FOR
EZRA POUND
IL
MIGLIOR FABBRO
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 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.
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!
“You!
hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”
II.
A Game of Chess
The
Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed
on the marble, where the glass
Held
up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From
which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another
hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled
the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting
light upon the table as
The
glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From
satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In
vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered,
lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent,
powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And
drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That
freshened from the window, these ascended
In
fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung
their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring
the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge
sea-wood fed with copper
Burned
green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In
which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam.
Above
the antique mantel was displayed
As
though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The
change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So
rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled
all the desert with inviolable voice
And
still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug
Jug” to dirty ears.
And
other withered stumps of time
Were
told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned
out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps
shuffled on the stair.
Under
the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread
out in fiery points
Glowed
into words, then would be savagely still.
“My
nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak
to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
“What
are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I
never know what you are thinking. Think.”
I
think we are in rats’ alley
Where
the dead men lost their bones.
“What
is that noise?”
The
wind under the door.
“What
is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”
Nothing
again nothing.
“Do
“You
know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
“Nothing?”
I
remember
Those
are pearls that were his eyes.
“Are
you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”
But
O
O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s
so elegant
So
intelligent
“What
shall I do now? What shall I do?”
“I
shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
“With
my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
“What
shall we ever do?”
The
hot water at ten.
And
if it rains, a closed car at four.
And
we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing
lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When
Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I
didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY
UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Now
Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll
want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To
get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You
have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He
said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And
no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s
been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And
if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh
is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then
I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY
UP PLEASE ITS TIME
If
you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others
can pick and choose if you can’t.
But
if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You
ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And
her only thirty-one.)
I
can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s
them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s
had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The
chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a
proper fool, I said.
Well,
if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What
you get married for if you don’t want children?
HURRY
UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Well,
that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And
they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY
UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY
UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goonight
Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta
ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good
night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
III.
The Fire Sermon
The
river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch
and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses
the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet
Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The
river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk
handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or
other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And
their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed,
have left no addresses.
By
the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet
Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet
Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But
at my back in a cold blast I hear
The
rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A
rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging
its slimy belly on the bank
While
I was fishing in the dull canal
On
a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing
upon the king my brother’s wreck
And
on the king my father’s death before him.
White
bodies naked on the low damp ground
And
bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled
by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But
at my back from time to time I hear
The
sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney
to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O
the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And
on her daughter
They
wash their feet in soda water
Et
O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Twit
twit twit
Jug
jug jug jug jug jug
So
rudely forc’d.
Tereu
Unreal
City
Under
the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr.
Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven,
with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f.
London: documents at sight,
Asked
me in demotic French
To
luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed
by a weekend at the Metropole.
At
the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn
upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like
a taxi throbbing waiting,
I
Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old
man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At
the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward,
and brings the sailor home from sea,
The
typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her
stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out
of the window perilously spread
Her
drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On
the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings,
slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I
Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived
the scene, and foretold the rest—
I
too awaited the expected guest.
He,
the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A
small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One
of the low on whom assurance sits
As
a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The
time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The
meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours
to engage her in caresses
Which
still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed
and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring
hands encounter no defence;
His
vanity requires no response,
And
makes a welcome of indifference.
(And
I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted
on this same divan or bed;
I
who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And
walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows
one final patronising kiss,
And
gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .
She
turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly
aware of her departed lover;
Her
brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
“Well
now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”
When
lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces
about her room again, alone,
She
smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And
puts a record on the gramophone.
“This
music crept by me upon the waters”
And
along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O
City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside
a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The
pleasant whining of a mandoline
And
a clatter and a chatter from within
Where
fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of
Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable
splendour of Ionian white and gold.
The
river sweats
Oil
and tar
The
barges drift
With
the turning tide
Red
sails
Wide
To
leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The
barges wash
Drifting
logs
Down
Greenwich reach
Past
the Isle of Dogs.
Weialala
leia
Wallala
leialala
Elizabeth
and Leicester
Beating
oars
The
stern was formed
A
gilded shell
Red
and gold
The
brisk swell
Rippled
both shores
Southwest
wind
Carried
down stream
The
peal of bells
White
towers
Weialala
leia
Wallala
leialala
“Trams
and dusty trees.
Highbury
bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid
me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine
on the floor of a narrow canoe.”
“My
feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under
my feet. After the event
He
wept. He promised a ‘new start.’
I
made no comment. What should I resent?”
“On
Margate Sands.
I
can connect
Nothing
with nothing.
The
broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My
people humble people who expect
Nothing.”
la
la
To
Carthage then I came
Burning
burning burning burning
O
Lord Thou pluckest me out
O
Lord Thou pluckest
burning
IV.
Death by Water
Phlebas
the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot
the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And
the profit and loss.
A
current under sea
Picked
his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He
passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering
the whirlpool.
Gentile
or Jew
O
you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider
Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
V.
What the Thunder Said
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
Who
is the third who walks always beside you?
When
I count, there are only you and I together
But
when I look ahead up the white road
There
is always another one walking beside you
Gliding
wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I
do not know whether a man or a woman
—But
who is that on the other side of you?
What
is that sound high in the air
Murmur
of maternal lamentation
Who
are those hooded hordes swarming
Over
endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed
by the flat horizon only
What
is the city over the mountains
Cracks
and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling
towers
Jerusalem
Athens Alexandria
Vienna
London
Unreal
A
woman drew her long black hair out tight
And
fiddled whisper music on those strings
And
bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled,
and beat their wings
And
crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And
upside down in air were towers
Tolling
reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And
voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In
this decayed hole among the mountains
In
the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over
the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There
is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
It
has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry
bones can harm no one.
