Poetry, anyone?

[texisred]

‘wasteland’

the earth is scorched and bitter here
a desolate plateau
acid poisoned the sacred soil
and nothing new will grow.
the garden has withered and died
the flowers burnt to dust
the trowel and rake are cast aside,
grimy with dirt and rust.
the gardener has long since fled
and won’t be back again
harsh draughts and storms drove him away
to find a greener glen.
and so this ground sits desolate,
a lonely place apart
and no one ever comes to tend
this wasteland that’s my heart.
---Rebecca

[Talisien]

Wow!!!That's very beautiful Rebecca! Can I call you that?
You seem to have great talent. I've published some poetry in the thread 'Just a wee poem'. If you want to you can join Mukashi, mell and myself there.

[Monco]

Unfortunately Texisread TS Eliot got there before you and wrote what is possibly the most famous poem of the 20th century.

The Waste Land

by T. S. Eliot


"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo."


I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And 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,
Marie, 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 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.
Oed' und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With 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.
Here 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 find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I 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,
Under 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.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With 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!
"That 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!

[texisred]

true, monco, TS Eliot got the 'wasteland' title before i did, but that's cool, there are plenty of words in the english language--and others--to go around. i might also point out that 'the waste land' is not the same as 'wasteland.' i doubt he'd mind.....and it's not as if i plagiarized his work. my wasteland is quite different from his masterpiece, just as margaret mitchell's 'gone with the wind' is quite different from the poem from which she 'borrowed' the title.
La variété est l'épice de vie, ne ce pas est?

[Talisien]

Originally posted by texisred
true, monco, TS Eliot got the 'wasteland' title before i did, but that's cool, there are plenty of words in the english language--and others--to go around. i might also point out that 'the waste land' is not the same as 'wasteland.' i doubt he'd mind.....and it's not as if i plagiarized his work. my wasteland is quite different from his masterpiece, just as margaret mitchell's 'gone with the wind' is quite different from the poem from which she 'borrowed' the title.
La variété est l'épice de vie, ne ce pas est?

I think you're quite right texisred. I'm writing on a novel right now and I just found out that my title already exists as a novel but didn't know anything about it. But I think a title doesn't matter. The content, the feeling expressed is much more important