws them to the sea. He paid his homage before leaving. As he drifted from the dock, he bid his final farewell. Tears trickled down, but you couldn’t tell from what from where you were. “The plants are growing fast.” Stars stare down overhead. You can’t find the route by searching, it comes to you. A firefly circled in front of the still stars, drawing eyes to the mountains. You won’t find anything built there. “Do you think our hearts were tied to that mast?” There eyes finally met. Looking inside the window would show the same level of erosion. “It was a fine day for sailing.” The sun glinted through a crack in the wall. But nothing else gets through the border. It did a much better job then any number of armed guards. Whispers of the unimaginable fled with the wind.
Gills filter blind under thermocline Do trout leave tracks after flight one bubble where they breathed; lungs understood currents on currents blow through tides and tides deep sea vents plumes of magma- black smoke streams from singed fins and rows of fishing line drop in unison. They never cross. Kelp strands float back and forth. "What are they doing what are they?" They are mostly flat. "Bulbs?" each air pocket lifts the previous flat wet leaf there are shadows of flowers floating above. Olive leaves flip drift through lines, waving On top they weave on the surface, water snakes, spreading behind stroking arms, spreading behind steel boats. "Are they restored?" Fishers tilt in boats looking down their lines disappear after a quarter of an inch; hooked fish will push kelp up, germinating The moon pulls and everything is shifting to land smallest waves slap the sides of boats "The ship comes in and are we above water?" see it? sediments fall to the ground, under water, lithify "Tonight we dredge them" the only light in settled sediments from anglers' hooked eye smothered in kelp forest abandoned by bubbles that rise then finally pop in air serpentine arms heavy and thick leeching light everything below drowns
8. Emma Tome she’ll filter rinds and still subliming climbing doubtful packs of bright troubled shaven clouds, wrapped up tight crumbled and seethed; hung underhoods curring and purring, low and separated death undone a string can reap and fix runestones on camera. smoke exhaled to the rafters. singing thin, and growing separated, swerving to the rooftops. welts raised and flapping against backs, and backs “what they do they do they want?” crack, crack' “shhh:” each eye socket sifts the leaves of wet receipt there are low grumblings of showers to come all of these rips rifting and flowering like doves. and drops deftly seethe and purge us, the rains snake and stroke our palms, spread into the bloodstream “they are ignored” wishing these tilted words sounded down and cried from fear to their warden’s itching locks. wills surge- keeping germs abating germs surges. spoons swells, and early ringing grips the hand. crawling graves slap broken coats and hips come sin red tents fall to the ground, undulating, lifting : this night is red, then. the light settles unsaid and angles around our eyes. covered in felt corsets, abounding and troubled divide they cry and crop up, flaring and turpentine charms heaving thick and feeling tight: every ting sounding low and crowning.
9. Aly Wong She'll litter oranges and distill rinds Clicking past the dowdy pastels of Tearing sweet clouds, hugged tight Cracking and seeing, hanging under the Eves of houses painted black. One string winding around the neck of a Little girl or perhaps following the wisps of smoke from fires long gone Red angry boils cracking and hushing the little Ones who stare blindly into the night, Searching for the sun, for the rain, for the doves. Wings are fluttering as they descent softly into undisturbed neighborhoods and seep into our bloodlines. "Ignore me" they scream, they taunt us, Trying to keep us calm, trying to keep the germs that flow that course that hover still. Swelling the spoons the nooks the holes, filling the graves. "Please come and mend the ripped coats the torn shirts the missing buttons" the mother say. But the red tents are already pitched and the white flags are waving. Undulate the night and let the light settle Around our chins and between our eyes, Squeezing our insides and flaring our Common sense. Let me hear the charms now, low and light.
10. Rebecca Wells Shellacks of orange flesh, juice Dripping past cloudy pastels in fancy Tearing bitter fabrics against one another Again - again - slack and seal eaves Against the winds of houses asleep. Lest one wing brush the necks of Small children who follow their mothers into the long-ago times Spoils of war cracking against glass hot hush Little ones - brazen against the light - Searching for one who can explain loss of love. Swing to me - flutter - descend - Into the neighboring lights sleep in unstirred blood. Ignominious we seem, taunted By psalms sung against us - germs of society. Swell spun seams in stitched holes - we slaves. Please - come sew so sung sun - we are lost, anyway (is what they meant to say) But attempts are dismissed - effigies of white hangings Wanting an unbound night - with light to settle The sins of others rest only in ice, Smiling inward flares - sensically we seep - Let me wear charmers of glossy light.
11. Rose Booker Shack of organic fertility, juggling Drapes pastel fluff panting for want of fans Pitting brittle fibers together Gain - for - gain - slack seals slack Aging the air of hours awake. For one wind pushing against the necks of Large men who follow their tongue into the dusty bowls Spoils of Wall Street cracking grounded gourds once lush Giant elders - bronze against the sun - Waiting for an explanation for Job. Flying to route 66 - muffler - descent - Into neighboring camps sleeping off heated blood. Ignorant they seem, high strung But history preached to us - germinating indifferent society. Swelling seams in stitched hollowed pants - we starve. Leave - Bring back the rain - we are here, still (is this what they wanted to write) But tempting to be dismissed - refugees of Right-wing diplomacy Waiting a pitiless sky - where night should settle The shame that rests on masculine necks, Stretching upward stakes - seemingly to state - Letting him hear alarmed gossips speak. |
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