Wasteland Remix

A number of years ago I began a Wasteland remix. Using the original Eliot poem, I took structures, rhythms, and even his own mad methods of composition to write my own, personally filled poem. I only got so far as the first section (Burial of the Dead) butI thought it might be interesting to see. Moreso than "Fluency" at least.

Badlands
(after T.S. Eliot)

Go & tell the king that
The sky is falling in
When it's not
Maybe not.
-Radiohead, 2+2=5

I. A Parable for the Dead

Spring is foolish for its progeny
spreading seed carelessly,
I remember when this hill was dead
and green a dream of immaturity.
Winter was logical, reasoning
dust to dust, fading
life into shades of grey.
Sunrise a shocking conclusion rising from the sea,
a little overcast, stopping in the coffeehouse,
then into a leisurely stroll along the stores,
drinking and chatting about the wares.
"I hate antiques, especially the shabby chic."
I remember, she said, the whirlpool in the stream
as a girl, my sisters and I, would walk
along the rocks, how slick they were,
but we don’t go there anymore.
On the farm it’s peaceful even at night,
the coyotes sing before they leave.

Out of the whirlwind grasping at the wind:
What is dust? Prophet,
if you can, what rough beast slouches
to Jerusalem to be born?
It screams "Peace, Peace!" when there is no peace,
its throat cracks for lack of wine. Only
dash yourself upon the rock
(many are dashed upon this rock)
and ask what Babel gives to you.
Oh Jonah, go down, down,
down, and I will meet you there
or I will come down and grind you into dust.

Old Bad Eyes,
Old Bad Eyes,
The Shepherd
Won’t leave me alone.

We searched for yarrow on the summer solstice.
I called her flower-petal eater
—yet when we came back, late, from the whirlwind garden
your arms held everything, Ophelia, and wet your hair.
The river passed an unkept pit, strewn with petals.
O churlish priest, a ministering angel
will she be when thou liest howling.
Kai pempo Lazarus hina bapto akron daktulos hudor*

Mavis, the twisted alchemist,
was banished, nevertheless
a crafty serpent to the promised land
acts as Charybdis with his tail
pointing to the dead, to Olaf glad and big
(more brave than me, more blond than you),
to Matilda, called Primavera by the pilgrim,
the lady beyond the fire.
Here is the soldier with the spear, here the Rood,
here is one like Woden with his ravens
whispering in his ear. I do not see
the quizzling, nor the ivory of his leg.
If you see the woman in the streets,
I have confessed, tell her so
and I’ll bring the sheets to wrap her in
to keep her stench back from my nose.

City of seven hills
under a canopy of a future flood,
a split ocean a people crossed
to scatter their bones, dry, across
the other land. Grumbling carried their exodus,
each man set his heart to dust,
past where the Levites kept their guard,
where pooled old blood of bulls and goats.
There I saw one I knew and called to him, "Achen!
You who were with me at the battle of A-I,
that silver planted last week in your tent
have you reaped your fruits of it?
Might I have my cut?
but keep clear of open sepulchers,
lest you see yourself go down —that’s home to man!
you blindman, my mirror, my friend!



*transliterated from the Greek, meaning:
(and send Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water)