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What are some of the best poems written in the 1920's?
T.S. EliotT.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.The Waste LandI. THE BURIAL OF THE DEADAPRIL is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, covering 5Earth in forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.Summer surprised us, coming over the StarnbergerseeWith a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.Bin gar keine Russin, stamm‣ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.In the mountains, there you feel free.I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.What are the roots that clutch, what branches growOut of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20You cannot say, or guess, for you know onlyA 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. OnlyThere is shadow under this red rock, 25(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),And I will show you something different from eitherYour shadow at morning striding behind youOr your shadow at evening rising to meet you;I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30Frisch weht der WindDer Heimat zu,Mein Irisch Kind,Wo weilest du?“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 35They called me the hyacinth girl.”—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could notSpeak, and my eyes failed, I was neitherLiving nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40Looking into the heart of light, the silence.Öd‣ und leer das Meer.Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,Had a bad cold, neverthelessIs known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 45With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,The lady of situations. 50Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,Which I am forbidden to see. I do not findThe Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:One must be so careful these days.Unreal City, 60Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,I had not thought death had undone so many.Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. 65Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hoursWith a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson!You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 70That corpse you planted last year in your garden,Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! 75You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”II. A GAME OF CHESSThe Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,Glowed on the marble, where the glassHeld up by standards wrought with fruited vinesFrom which a golden Cupidon peeped out 80(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabraReflecting light upon the table asThe glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,From satin cases poured in rich profusion; 85In vials of ivory and coloured glassUnstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confusedAnd drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the airThat freshened from the window, these ascended 90In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,Flung their smoke into the laquearia,Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.Huge sea-wood fed with copperBurned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, 95In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.Above the antique mantel was displayedAs though a window gave upon the sylvan sceneThe change of Philomel, by the barbarous kingSo rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100Filled all the desert with inviolable voiceAnd still she cried, and still the world pursues,“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.And other withered stumps of timeWere told upon the walls; staring forms 105Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.Footsteps shuffled on the stair,Under the firelight, under the brush, her hairSpread out in fiery pointsGlowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?I never know what you are thinking. Think.”I think we are in rats‣ alley 115Where the dead men lost their bones.“What is that noise?”The wind under the door.“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”Nothing again nothing. 120“DoYou know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you rememberNothing?”I rememberThose are pearls that were his eyes. 125“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”ButO O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—It’s so elegantSo intelligent 130“What shall I do now? What shall I do?I shall rush out as I am, and walk the streetWith my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?What shall we ever do?”The hot water at ten. 135And if it rains, a closed car at four.And we shall play a game of chess,Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said,I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, 140HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMENow Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave youTo get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, 145He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.Oh is there, she said. Something o‣ that, I said. 150Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEIf you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said,Others can pick and choose if you can’t.But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. 155You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.(And her only thirty-one.)I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) 160The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.You are a proper fool, I said.Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,What you get married for if you don’t want children?HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME 165Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEHURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEGoonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. 170Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.III. THE FIRE SERMONThe river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leafClutch and sink into the wet bank. The windCrosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. 175Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette endsOr other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180Departed, 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 185The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.A rat crept softly through the vegetationDragging its slimy belly on the bankWhile I was fishing in the dull canalOn a winter evening round behind the gashouse. 190Musing upon the king my brother’s wreckAnd on the king my father’s death before him.White bodies naked on the low damp groundAnd bones cast in a little low dry garret,Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. 195But at my back from time to time I hearThe sound of horns and motors, which shall bringSweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.O the moon shone bright on Mrs. PorterAnd on her daughter 200They wash their feet in soda waterEt, O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!Twit twit twitJug jug jug jug jug jugSo rudely forc’d. 205TereuUnreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter noonMr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchantUnshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210C. i. f. London: documents at sight,Asked me in demotic FrenchTo luncheon at the Cannon Street HotelFollowed by a week-end at the Metropole.At the violet hour, when the eyes and back 215Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waitsLike a taxi throbbing waiting,I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can seeAt the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,The typist home at tea-time, clears her breakfast, lightsHer stove, and lays out food in tins.Out of the window perilously spreadHer drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, 225On the divan are piled (at night her bed)Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugsPerceived the scene, and foretold the rest—I too awaited the expected guest. 230He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,A small house-agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,One of the low on whom assurance sitsAs a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.The time is now propitious, as he guesses, 235The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,Endeavours to engage her in caressesWhich still are unreproved, if undesired.Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240His vanity requires no response,And makes a welcome of indifference.(And I Tiresias have foresuffered allEnacted on this same divan or bed;I who have sat by Thebes below the wall 245And walked among the lowest of the dead.)Bestows one final patronizing kiss,And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…She turns and looks a moment in the glass,Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250Her 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 andPaces about her room again, alone,She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, 255And puts a record on the gramophone.“This music crept by me upon the waters”And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.O City City, I can sometimes hearBeside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260The pleasant whining of a mandolineAnd a clatter and a chatter from withinWhere fishmen lounge at noon: where the wallsOf Magnus Martyr holdInexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. 265The river sweatsOil and tarThe barges driftWith the turning tideRed sails 270WideTo leeward, swing on the heavy spar.The barges washDrifting logsDown Greenwich reach 275Past the Isle of Dogs.Weialala leiaWallala leialalaElizabeth and LeicesterBeating oars 280The stern was formedA gilded shellRed and goldThe brisk swellRippled both shores 285South-west windCarried down streamThe peal of bellsWhite towersWeialala leia 290Wallala leialala“Trams and dusty trees.Highbury bore me. Richmond and KewUndid me. By Richmond I raised my kneesSupine on the floor of a narrow canoe.“ 295“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heartUnder my feet. After the eventHe wept. He promised ‘a new start.’I made no comment. What should I resent?”“On Margate Sands. 300I can connectNothing with nothing.The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.My people humble people who expectNothing.” 305la laTo Carthage then I cameBurning burning burning burningO Lord Thou pluckest me outO Lord Thou pluckest 310burningIV. DEATH BY WATERPhlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swellAnd the profit and loss.A current under sea 315Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fellHe passed the stages of his age and youthEntering the whirlpool.Gentile or JewO you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAIDAfter the torch-light red on sweaty facesAfter the frosty silence in the gardensAfter the agony in stony placesThe shouting and the crying 325Prison and place and reverberationOf thunder of spring over distant mountainsHe who was living is now deadWe who were living are now dyingWith a little patience 330Here is no water but only rockRock and no water and the sandy roadThe road winding above among the mountainsWhich are mountains of rock without waterIf there were water we should stop and drink 335Amongst the rock one cannot stop or thinkSweat is dry and feet are in the sandIf there were only water amongst the rockDead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spitHere one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340There is not even silence in the mountainsBut dry sterile thunder without rainThere is not even solitude in the mountainsBut red sullen faces sneer and snarlFrom doors of mud-cracked housesIf there were water 345And no rockIf there were rockAnd also waterAnd waterA spring 350A pool among the rockIf there were the sound of water onlyNot the cicadaAnd dry grass singingBut sound of water over a rock 355Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine treesDrip drop drip drop drop drop