2007-04-09 - 9:14 p.m.

so, my friend has the first line of this poem as his msn screen name. it's my favourite poem ever. such insane vivid imagery. t.s. eliot is a frickin god!

anyway, i keep reading his screen name and haven't been able to remember the next line. it was driving me a bit nuts. kinda like the way i can only remember the first stanza of "the raven" which i used to be able to recite almost in its entirety.

so, not being able to remember the next line drove me mad to the point that i finally dug out, dusted off and cracked open my massive english anthology (it's around 4 inches thick, could probably kill someone with it) and i looked up the poem.

and now i'm going to share some of it with you - my favourite parts. because it's sodding brilliant. and then, now that i've mentioned the raven, i'll probably end up going to memorize that next. because i'm crazy like that these days. ....i've really got to start writing again!

anyway, this is my favourite poem, but i think robert frost is probably my favourite poet. e.e. cummings is also incredibly amusing - which reminds me: i've still got to read the e.e. cummings anthology schmuck lent me so i can get it back to her! oi.

excerpts from "the waste land" by t.s. eliot
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....

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 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....

after the torchlight red on sweaty faces
after the frosty silence in the gardens
after the agony in stony places
the shouting and the crying
prison and palace and reverberation
of thunder of spring over distant mountains
he who was living is now dead
we who were living are now dying
with a little patience

here is no water but only rock
rock and no water and the sandy road
the road winding above among the mountains
which are mountains of rock without water
if there were water we should stop and drink
amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
if there were only water amongst the rock
dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
there is not even silence in the mountains
but dry sterile thunder without rain
there is not even solitude in the mountains
but red sullen faces sneer and snarl
from doors of mudcracked houses
if there were water
and no rock
if there were rock
and also water
and water
a spring
a pool among the rock
if there were the sound of water only
not the cicada
and dry grass singing
but sound of water over a rock
where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
but there is no water

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