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T.S. Eliot is helping Underserved Urban Kids Who Can't Read, Won't You? jack&books Presents the classic epic poem by T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land" with 13 new, original and evocative illustrations by artist Benjamin Shannon; an interactive Table of Contents; and 10% of the proceeds going to end illiteracy in Urban Public Schools through our partner organizations. follow T.S. Eliot is helping Underserved Urban Kids Who Can't Read, Won't You? jack&books Presents the classic epic poem by T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land" with 13 new, original and evocative illustrations by artist Benjamin Shannon; an interactive Table of Contents; and 10% of the proceeds going to end illiteracy in Urban Public Schools through our partner organizations. follow us on Twitter: @jackandbooks like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/jackandbooks or visit us on the mostly world wide web: www.jackandbooks.com


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T.S. Eliot is helping Underserved Urban Kids Who Can't Read, Won't You? jack&books Presents the classic epic poem by T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land" with 13 new, original and evocative illustrations by artist Benjamin Shannon; an interactive Table of Contents; and 10% of the proceeds going to end illiteracy in Urban Public Schools through our partner organizations. follow T.S. Eliot is helping Underserved Urban Kids Who Can't Read, Won't You? jack&books Presents the classic epic poem by T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land" with 13 new, original and evocative illustrations by artist Benjamin Shannon; an interactive Table of Contents; and 10% of the proceeds going to end illiteracy in Urban Public Schools through our partner organizations. follow us on Twitter: @jackandbooks like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/jackandbooks or visit us on the mostly world wide web: www.jackandbooks.com

59 review for the Waste Land (Classic Poetry Book 1)

  1. 4 out of 5

    Madeline

    I'm trying to write a term paper on this poem (key word is "trying") and then I realized, hey, I should waste some time by writing a review of the poem on Goodreads! So here we are. Here's my thing about T.S. Eliot: the man is ungodly brilliant and I love almost everything he's written. Does this mean I understand a single goddamn word of it? Of course not. But (and this is the great part) that doesn't matter. Eliot has been quoted as saying he's perfectly aware that no one has any idea what his I'm trying to write a term paper on this poem (key word is "trying") and then I realized, hey, I should waste some time by writing a review of the poem on Goodreads! So here we are. Here's my thing about T.S. Eliot: the man is ungodly brilliant and I love almost everything he's written. Does this mean I understand a single goddamn word of it? Of course not. But (and this is the great part) that doesn't matter. Eliot has been quoted as saying he's perfectly aware that no one has any idea what his poems are about, and he's perfectly cool with that. Understanding Eliot's poems is not the point; the point is to recognize that he writes with incredible skill and to just lose yourself in the words. My Lit book, How to Read a Poem, said it best: "Eliot is often see as an intellectually difficult, fearfully elitist writer, and so in some ways he was. But he was also the kind of poet who put little store by erudite allusions, and professed himself quite content to have his poetry read by those who had little idea what it meant. It was form - the material stuff of language itself, its archaic resonances and tentacular roots - which mattered most to him. In fact, he once claimed to have enjoyed reading Dante in the original even before he could understand Italian...In some ways a semi-literate would have been Eliot's ideal reader. He was more of a primitivist than a sophisticate. He was interested in what a poem did, not what it said - in the resonances of the signifier, the lures of its music, the hauntings of its grains and textures, the subterranean workings of what one can only call the poem's unconscious." Translation: in Eliot's eyes, we are all uncultured idiots, and he wouldn't have it any other way. So, for those of you struggling to get through the wordy, allusion-tastic, multiple-language maze that is The Waste Land, I can only tell you this: Relax and just enjoy the ride. You have nothing to fear. T.S. Eliot loves you. Read for: Perspectives on Literature

