The Waist Land: A Parody, p.1Edward E. Rochon
THE WAIST LAND: A PARODY
Edward E. Rochon
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The Waist Land: A Parody
Copyright © 2016 by Edward E. Rochon
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This is a work of fiction: A Parody of The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot. It generally follows the design of the poem parodied. Certain passages veer from the general layout of the work to fufill the needs of the parody and to comply with copyright infringement provisions that the parody not too closely follow the original work. No living persons are suggested in the parody other than in the prologue where Queen Elizabeth II is alluded to in a non-specific manner to any deeds, opinions of that specific personage. And she is a public figure.
Some Other Works by the Author
Drama Free Verse
Joy of Life in Verse
New England Sleeper's Verse
Show Biz Crap
Table of Contents
The Waist Land: A Parody
About the Author
It is questionable whether anything is funny in life. Life is no laughing matter. Some may object to this work being called a parody. Anyway, T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound are dead. I do not see how this work is in any way likely to reduce income flow to the inheritors of any copyrights remaining, if remain they do. On the other hand, it is not flattering to the two aforementioned, and to a number of types that inhabit the world at present.
The original work is free verse, and no effort was made on the author's part to produce a meter other than what might be present in the original work, if meter was at any point considered there. Eliot did deem meter important though not sanguine about rhyme or metric consistency. Free verse amounts to disjointed prose. A few additions to the flow of the work were added as virtually prose, though certainly some consideration as to the sound of the words used, their synaptic relationship to the flow of the work, were considered to whatever degree. Time is money; time is grief when not experienced with ease and grace. Time is experience when memory activates, and little time for the project encourages the development of writing skill. Write, write, write. That right? Yeah, I think so. What about the bad art? You can throw it away or fertilize the field of publication with your crap. Hey, if you have diarrhea, get it out and the bugs with it. And it will spread across the field more smoothly. Let nature do its work and it will be as disease free as the earth itself. And after all, a waste land, it could not hurt. Today's poop is tomorrow's garden green salad. There is a place for salad and a place for fertilizer. They go together, the cycle of life, not that Elton John circle of death crap. I am talking bonafied crap here. OK? Back to Table of Contents:
The Waist Land: A Parody
Waste land kills, withers that ole Queen Gwen
Waist land kills too, by flab, ole Lil'bet
IN CONTEMPT OF EZRA POUND
IL PIÙ VILE FABBRO [trans.: THE MORE VILE SMITH]
I. The Resurrection of the Dead
April is the kindest month, breeding
Lilacs out of dormant land, mixing
Repentance and reprieve, stirring
Fresh roots with spring rain.
Winter chilled our bones, exposing
Earth with windswept leaves, blowing
A drifting snow on dried tubers.
(Ah South California! April on the Plain of Sharon)
Summer despised coming over the Sturmbergersee [trans. Stormmountainsea]
With a torrent of rain, we stopped in the colonnade
And went on with lightning into the Teufelbrau [trans. Devil's brew [Pub]]
And drank spring ale, and talked on quite dour
Bin kein Engländer, stamm' aus Irland, echt Scot [trans. Not English, from Ireland, a true Scot]
And when we were old men, staying with the old Duke
My husband's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was enlightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
On the snowfields, there you see bright.
I read, much in the light, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that thrust, what branches bloom
Out of this fertile humus, Son of Man,
You need not say, or guess, for you know it all,
The heaps of broken images, where the rod beats,
And the cursed tree gives its shelter, the cricket its relief,
And the capstone pours down its water. But
There is no shadow on this Red Rock,
(Come in under the pure light 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 joy in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein menschliches Kind,
Wo weilest du?
[trans. Fresh blows the wind
My human child,
Where are you now?]
“You gave me lilac boughs first a year ago;
They called me the lilac bough girl”
- - Yet when we came back, late, from the Lilac grove garden,
Your arms full and your hair dewed, I could but
Speak, and my eyes hailed, I was fair, both
Living and read, and we knew it all,
Looking into the light, the music.
Hell und Voll das Meer. [trans: Bright and full the Sea.]
Madame Sosotris, infamous clairvoyant,
Sly and so coy, nevertheless
Is known to be the vilest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Israeli Sailor,
(She could not say, Phoenician. God forbade it.)
(Those are his eyes that shine like pearls. Look!)
Here is la belle Madonna, the Lady of The Rock,
(She could not say, Belladonna. God forbade it.)
The lady of many salvations
(She could not say, situations. God forbade it.)
Here is the man with three knaves, and here the bell peel,
(She could not say, staves and wheel. God repealed it.)
And here is Joseph Arimethea, and his bard,
(She could not say, one eyed merchant and card.)
That sings verse blank, and carries his lyre on his back,
Which I am forbidden to hear.
I do not find the hanged man. Fear death by liquor.
I see crowds of people, singing roundelays in a circle.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Malaprop,
Tell her I bring the whoring-scope myself:
One must be so careful these days.
Under the crowned fog of a summer dawn
A crowd flowed over Tower Bridge, so many,
I had not thought breath had puffed up so many.
Gasps, long and frequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes upon the Thames.
Glared up the banks and pas
To where St. Paul's dome slept o'er bowers
Where deft breezes sounded the final stroke of time.
There I saw one with one shoe, and stopped him, crying: “Oeddie! [pron. Eddie]
“You who were with me in the fields of Corinth!
“The eye you plucked last year in your garden
(Or was it an Iris?)
“Has it begun to see or sprout? Will it bloom or, oh -
(What the hell am I talking about?)
“Or has Robert Frost disturbed its bed?
“Oh keep the Dog Star hence, that's friend to man,
“Or with his beam will fix another pyramid again.
“You! Peripatetic lecteur! Mon semblable! Mon frère.” [trans. reader. My pal etc.]
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