A Poem Composed Entirely of Verses, Phrases, and Select Words From T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land and The Hollow Men Disposed in a New Order for an English Literature Class Called English 206 at Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon*
This is the Dead Land.
The Death By Water Land.
The Hanged Man Land.
I had not thought death had undone so many.
In vials of ivory and colored glass,
Under the firelight,
Under the brush,
White bodies naked on the low damp ground.
Bones rattled by the rat's foot.
Rattle.
I hear the king my brother's wreck.
Rattle.
I hear my father's death.
April is the cruelest month.
April is breeding Lilacs out of the Dead Land.
You first gave me Hyacinths a year ago.
They called me The Hyacinth Girl.
A year ago, at the small house in the mountains,
I feel free.
I feel free when we are
Trembling
With tenderness;
Lips that together kiss.
Lips that together form prayers,
Form Life,
Form Earth.
Lips that kept us warm.
Lips, life, Earth, Prayers
Feeding life in the Dead Land,
Breeding Lilacs in the Dead Land.
They call me The Lilac Girl.
I think we are in Rats' Alley.
There I see one I know and him,
crying, picked his bones in whispers.
Crying in whispers unshaven he says,
Burning burning burning
O Lord pluckest me out
O Lord pluckest me out
Burning burning burning*
In demotic French,
Asked me to luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel.
The Cannon Street Hotel is burning.
In demotic French,
Asked me,
You who were with me in the ships of Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? my nerves are bad tonight.
Stay with me. yes, bad. stay with me. what is that noise.
It's so elegant. so intelligent. mon semblable; my likeness!
Hypocrite! you!
He sat as though a heap of images broken in a flash of lightning
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall among the lowest of the dead to voices singing out of Empty cisterns,
Burning burning burning
O lord pluckest me out
Burning burning burning
Sweet Thames, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
Sweet Thames, no more can I, I said, no more can I bear to look at you and think of poor Albert.
You ought to be ashamed, Sweet Thames, I said, to look so antique.
I want to know what you have done with the memories he gave you,
The memories you took,
The sound of horns and motors,
The prolonged candle-flames,
The pattern on the coffered ceiling,
The small house in the mountains,
The lips that together kissed,
The life,
The Earth,
The Hycinths.
What have you done with my Hyacinths, Sweet Thames?
I still remember those pearls that were his eyes.
Albert, speak to me. Why do you never speak.
Speak.
What are you thinking of?
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
Where are your bones?
Do you see nothing?
Do you remember nothing?
Are you alive, or not?
Alive, or not?
Alive,orNotAliveOrNotNotAliveNotAlive
Not alive.
You are nothing.
I am nothing.
I clutch and sink into the wet bank.
Death by Water.
The Dead Land.
Hyacinths in the Dead Land.
Lilacs in the Dead Land.
The Hyacinth girl in the Dead Land. Dead Hyacinths dead in the Dead Land.
The Lilac girl in the Dead Land. Dead Lilacs dead in the Dead Land.
Hurry up, please,
It's time. It's time.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
You gave me hyacinths first a year ago.
They called me the hyacinth girl.
Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Yours 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.
Goodnight, Thames.
Goodnight, Albert.
Goodnight, small house.
Goodnight, Hyacinths.
Goodnight, Lilacs.
Goodnight, April.
Goodnight, goodnight.