  2. 5 out of 5

    Huda Yahya

    ... أعذر كل من لم يستطع فهم أو محبة الأرض الخراب بالعربية فأنا عانيت معها وحدي قبل دراستها بلغتها الأصلية فالرموز وطريقة السرد(العظيمة) تؤثر كثيرا على من لا خلفية له عنها عندما بدأت في دبلومة الترجمة في الدراسات العليا وجدت أستاذي في الشعر هو أحد أساتذتي في الترجمة أيضا وعندما علمت أنه يشرح القصيدة لإحدى الفرق أسرعت وطلبت منه الحضور معهم وياله من تجدد للسحر مجددا أعيش أجمل الجلسات الشعرية وأتمتع بذكاء إليوت وقدرته المذهلة على تكوين القصيد البعض يتجرأ على وصف القصيدة بالمفككة وهذا في رأيي محض هراء فالوحدة ... أعذر كل من لم يستطع فهم أو محبة الأرض الخراب بالعربية فأنا عانيت معها وحدي قبل دراستها بلغتها الأصلية فالرموز وطريقة السرد(العظيمة) تؤثر كثيرا على من لا خلفية له عنها عندما بدأت في دبلومة الترجمة في الدراسات العليا وجدت أستاذي في الشعر هو أحد أساتذتي في الترجمة أيضا وعندما علمت أنه يشرح القصيدة لإحدى الفرق أسرعت وطلبت منه الحضور معهم وياله من تجدد للسحر مجددا أعيش أجمل الجلسات الشعرية ‏ وأتمتع بذكاء إليوت وقدرته المذهلة على تكوين القصيد البعض يتجرأ على وصف القصيدة بالمفككة وهذا في رأيي محض هراء فالوحدة العضوية متحققة وبقوة في القصيدة يظهر ذلك جليا عندما تكتمل وتنتهي إذا لما اختار إليوت هذا التشظي في تركيب قصيدته وبناؤها بهذا الشكل وصياغتها بتلك اللغة الصعبة إن إليوت هنا يستخدم الرمزية بكثافة وبطريقة فريدة فهذا التشظي يرمز لتشظي أفكار الإنسان المعاصر(وقتها)‏ وتفكك هويته إلى حطام وأشلاء مبعثرة وانتشار الخواء الفكري والفراغ الروحي والانحطاط الأخلاقي الذي تركته الحرب وراءها ***** كتبت القصيدة في أجواء الحرب العالمية الأولى ‏ وبالنظر إلى القصيدة في سياقها التاريخي ‏ نعرف أسباب ودوافع كتابة القصيدة على هذا النحو جاعلا منها مددا لا يفنى لأفكار العدمية والعبثية ‏ April is the cruellest month breeding lilacs out of the dead land ‎ مفتتح القصيدة الذي توقفت عنده أنا –وأستاذي طويلا أعني كيف يمكن أن يكون شهر الربيع هو الأقسى‏ كيف يراه الشاعر بهذه الطريقة المفزعة إذا اعتمد الشاعر على مفاجئة القارئ من البداية من الكلمة الأولى لم يترك له مجالا لأي أمل فالعدم هو المصير المحتوم‏ ومن ثم يأتي الشتاء ليدفئنا بغطائه الثلجي من النسيان : : Winter Kept us warm, covering‏ ‏ Earth in forgetful snow كان لإليوت صديق حميم فقده بسبب ويلات الحرب‏ وفي آخر مرة رأه كان يلوح له بزهر الليلك ‏ وإذ عرفنا ذلك فقد نرى في بعض الرموز صورة ذلك الصديق المغدور كالملّاح الفينيقي الغريق ***** تتعدد الألسنة في هذه الرواية وبدون سابق إنذار نجد الواحد بعد الآخر يقص علينا روايته والتي تبدو وكأنها مقتطع من حديث لا بداية له ولا نهاية وسنجد لغات أخرى على ألسنة أشخاص كثيرين فالإنسان في قصيدة إليوت قد يكون من أي مكان في الأرض ولكنه بالتأكيد يعاني من نفس الخلل ويتحلل تحت وطأة ذاك الدمار‏ وهذه الشخصيات في النهاية تتضح كالتالي:‏ السيدة الثرية الفتاة التي تعمل على الالة الكاتبة ستيتسون الشبح‏ فيلوميلا التي كتبها تيريوس الإغريقي‏ اللايدي فريسكا التاجر يوجينيديز فيلباس الفينيقي مدام سوسوستريس قارئة الطالع‏ ذافيشر كينج تيريسياس النبي الأعمى من أوديسة هومر‏ وأخيرا الراوي ***** في قصيدته يقتبس إليوت من دانتي وشكسبير وواجنر وغيرهم ‏ ويعتمد على أساطير قديمة كثيرة ويضفر كل هذا بطريقته الخاصة ‏ ليكون منها واحدة من أمتع وأعجب القصائد في تاريخ البشرية والحديث عن القصيدة وفك رموزها يطول وإلى أن تتوافر لدي القدرة والوقت سأترك انطباعي ها هنا ‏ أنا أحب ذا وايست لاند أحب قراءتها ودراستها وسماعها والقراءة عنها أحب كل ما يتعلق بها أحبها ببساطة... كثيرا

  3. 4 out of 5

    Manny

    You know, one of the greatest poems of the 20th century and that kind of thing. I must know a fair amount of it by heart. Here's a story about "The Waste Land" that some people may find amusing. Many years ago, when I was an undergraduate in Cambridge, a friend of mine asked me for advice on how to impress female Eng Lit majors. Well, I said, you could do worse than use The Waste Land. Just memorise a few lines, and you'll probably be able to bluff successfully. We did some rehearsals, and You know, one of the greatest poems of the 20th century and that kind of thing. I must know a fair amount of it by heart. Here's a story about "The Waste Land" that some people may find amusing. Many years ago, when I was an undergraduate in Cambridge, a friend of mine asked me for advice on how to impress female Eng Lit majors. Well, I said, you could do worse than use The Waste Land. Just memorise a few lines, and you'll probably be able to bluff successfully. We did some rehearsals, and eventually agreed on the following script. He would start off by quoting the first few lines: "April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain." And then he would say, But that's not my favourite bit! and quote the following: "What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess." He tried it out a couple of times, and it worked! Female Eng Lit majors, I apologise for assisting with this deception. It wasn't very nice of me.

