Homophonic poem based on T S Eliot's "The Waste Land"

1. The Wherewithall In My Head

Potatoes are a cruel brunch, breeding
belly-ache out of a greased hand, mixing
weak tea and weaker fire, furring
worn roots with salty grain;
burgers kept us warm, covering
face and dull overalls, feeding
ersatz life – we cheap grubbers.
Someone surprised us, drumming over that song by Free,
with a glower of pain; we sloshed all the lemonade,
and went on to Bud Lite, passing the “beg pardon”
with rank toffee, and chalked up an hour.
Vinegar, wine a’rushing, Stonehouse litany, eggs poach.
And when we were children, staring at the pool of puke:
my cousin's, he shook me out of my head,
and I was enlightened. He said, Paulee,
Paulee, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the fountains where one can see
I bleed much of the night; I sew my mouth in winter.


original:
[I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruelest 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 arch-duke'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.]

Hot are the boots that clutch, what toenails grow
out of this rheumy stubbish … make a plan,
you cannot play, or dress, for you know only
a beep of hokey mirages, where the bun seats,
and the pedantry is a belter, the thicket brings relief,
and my dry moan with sounds of water. Only
there is marrow under this red sock,
(come eat up all the narrowness of shed rocks),
and I will blow you - something different from either
a barrow at morning sliding behind you
or an arrow at evening rising to meet you;
I will throw your ear in a land full of dust.
“Pesh” went the wind
My pension too
My Irish ancestors
Ate English poo.
You gave me Chlamydia first a year ago:
they called me the “Yeastie Boy”
- yet when we came back, late, from the clinic’s hard-on,
your arms wet, and your hair full, I could not
for a week, and my bowels failed, I was neither
cake-mix nor bread, and I grew nothing,
booking into the started fight, my past tense.
Odd’n’dear the beer.


original:
[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 you 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.]

My damn sozzed ostrich – the louse – adamant
and a tad bold [but still a mess]
had grown to be a wise-arse [give him enough rope …
just a sick-head with excuse cards]. Here, said he,
is your shard, you downed fake Norman Mailer,
[those were girls locked in his eyes. Look!]
Here’s Bella Emberg, the Lady in Green Socks,
subject of litigations.
Here is a man with three graves – how must he feel?
and here is the pie-eyed Head Cant, all his lard
is his bank – a burden he carries in his crack
which many have ridden for free. We did not find
the fanged man near breath of slaughter.
Icy shrouds on steeples, hawking sounds that they bring.
Blank views. So timely, near-misses never phone,
sellers tout a telescopic elf:
one must be so dreadful these days.


original:
[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.]

Rain-worn city,
thunders the downs – log of a plight forlorn,
a cloud dragged over a broken ridge, a crowd:
we had not known wealth had undone the proud;
lies, terse and so frequent, were their gaols,
for a grubber feeds his eyes before his heart,
slips bitter pills to drown the pangs that start
up where faint merry faithful keep a flame
with dead chants tripping out an old blessed name.
Dare I see one I know, dare stop him, crying: “Watsorn!
“You who once saw me through the grips of malaise;
“that corpse we hung last year in your honour,
“did all the bits fall out? was it really a goner?
“or has the sight of lost-love burned my head?
“Oh, high the picket fence that hems us in –
“us with our Grails unearth our buried sin!
“You! Hannibal Lecter! – nonsense babble – stay unwed!”

original:
[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
ith 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?
'O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You! Hypocrite lecteur!-mon senblable,-mon frère!']

*

THE CLEANER [after “marina” by T S Eliot]


Quiz-sick focus, away Reggie, away Monday plaguer?

Hot teas spot pores dot gay socks and rot
my hands
Hot slaughter sapping my now
Land rent no sign of the bogbrush ringing in
the smog
Hot images cold burn
and I oughta

Chose new harp and the truth in the log, preening
breath
Chose new sitter for the story of the dumming-word,
called her
Beth
Chose new shit don’t know why there’s resentment, effing
eff
Chose new stuffer of settee in the living room, cleaning
Jeff

Reg became insubstantial, reduced by his wind,
the death of nine, and the Captain’s log
at his place resolved the chase

Hot is my face, less clear than Clearasil
Repulsed on the farm, quite long and longer –
Riven or rent? poor Owl-chant by far and dearer than
my pie
Whispers what she’s after pinched my sheaves and
currying beet
Made with sheep, where Alan’s daughters’ meet.

Piston broke, red lice and skin cracked with
sleet.
I laid this, it is rotten
Last December.
The wigging leak and the van gas forgotten
redeem my spoon and maybe I’ll remember.
Raid this while glowing, Gerontius, big bone, my
bone.
Shergar Lord spake speaks, the dreams need sorting.
un-form, disgrace, sans strife
Giving to give yet still hurled sublime beyond thee; let’s see
Decline of this wife for that wife, my reach for that
not broken,
Lightly shaken, hands parted, a grope, some new hips.

Hot fleas hot pores hot gannet pies land upwards
marimbas
and bum’s rush crawling to the bog
I oughta.

*