dropBut there is no waterWho is the third who walks always beside you?When I count, there are only you and I together 360But when I look ahead up the white roadThere is always another one walking beside youGliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hoodedI do not know whether a man or a woman—But who is that on the other side of you? 365What is that sound high in the airMurmur of maternal lamentationWho are those hooded hordes swarmingOver endless plains, stumbling in cracked earthRinged by the flat horizon only 370What is the city over the mountainsCracks and reforms and bursts in the violet airFalling towersJerusalem Athens AlexandriaVienna London 375UnrealA woman drew her long black hair out tightAnd fiddled whisper music on those stringsAnd bats with baby faces in the violet lightWhistled, and beat their wings 380And crawled head downward down a blackened wallAnd upside down in air were towersTolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hoursAnd voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.In this decayed hole among the mountains 385In the faint moonlight, the grass is singingOver the tumbled graves, about the chapelThere is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.It has no windows, and the door swings,Dry bones can harm no one. 390Only a cock stood on the roof-treeCo co rico co co ricoIn a flash of lightning. Then a damp gustBringing rainGanga was sunken, and the limp leaves 395Waited for rain, while the black cloudsGathered far distant, over Himavant.The jungle crouched, humped in silence.Then spoke the thunderDA 400Datta: what have we given?My friend, blood shaking my heartThe awful daring of a moment’s surrenderWhich an age of prudence can never retractBy this, and this only, we have existed 405Which is not to be found in our obituariesOr in memories draped by the beneficent spiderOr under seals broken by the lean solicitorIn our empty roomsDA 410Dayadhvam: I have heard the keyTurn in the door once and turn once onlyWe think of the key, each in his prisonThinking of the key, each confirms a prisonOnly at nightfall, aetherial rumours 415Revive for a moment a broken CoriolanusDADamyata: The boat respondedGaily, to the hand expert with sail and oarThe sea was calm, your heart would have responded 420Gaily, when invited, beating obedientTo controlling handsI sat upon the shoreFishing, with the arid plain behind meShall I at least set my lands in order? 425London Bridge is falling down falling down falling downPoi s’ascose nel foco che gli affinaQuando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallowLe Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolieThese fragments I have shored against my ruins 430Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.Shantih shantih shantihNOTESNot only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston’s book on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan). Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston’s book will elucidate the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and I recommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself) to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. To another work of anthropology I am indebted in general, one which has influenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Bough; I have used especially the two volumes Attis Adonis Osiris. Anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognise in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEADLine 20 Cf. Ezekiel II, i.23. Cf. Ecclesiastes XII, v.31. V. Tristan und Isolde, I, verses 5–8.42. Id. III, verse 24.46. I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the Tarot pack of cards, from which I have obviously departed to suit my own convenience. The Hanged Man, a member of the traditional pack, fits my purpose in two ways: because he is associated in my mind with the Hanged God of Frazer, and because I associate him with the hooded figure in the passage of the disciples to Emmaus in Part V. The Phoenician Sailor and the Merchant appear later; also the “crowds of people,” and Death by Water is executed in Part IV. The Man with Three Staves (an authentic member of the Tarot pack) I associate, quite arbitrarily, with the Fisher King himself.60. Cf. Baudelaire:“Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rèves,Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant.”63. Cf. Inferno, III. 55–57:“si lunga trattadi gente, ch’io non avrei mai credutoche morte tanta n’avesse disfatta.”64. Cf. Inferno, IV. 25–27:“Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare,“non avea pianto, ma‣ che di sospiri,“che l’aura eterna facevan tremare.”68. A phenomenon which I have often noticed.74. Cf. the Dirge in Webster’s White Devil.76. V. Baudelaire, Preface to Fleurs du Mal.II. A GAME OF CHESS77. Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, II., ii. l. 190.92. Laquearia. V. Aeneid, I, 726:dependent lychni laquearibus aureisincensi, et noctem flammis funalia vincunt.98. Sylvan scene. V. Milton, Paradise Lost, IV. 140.99. V. Ovid, Metamorphoses, VI, Philomela.100. Cf. Part III, l. 204.115. Cf. Part III, l. 195.118. Cf. Webster: “Is the wind in that door still?”126. Cf. Part I, l. 37, 48.138. Cf. the game of chess in Middleton’s Women beware Women.III. THE FIRE SERMON176. V. Spenser, Prothalamion.192. Cf. The Tempest, I, ii.196. Cf. Day, Parliament of Bees:“When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear,“A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bring“Actaeon to Diana in the spring,“Where all shall see her naked skin…“197. Cf. Marvell, To His Coy Mistress.199. I do not know the origin of the ballad from which these lines are taken; it was reported to me from Sydney, Australia.202. V. Verlaine, Parsifal.210. The currants were quoted at a price “carriage and insurance free to London”; and the Bill of Lading, etc. were to be handed to the buyer upon payment of the sight draft.218. Tiresias, although a mere spectator and not indeed a “character,” is yet the most important personage in the poem, uniting all the rest. Just as the one-eyed merchant, seller of currants, melts into the Phoenician Sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct from Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the women are one woman, and the two sexes meet in Tiresias. What Tiresias sees, in fact, is the substance of the poem. The whole passage from Ovid is of great anthropological interest:…Cum Iunone iocos et maior vestra profecto estQuam, quae contingit maribus’, dixisse, ‘voluptas.’Illa negat; placuit quae sit sententia doctiQuaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque nota.Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silvaCorpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictuDeque viro factus, mirabile, femina septemEgerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdemVidit et ‘est vestrae si tanta potentia plagae,’Dixit ‘ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet,Nunc quoque vos feriam!‣ percussis anguibus isdemForma prior rediit genetivaque venit imago.Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosaDicta Iovis firmat; gravius Saturnia iustoNec pro materia fertur doluisse suiqueIudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte,At pater omnipotens (neque enim licet inrita cuiquamFacta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine ademptoScire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore.221. This may not appear as exact as Sappho’s lines, but I had in mind the “longshore” or “dory” fisherman, who returns at nightfall.253. V. Goldsmith, the song in The Vicar of Wakefield.257. V. The Tempest, as above.264. The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of the finest among Wren’s interiors. See The Proposed Demolition of Nineteen City Churches: (P. S. King & Son, Ltd.).266. The Song of the (three) Thames-daughters begins here. From line 292 to 306 inclusive they speak in turn. V. Götterdämmerung, III, i: The Rhinedaughters.279. V. Froude, Elizabeth, Vol. I, ch. iv, letter of De Quadra to Philip of Spain:“In the afternoon we were in a barge, watching the games on the river. (The queen) was alone with Lord Robert and myself on the poop, when they began to talk nonsense, and went so far that Lord Robert at last said, as I was on the spot there was no reason why they should not be married if the queen pleased.”293. Cf. Purgatorio, V. 133:“Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;“Siena mi fe’, disfecemi Maremma.”307. V. St. Augustine’s Confessions: “to Carthage then I came, where a cauldron of unholy loves sang all about mine ears.”308. The complete text of the Buddha’s Fire Sermon (which corresponds in importance to the Sermon on the Mount) from which these words are taken, will be found translated in the late Henry Clarke Warren’s Buddhism in Translation (Harvard Oriental Series). Mr. Warren was one of the great pioneers of Buddhist studies in the occident.309. From St. Augustine’s Confessions again. The collocation of these two representatives of eastern and western asceticism, as the culmination of this part of the poem, is not an accident.V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAIDIn the first part of Part V three themes are employed: the journey to Emmaus, the approach to the Chapel Perilous (see Miss Weston’s book), and the present decay of eastern Europe.357. This is Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii, the hermit-thrush which I have heard in Quebec County. Chapman says (Handbook of Birds in Eastern North America) “it is most at home in secluded woodland and thickety retreats.‣ Its notes are not remarkable for variety or volume, but in purity and sweetness of tone and exquisite modulation they are unequaled.” Its “water-dripping song” is justly celebrated.360. The following lines were stimulated by the account of one of the Antarctic expeditions (I forget which, but I think one of Shackleton’s): it was related that the party of explorers, at the extremity of their strength, had the constant delusion that there was one more member than could actually be counted.366–76. Cf. Hermann Hesse, Blick ins Chaos: “Schon ist halb Europa, schon ist zumindest der halbe Osten Europas auf dem Wege zum Chaos, fährt betrunken im heiligem Wahn am Abgrund entlang und singt dazu, singt betrunken und hymnisch wie Dmitri Karamasoff sang. Ueber diese Lieder lacht der Bürger beleidigt, der Heilige und Seher hört sie mit Tränen.”401. “Datta, dayadhvam, damyata” (Give, sympathise, control). The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found in the Brihadaranyaka—Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is found in Deussen’s Sechzig Upanishads des Veda, p. 489.407. Cf. Webster, The White Devil, V, vi:“…they’ll remarryEre the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spiderMake a thin curtain for your epitaphs.”411. Cf. Inferno, XXXIII, 46:“ed io sentii chiavar l’uscio di sottoall’orribile torre.”Also F. H. Bradley, Appearance and Reality, p. 346.“My external sensations are no less private to myself than are my thoughts or my feelings. In either case my experience falls within my own circle, a circle closed on the outside; and, with all its elements alike, every sphere is opaque to the others which surround it.‣ In brief, regarded as an existence which appears in a soul, the whole world for each is peculiar and private to that soul.”424. V. Weston, From Ritual to Romance; chapter on the Fisher King.427. V. Purgatorio, XXVI, 148.“‘Ara vos prec, per aquella valor‘que vos guida al som de l’escalina,‘sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor.’Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina.”428. V. Pervigilium Veneris. Cf. Philomela in Parts II and III.429. V. Gerard de Nerval, Sonnet El Desdichado.431. V. Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy.433. Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad. “The Peace which passeth understanding” is a feeble translation of the content of this word.CONTENTS BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
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