  4. 5 out of 5

    Bill Kerwin

    I would not presume to offer anything approaching a definitive judgment of this unique and influential poem, a poem which presents usin early modernist fashionwith a provocative collage of voices and scenes, fragments which Eliot has collected from the heap of broken images that litter the desert of our culture, but which he presents in a way that grants them new terror and new poignancy, in a way that shows us fear in a handful of dust and hints--if only by its absence--at the possibility of a I would not presume to offer anything approaching a definitive judgment of this unique and influential poem, a poem which presents us—in early modernist fashion—with a provocative collage of voices and scenes, fragments which Eliot has collected from the “heap of broken images” that litter the desert of our culture, but which he presents in a way that grants them new terror and new poignancy, in a way that shows us “fear in a handful of dust” and hints--if only by its absence--at the possibility of a greener world to come. First off, let me say I was disappointed in this little edition. I picked it up initially because it contained an introduction by Paul Maldoon, an Irish poet with a reputation for allusiveness and obscurity—just the sort to illuminate this fragmentary and cryptic masterpiece. But his introduction is brief and not terribly helpful, and his enthusiasm for Irish literature leads him to see literary connections where they do not exist. For example, although I believe he is correct when he says the “Nighttown” episode of Ulysses is a major influence on the poem, he is mistaken when he speculates that Eliot’s working title for it,”He Do the Police in Different Voices” is also derived from this episode. (It is actually a quotation from a character in Dicken’s A Mutual Friend, who is describing the oral reading technique of her precocious foster child, how he brings to life the crime stories published in the sensational magazine, The Police Gazette.) I was also disappointed in the lack of notes. I was looking for more extensive annotations, because I need them to help me unmask many references in this often obscure poem. But when they said “notes,” I guess the editors just meant Eliot’s original notes, which are almost invariably appended to the poem anyway, whatever the edition. I’ll end by reproducing a few passages which illustrate something I noticed for the first time this reading: the large number of gothic and decadent images in this poem. In spite of its classical allusions, modernist structure and tone, we are still not that far from the decadent ‘90’s here: “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!” * * * * * * * * * 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… * * * * * * * * * 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... And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. * * * * * * * * * A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank... 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. * * * * * * * * * 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? * * * * * * * * 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

  5. 5 out of 5

    Ahmad Sharabiani

    The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot The Waste Land is a long poem by T. S. Eliot, widely regarded as one of the most important poems of the 20th century and a central work of modernist poetry. Published in 1922, the 434-line poem first appeared in the United Kingdom in the October issue of Eliot's The Criterion and in the United States in the November issue of The Dial. It was published in book form in December 1922. Among its famous phrases are "April is the cruellest month", "I will show you fear in a The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot The Waste Land is a long poem by T. S. Eliot, widely regarded as one of the most important poems of the 20th century and a central work of modernist poetry. Published in 1922, the 434-line poem first appeared in the United Kingdom in the October issue of Eliot's The Criterion and in the United States in the November issue of The Dial. It was published in book form in December 1922. Among its famous phrases are "April is the cruellest month", "I will show you fear in a handful of dust", and the mantra in the Sanskrit language "Shantih shantih shantih". The poem's structure is divided into five sections. The first section, "The Burial of the Dead," introduces the diverse themes of disillusionment and despair. The second, "A Game of Chess," employs vignettes of several characters—alternating narrations—that address those themes experientially. "The Fire Sermon," The third section, offers a philosophical meditation in relation to the imagery of death and views of self-denial in juxtaposition influenced by Augustine of Hippo and eastern religions. After a fourth section, "Death by Water," which includes a brief lyrical petition. The culminating fifth section, "What the Thunder Said," concludes with an image of judgment. عنوانها: سرزمین ویران (حسین رازى، حمید عنایت و چنگیز مشیرى)؛ سرزمین هرز (بهمن شعله ور، مهدى وهابى)؛ دشت سترون و اشعار دیگر (پرویز لشکری)؛ دشت سترون (شهریار شهیدی)؛ ارض موات (بیژن الهی)؛ خراب آباد؛ معجزه قرن بیستم (محمد حامد نوری)؛ سرزمبن بی حاصل (حسن شهباز، جواد علافچی)؛ شاعر تی.اس الیوت؛ تاریخ نخستین خوانش ماه مارس سال دوهزار و دو میلادی سرزمین بی حاصل: نخستین چاپ این منظومه با عنوان «سرزمین ویران» با ترجمه حسین رازى، حمید عنایت و چنگیز مشیرى، در اسفند ماه سال 1334هجری خورشیدی، در جُنگ هنر و ادب امروز، دفتر اول چاپ شد؛ در زمستان سال 1343هجری خورشیدی، «بهمن شعله ور» اقدام به ترجمه این اثر کرد، که با همین عنوان «سرزمین هرز»، در مجله آرش منتشر شد انتشارات نیل در تهران نیز، در سال 1350هجری خورشیدی، این شعرها را با عنوان «دشت سترون و اشعار دیگر» به چاپ رساند، که ترجمه ی آن را پرویز لشکرى انجام داده بود در سال 1357هجری خورشیدی مترجم دیگرى نیز به سراغ شعرهاى الیوت رفت؛ این بار جناب حسن شهباز، کتاب الیوت را ترجمه و به بنگاه ترجمه و نشر کتاب سپرد؛ نشر فاریاب در سال 1362هجری خورشیدی، ترجمه ی بهمن شعله ور را، با عنوان «سرزمین هرز»، بار دیگر به نام خود چاپ و منتشر کرد آخرین ترجمه پیش از کتاب حاضر نیز، در مؤسسه ی نشر هما، با عنوان «دشت سترون» انجام شد این کتاب در سال 1377هجری خورشیدی در بازار کتاب ایران توزیع شد؛ همچنین نشر امتداد در تهران هم، به سراغ شعرهاى این شاعر انگلیسى رفته، و کتاب «سرزمین هرز» را با ترجمه ی مهدى وهابى چاپ و منتشر کرده است ترجمه هاى یاد شده، در حال حاضر جزء کتابهاى کمیاب بازار کتاب هستند؛ البته به این فهرست، علاوه بر ترجمه ی جناب جواد علافچی، و ترجمه ی جناب هومن عزیزی را هم، که در سایت اینترنتی مانی ها منتشر شده باید افزود نقل تکه ای از شعر: درخت خشک سایه ندارد؛ جیرجیرک، راحتت نمی­گذارد؛ در این سنگ­های خشک، صدای آبی نیست؛ ا. شربیانی