Only
a cock stood on the rooftree
Co
co rico co co rico
In
a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing
rain
Ganga
was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited
for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered
far distant, over Himavant.
The
jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then
spoke the thunder
DA
Datta: what
have we given?
My
friend, blood shaking my heart
The
awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which
an age of prudence can never retract
By
this, and this only, we have existed
Which
is not to be found in our obituaries
Or
in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or
under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In
our empty rooms
DA
Dayadhvam: I
have heard the key
Turn
in the door once and turn once only
We
think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking
of the key, each confirms a prison
Only
at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive
for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata: The
boat responded
Gaily,
to the hand expert with sail and oar
The
sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily,
when invited, beating obedient
To
controlling hands
I
sat upon the shore
Fishing,
with the arid plain behind me
Shall
I at least set my lands in order?
London
Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi
s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando
fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le
Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These
fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why
then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta.
Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih
shantih shantih
The
poem represents the most destructive state of human mind,
it stands for dryness. In this case it is a spiritual dryness,
the death of creation, what ever is written -represents emptiness,
lack of spirit of human mind. It is reflected everywhere, the
political system stop existing, it simply doesn't matter.
Therefore the author wants to find the purpose, the purpose to
live and the purpose to create something new and alive where
everything is dead.
In
1917 everything was different, the remnants of the Great War are
everywhere, the piles of dead bodies stands for nightmare,
People see them, bury them, but, at the same time, they also
want to bury memories, and wake up in the world before the total
collapse. An annihilation and spiritual nothingness is
depressive, gives no hope, promise no progression. The
spiritual erosion kills creation, kills hope, joy, after the Great
War people are overwhelmed by destruction, unimaginable
disaster of the mankind, they do not believe of what they see, and
they have to face it, they have to understand what they had done to
one another, this acknowledgement is impossible to bear.
The
author in the poem portrays any metropolitan city, he doesn't exactly
know where he is, what worse, he doesn't know where he came from,
he belongs to the group of unknown citizens, people without
identity, place to live, very traumatized. Literally emotionally
dead. He cannot find his home, he is frustrated, angry, all around he
sees people who become more and more skeptical. They see the
world, they see the lost, they do not believe in rebirth of the
nations. The spiritual potential of the world is lost,
gone, the author believes, it is gone forever.
"...
- What do You want to do...? …
-
I want to die..."
How
low morale someone must have had to say ... I want to die, no one
sane, even sane and melancholic doesn't want to die. The
morality is transcend, there is no balance between the death and
happiness, we have to believe that the sparkle of hope exists.
The
poet doesn't want to leave Us without hope, You must always go
through, therefore the hope is somewhere in the air, no matter where
it appears itself in some circumstantial situation. People
must understand, if they again believe in God, They will reach
the possibility of having an eternal life.
The
time is cruel, it passes quickly, yet, the season is joyful, the
Easter is coming, the time of promise and regeneration. The time
of Resurrection. It always marks cultural and spiritual life.
Even
in that special time the author still doubts, the Great War left him
lone and lost, he should be glad the Easter is coming, instead, he
sees no sense at all, hope abandoned him one more time, he feels
nothing, he sees only destruction and pain.
Spring
brings all creatures to life, new life begins, the Sun is up in
the sky, it warms the land, it give energy, plants start seeding,
these are all positive signs in barren countryside, this
countryside will not last that way forever. The budding of
Nature is everywhere.
But
apart of all of this the present is still gloomy, dramatic, it
experienced the war. However the Nature is very demonstrative,
by the season of Springs it shows endurance, it wants to say "do
not give up". The human being is important. The Resurrection in
the poem was crossed out.
The
soil is barren, not fertile, it is similar to ashes - it is
marked by the Great War. It will not produce any fruitfulness.
That land, that soil do not have vegetation. Nothing but
desolation. The land doesn't bring harvest, the Earth
doesn't reproduce.
There
is a constant clash of what is Orient ans Occident. Between East
and West. The Buddha is a forerunner of transformation, the
change of soul and life, he constantly is looking for
his identity and origins.
There
is a countryside, there is an image of desolation, there are also
sounds, tunes, music, there is also Richard Wagner, whose music
represents the sounds of terror of life, emptiness and
irregular apprehension.
Poem
ends with predication, yet, the reader has to remember that each
line of the poem is disintegrated. There no coherence,
but, dissociation of sensibility. The poem has no subject, some lines
are written in a different language; Russian or German. However each
line belongs to different identity and dome of life.
The reminiscence. The poem is not finished, stays disturbed ...
longing for ... better ending ... the author does not indicates.
The
society is suffering an internal hell by means of mental disorders
such as schizophrenia, it is what marks Modernism.
Omnipresent
is Cubism, Expressionism, Impressionism, the art
styles that represent the state of human mind. The paintings often
presents broken images, the painter has to be eclectic, so does, the
author of the poem, he is not only eclectic, he is versatile, he uses
arabesque, tries to build shape of something that has
already been torn apart.
The
author describes the world of collapse, in the poem there is a
description what we might think is London, it is a ghost city, unreal
city, there is a nightmare vision everywhere, yet, the city is full
of dreams, dreams of hope for a new beginning. Each European
city experienced disaster, atrocities of the war.
Alike
the art which emerges, so does, London has shapes of broken images,
which are miserable. What survived is a clock that measure the time.
The poet describe the people he once knew, was befriended with.
Sadly, there are corpses described, land is covered by dead people,
their presence will never be fulfilled. They will not Spring.
Komentarze
Prześlij komentarz