  6. 4 out of 5

    Gaurav

    April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. The above mentioned lines mark one of the most profound onsets in the history of modernist literature; and perhaps with eruption of the highly dense, heart pounding effusion, a magical spell envelops the reader who would be kept shifting between time and space, embark and decay of civilization, prophecy and satire, philosophy and faith, life and death throughout the April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. The above mentioned lines mark one of the most profound onsets in the history of modernist literature; and perhaps with eruption of the highly dense, heart pounding effusion, a magical spell envelops the reader who would be kept shifting between time and space, embark and decay of civilization, prophecy and satire, philosophy and faith, life and death throughout the mind-clouding, breath- taking journey of around 433 lines; of which, some can stand on their own alone protruding their beings through the undulations of nothingness. The ghostly but spectral voyage starts with The burial of dead , takes one along through the graveyards, stony mystical landscapes to hyacinth gardens, up to the magical but heart poundings scenes exuded out of mystery of tarot cards. At times, one might feel lost as if something unknown but with mighty prowess is carrying one to nowhere but then a sudden clout strikes your consciousness with a colossal impact, you are taken aback by sudden surge of the intensity as you come to Unreal City; and out of nowhere, death strikes you, Dante' s Inferno emerges out of cloud of your memory. You are taken through threads of life emerging out from dead. The game of black and white squares, arranged in an alternate manner to give a checkered impression, brings you to the stark absurdity of life- the change of Philomel embodies the absurdness prevailed in the life of Philomel which (who) has been transformed by gods, but as a compensation, and who cries her heart out of agony yet the world is so deaf and insensitive to her anguish that it occurs a heart-rending song to it. You are blown further on gust of wind towards a nether world where the most potent questions, but disguised under the sheath of ignorance (or perhaps incompetence), surge up by opening grand (ferocious) arms, from the depth of being and nothingness. The idea of The Waste Land (perhaps) seems to be sprouted out of modern problems—the war, industrialization, abortion, urban life—which the poet addresses in it and at the same time to participate in a literary tradition. Eliot once, famously, wrote his friend Conrad Akein: ''It's interesting to cut yourself to pieces once in a while and wait to see if the fragments will sprout", the imagination of Eliot resembles the decaying land that is the subject of the poem: nothing seems to take root among the stony rubbish left behind by old poems and scraps of popular culture. As the other poems of Eliot are, The Waste Land is highly symbolic and extensively use allusions, quotations (in several languages), a variety of verse forms, and a collage of poetic fragments to create the sense of speaking for an entire culture in crisis. It's a poem of radical doubt and negation, urging that every human desire be stilled except the desire for self-surrender, for restraint, and for peace. The poets has blend satire and absurdity so well that it looks probably a superhuman task to determine whether the use of some themes/ rhymes, in way which cajoles a seemingly comic effect, is deliberate or accidental as surfaces up. The poem is quite meticulously, but effortlessly, written in fragments- not like traditional verses- which would give altogether different effects to the reader when they are read in fragments or in entirely. The poem concludes with a rapid series of allusive literary fragments: seven of the last eight lines are quotations. As one moves through these quotations, it might occur as if the poem becomes conscious of itself, the being of the poem emanates from the verbose kingdom of words and the poem itself stands in front of the reader- staring straight into the eyes of reader; and a sudden shiver runs through his/ her spine to realize what has just traverses through the scanner of 'conscious' eyes. I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge in falling down falling down falling down Poi s'ascose mel foco che gil affina Quando fiam uti chelidon- O swallow swallow Le Prince d'Acquitane a la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fir you. Hieronymo's mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata Shantih shantih shantih. It's a great achievement in modernist art but one needs to be patient to truly feel the shivers of its magical existence; as it's a characteristic of modernism, the appreciation of the poem demands devotional labor as well as a sympathetic imagination. Beneath these meticulously crafted poetics lay assumptions about art that were curiously religious, and that fostered theories of poetry as a liturgy for the elect. Excerpts The Burial of Dead Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living or dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. O'ed und leer das Meer. 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. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID 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 Gilding 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? Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful dancing of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed.

  7. 4 out of 5

    Alok Mishra

    Some people are born to become the trendsetters and I will say that T. S. Eliot has opened the new gates to poetry after the publication of his masterpiece The Waste Land. Poetry was supposed to be about lyrics and music only. He created a different kind of disturbing music but that rang to the ears the alarming sound of perversion in humanity... The Waste Land will be remembered for its uniqueness and incompleteness and even then, for creating a new trend...

  8. 5 out of 5

    Tadiana ✩Night Owl☽

    I read a lot of poems as an English major back in the day.* Not many have stuck with me over the years, but The Waste Land is one of them: T.S. Eliot's lamentation of the spiritual drought in our day, the waste land of our Western society, lightened by a few fleeting glimpses of hope. It's fragmented, haunting, laden with symbolism and allusions, and utterly brilliant. A diverse cast of characters take turns narrating the poem, or having their conversations overheard by the narrator, including: ✍ I read a lot of poems as an English major back in the day.* Not many have stuck with me over the years, but The Waste Land is one of them: T.S. Eliot's lamentation of the spiritual drought in our day, the waste land of our Western society, lightened by a few fleeting glimpses of hope. It's fragmented, haunting, laden with symbolism and allusions, and utterly brilliant. A diverse cast of characters take turns narrating the poem, or having their conversations overheard by the narrator, including: ✍ a Lithuanian countess, reminiscing about her childhood and life ("I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter") ✍ a prophetic voice, like Ezekiel, examining the barrenness of civilization ("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 ...") ✍ Madame Sosostris, a famous but fake clairvoyant, telling a fortune with tarot cards ("I do not find the Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you.") ✍ a bored woman of leisure, talking to her husband, who answers in his mind ("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.") ✍ Two women talking in a bar about sex and abortion ("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.") ... and many more. Those are just the main ones in the first two (of five) sections). Symbols of drought and fertility, spiritual waste and renewal, surface and resurface, showing a different facet each time. I'd forgotten that the Holy Grail (cup) and Holy Lance (spear) doubled as a nifty set of female/male sexual symbols! This is a poem that deserves to be read, taken apart and studied, and then simply read again and appreciated. "These fragments I have shored against my ruins..." *I still have my 2600 page The Norton Anthology of English Literature, which has extensive analysis and footnotes. It also has my helpful handwritten margin notes from 30+ years ago, written in the most amazingly lovely, minuscule handwriting imaginable (seriously, the letters are about a half a millimeter high) that I could never in a million years recreate now.

  9. 4 out of 5

    Lisa

    I quite often cite the famous line "April is the cruellest month" completely out of context. And I happily refer to The Waste Land and Eliot's Nobel Prize when I do. However, I can't say I ever understood the long trail of lines that it contains, even though I read it several times. And most bizarre of all, I don't even agree with my favourite quote from it. FEBRUARY is the cruellest month: dark and cold and wet, and no end in sight! Somehow, I don't think I missed the point of the poem though, by I quite often cite the famous line "April is the cruellest month" completely out of context. And I happily refer to The Waste Land and Eliot's Nobel Prize when I do. However, I can't say I ever understood the long trail of lines that it contains, even though I read it several times. And most bizarre of all, I don't even agree with my favourite quote from it. FEBRUARY is the cruellest month: dark and cold and wet, and no end in sight! Somehow, I don't think I missed the point of the poem though, by misquoting, by disagreeing with the statement, and by not getting it at all. I think The Waste Land means just that: human confusion on all levels expressed in poetic language. February is the stupidest month too, so I might be wrong.

  10. 4 out of 5

    Sean Barrs The Ultra Vegan

    This is the hardest poem Ive ever read. Certainly, the difficulty experienced when reading something is not enough reason to leave a bad review. Im currently reading Ulysses, a notoriously difficult book, but I am enjoying it nonetheless. This, however, is an entirely different creature. Despite being an English student I do find poetry difficult. It may be because of my background. I transferred from sciences into English, so I had very little experience beyond a few poems I read at school. So This is the hardest poem I’ve ever read. Certainly, the difficulty experienced when reading something is not enough reason to leave a bad review. I’m currently reading Ulysses, a notoriously difficult book, but I am enjoying it nonetheless. This, however, is an entirely different creature. Despite being an English student I do find poetry difficult. It may be because of my background. I transferred from sciences into English, so I had very little experience beyond a few poems I read at school. So when I entered the world of poetry at degree level I was way out of my depth. It took me a long time to catch up on what I’d missed, and it took me even longer to actually enjoy poetry. The point is reading poetry is different to reading novels. It’s harder to do, and I have to concentrate greatly to do it. But, every so often, when you find the right poem for you, it takes you away as you become lost in a mirage of words, images and metaphors. And sometimes, it strikes a chord within you and you feel everything the poem is saying. The Waste Land does none of these things. Instead it bombards you with countless intertextual references and information. In order to gain a thorough a succinct understanding of this poem, a poem that takes no longer than thirty minutes to read, I would likely have to spend five-six hours researching the meaning of the terminology, phrasing and historical mentions. That’s how difficult it is. Perhaps if I was a white middle class, highly educated man from the nineteen-twenties then I might be able to appreciate this poem more. But, as it stands, I’m not! The worse thing about the poem for me is its lack of coherency. This in itself is not a bad thing. It’s a modernist text; this is what modernist authors did. But, when combined with the fact that the surface level of the writing is near incomprehensible to me, it became rather a painful experience to read it. There are some obvious things to take from the poem. It is post world war one and the content is an image of the destruction that followed, the deprivation, the sadness, the darkness and, of course, the actually wasted land ruined by war. But these images aren’t enough for me to enjoy the poem. It would be like reading Shakespeare’s The Tempest and coming to the conclusion that it is a play about the follies of revenge. This is true, but it is also about many other things that combine to form a piece of artistic brilliance. When I read The Waste Land I feel stupid. I feel like I’m reading something that I cannot quite understand, and this annoys me. I feel like at times T.S Elliot is being pretentious, inserting references just do demonstrate his intellect rather than contribute something meaningful to the poem at large. And I don’t like it. I don't want to find out what they mean. For me this poem is everything great poetry shouldn’t be. But this is just my opinion. For the right reader this poem would be excellence itself. However, it’s not something I’d personally recommend. And, if that wasn't enough, as a side note, T.S Eliot is highly critical towards Shelley- we could never get on!

  11. 4 out of 5

    Hannah Eiseman-Renyard

    This Pisses Me Off and Makes Me Feel Like a Moron I've had to read this twice in the course of my education, and I don't like it one bit, though I thoroughly appreciate its status and importance. Sort of like my attitude to atomic weapons. You wouldn't dismiss atomic weapons as 'crap', but you could legitimately say 'I appreciate their significance but I don't like them at all.' I don't think there has ever been more literary masturbation about any other piece of writing than The Wasteland, and This Pisses Me Off and Makes Me Feel Like a Moron I've had to read this twice in the course of my education, and I don't like it one bit, though I thoroughly appreciate its status and importance. Sort of like my attitude to atomic weapons. You wouldn't dismiss atomic weapons as 'crap', but you could legitimately say 'I appreciate their significance but I don't like them at all.' I don't think there has ever been more literary masturbation about any other piece of writing than The Wasteland, and I personally found it charmless, aloof and with nothing to engage my wish to push through that first impression. Yes, it's all the pieces of the 'shattered' classical world, thrown together in a different and hideous mixture to reflect the modernists' belief that the world as they knew it, and all previous literary forms, weren't up to the task of reflecting their contemporary world - but I really don't like the result. It doesn't engage me and it doesn't illuminate me. Maybe that was the point. Still don't like it, and I'm not in university anymore, so I don't have to try to keep up with the intellectual dick-swinging which surrounds this piece. Thanks but no thanks. Anything this determinedly difficult just puts my back up, and the more I learn of Eliot himself the less I feel like tackling it. Okay, Eliot, you're a misogynistic, anti-Semitic elitist who doesn't think anyone without a classical education is worthy of reading your work. Well, fine. Fuck you. I'll take my comprehensive-educated Jewish arse elsewhere.

  12. 5 out of 5

    فؤاد

    هر مؤلف فقط تا سه بار فرصت داره آدم رو تحت تأثیر قرار بده تا وقتی که به کلی کنار گذاشته بشه. تی اس الیوت تا حالا دو تا فرصتش رو سوخت کرده!! هر مؤلف فقط تا سه بار فرصت داره آدم رو تحت تأثیر قرار بده، تا وقتی که به کلی کنار گذاشته بشه. تی اس الیوت تا حالا دو تا فرصتش رو سوخت کرده!!

  13. 5 out of 5

    Håkon

    I must confess. I have no idea what I just read. But it was the most beautiful thing.

  14. 4 out of 5

    Nikos Tsentemeidis

    Σπουδαίο δείγμα μεταμοντερνισμού. Μου άρεσε, ίσως γιατί δεν διάβασα ποτέ κάτι παρόμοιο. Για ένα περίεργο λόγο μου θύμισε τα ποιήματα του James Douglas (Jim) Morrison, που διάβασα πριν 20 χρόνια. Ξεκίνησα από τη μετάφραση, η οποία κυλούσε καλά σε γενικές γραμμές έως ότου συνάντησα λέξεις που δεν κολλούσαν εμφανέστατα, οπότε συνέχισα με το πρωτότυπο, που δεν ήταν δύσκολο. Η έκδοση που έχω είναι των Gutenberg, ενώ είχα ως μέτρο σύγκρισης τη μετάφραση του Γαβριηλίδη, η οποία ήταν καλύτερη.

  15. 4 out of 5

    Rakhi Dalal

    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.

  16. 5 out of 5

    Roula

    ειχα πρωτοδιαβασει αυτο το ποιημα στα αγγλικα εκει στα 20 περιπου, στα πρωτα χρονια της σχολης και η αναμνηση που μου ειχε αφησει ηταν ενα μεγαλο ερωτηματικο και ενα απεραντο αγχος για το τι στην ευχη θα γραψω αν πεσει στην εξεταστική. .α! και κατι για τον απριλη που ειναι ο cruelest month ..ετσι ειχα απομνημονεύσει διαφορα κομματια του sparknotes (life saver!) και απλα ηλπιζα..τωρα 10 χρονια περιπου μετα το ξαναδιαβασα, σε μεταφραση Σεφερη με τις σημειωσουλες μου διπλα(αλλιως δεν βγαινει κατα ειχα πρωτοδιαβασει αυτο το ποιημα στα αγγλικα εκει στα 20 περιπου, στα πρωτα χρονια της σχολης και η αναμνηση που μου ειχε αφησει ηταν ενα μεγαλο ερωτηματικο και ενα απεραντο αγχος για το τι στην ευχη θα γραψω αν πεσει στην εξεταστική. .α! και κατι για τον απριλη που ειναι ο cruelest month ..ετσι ειχα απομνημονεύσει διαφορα κομματια του sparknotes (life saver!) και απλα ηλπιζα..τωρα 10 χρονια περιπου μετα το ξαναδιαβασα, σε μεταφραση Σεφερη με τις σημειωσουλες μου διπλα(αλλιως δεν βγαινει κατα την ταπεινη μου αποψη)και ω ποσο μεγαλη διαφορα κανουν αυτα τα 10 χρονια? η μεταφραση? το γεγονος οτι ηταν για την προσωπικη μου ευχαριστηση και οχι για εξετασεις? ολα μαζι ισως..ειναι ενα ποιημα..εμπειρια.ειναι το πιο δυσκολο κειμενο που εχει γραφτει μαζι με τον οδυσσεα του Τζόυς ,οπως λενε αυτοι που ξερουν και αξιζει να ταλαιπωρηθεις για καθε συλλαβη του..

  17. 5 out of 5

    Evripidis Gousiaris

    Όπως προτείνει ο μεταφραστής του... ΜΗΝ το διαβάσετε με τα μάτια.

  18. 5 out of 5

    aPriL does feral sometimes

    T. S. Eliot, who was a literary man who previously had faith in literary wisdom and social norms, I think discovered during World War I how useless lessons of wisdom and defined social mores were against processing the experience of massive wartime deaths and maiming. His personal tragedy of a very damaging marriage was also very difficult. In 'The Waste Land', I think Eliot was ranting at literature, society, religion and culture for failing to stop the 'collapse' of civilization. Eliot also T. S. Eliot, who was a literary man who previously had faith in literary wisdom and social norms, I think discovered during World War I how useless lessons of wisdom and defined social mores were against processing the experience of massive wartime deaths and maiming. His personal tragedy of a very damaging marriage was also very difficult. In 'The Waste Land', I think Eliot was ranting at literature, society, religion and culture for failing to stop the 'collapse' of civilization. Eliot also rages at the ultimate impotence of classic literature to warn the individual or society about the utter devastation and cruelty of war. The poem is full of allusions to those myths and wiseman sayings which reflect the darkness in humanity rather than the wisdom. He includes bits of memory in his poem which emphasize the cluelessness and obtuseness of people. In my opinion, most Westerners suffer at a certain point in their lives a sudden feeling that civilization is collapsing because they think society has moved away from the classic ideals which maintained the life they imagine they grew up in. In most cases however, civilization is actually continuing on as it always has; it's the veils of classic idealism that the educated observer was looking through that were ripped way. To a child, Reality is a description which he has been taught to believe in. Grownups do their best to live ideally, but I think true wisdom is accepting that we often fall short of what we aspire to, but we need to get on anyway. Eliot's poem, though, is a wail of despair. I read that hundreds of thousands of young male aristocrats, many of whom were officers and the next generation of leaders, died in WWI along with millions of 'ordinary' people. I guess that this massive die-off of millions hastened the end of centuries-old medieval-class relationships which probably had given comfort, continuity and stability to most European people of the early 20th century. But the generation educated to rule by maintaining class divisions beneficial to that upper class died. I think wars before WWI used to have long pauses in the conduct of war, which was no longer possible in WWI due to the advances of war mechanization. Adding to the psychological turmoil, for a soldier surviving ongoing warfare it means you get sent to the front on multiple tours. In addition, the aftermath of every war fought close to home is a huge upheaval because of the resulting shortage of young men, a spread of disease vectors, transfers of and new concentrations of wealth, and disrupted markets. But added to the usual wartime disruptions, I think, WWI was the first war which had massive long-distance killing, not the more honorable warrior to warrior battle. Fighting sword to sword probably feels different emotionally than being killed by invisible shrapnel or powerful percussions that come out of nowhere without pause, from hearing the sound for hours of constant shelling, or dying from a gas which suffocates you invisibly. I can only imagine it. I've heard accounts from Vietnam fighters, and I guess among the usual horrors that cause PTSD, in particular, was not being able to see anything because of the thick jungles combined with the distances bullets could travel invisibly. I think the change from single face-to-face combat to sudden mass mechanized death on any army unprepared by training or TV or movies or video games (I'm not being flippant) was exponentially devastating. I know everything about war is bad, but I'm guessing if you can't see, hear, or feel the distant soldier who is killing your friends sitting 1 inch from you is a more searing experience, even with mental preparation. I think random death makes the ideals of unquestioned patriotism and honor more difficult to hang onto. Among the few rewards of being a warrior is that 'mano y mano' victory - I believe it's biology-based for many men. However, when a person's strength and intelligence and value is made moot simply because of where you accidentally happen to be standing or sitting when shrapnel strikes, it probably feels unjust, wrong, unfair, whimsical, more pointless, more meaningless, and random than you can mentally prepare for. You'd have to be shocked by the randomness of dying! It would raise questions about everything you believed about the protective 'shields' of religion, societal mores and expectations; and about being a good person as a strategy for deserving to stay alive, and about the having a purity of purpose to be deserving of winning, even being too educated, thus too smart or valuable to be killed, etc. For most Americans, the closest experience of the possibility of death comes from car or sport accidents and illnesses. Many people, of course, rely on the normal life patterns surrounding them for reassurance that they are magically protected from death. In war, though, there are no normal life patterns around them. Soldiers become aware that anyone can die and no one has magical immunity. No prayer, no amulet, no ritual, no strength or skill, no powerful person or strategy, nothing can protect you from a sudden act of warfare in the physical space around you. In the days of battle you see perfectly decent, good, family men chopped mercilessly into pieces despite their utilizing every bit of training and good fortune. I feel like having a bit of a rant myself.

  19. 4 out of 5

    Ahmed Ibrahim

    " من هذه الدراسة يتضح لنا أن الثورة الشعرية التي أحدثها ت.س.إليوت بقصيدة "أرض الضياع" لم تكن ثورة في الشعر الإنجليزي أو الأمريكي فحسب بل كانت ثورة في فن الشعر بصفة عامة بحيث امتد تأثيرها ليشمل معظم شعراء العالم في مختلف اللغات سواء هؤلاء الذين قرءوها في نصها الأصلي أو مترجمة. فقد تجاوز بها إليوت كل القضايا التقليدية التي أثارها النقاد والشعراء خاصة في العالم العربي حيث الجدل المثار بين أنصار الفصحى أو أنصار العامية بين مؤيدي الشعر العمودي المقفى وبين مؤيدي الشعر الحر والمرسل بين من يعتمدون على " من هذه الدراسة يتضح لنا أن الثورة الشعرية التي أحدثها ت.س.إليوت بقصيدة "أرض الضياع" لم تكن ثورة في الشعر الإنجليزي أو الأمريكي فحسب بل كانت ثورة في فن الشعر بصفة عامة بحيث امتد تأثيرها ليشمل معظم شعراء العالم في مختلف اللغات، سواء هؤلاء الذين قرءوها في نصها الأصلي أو مترجمة. فقد تجاوز بها إليوت كل القضايا التقليدية التي أثارها النقاد والشعراء، خاصة في العالم العربي حيث الجدل المثار بين أنصار الفصحى أو أنصار العامية، بين مؤيدي الشعر العمودي المقفى وبين مؤيدي الشعر الحر والمرسل، بين من يعتمدون على الكلمة واللفظ وبين من يلجأون إلى الاستعارة والرمز والصورة. فكل هذه المقننات النقدية والقوالب الشعرية جاءت نتيجة للإبداع الشعري وليس العكس، ولذلك يجب ألا تتحول إلى قيود تحد من الانطلاقات التي لابد أن تطور من مسيرة الشعر وتجدد من طاقاته الخلاقة الكفيلة بابتكار مقننات نقدية وأنماط وتقاليد شعرية جديدة. " دراسة رائعة لنبيل راغب ساعدتني في ما لم تقم به القصيدة بعد ترجمتها وهي الوقوف على جماليات النص وعظمته ومدى تأثيره في الشعر عامة، فلكي تعي هذه القصيدة لابد أن تقرأها بلغتها الأصلية، فبالرغم من أن الترجمة جيدة جدًا إلا أن القصيدة تفتقر للروح الشعرية بعد ترجمتها. الشرح والتحليل رائع من المترجم، فهذه القصيدة لا تقرأ بدون شرح حتى تستطيع فهمها. القدرة على العطاء بسخاء، والرحمة بالآخرين، وكبح جماح النفس الأمارة بالسوء من أجل بلوغ السلام الذي يفوق الادراك؛ وهي الوصايا الثلاث الذي اختتم بها إليوت رائعته الشعرية الخالدة

  20. 5 out of 5

    peiman-mir5 rezakhani

    دوستانِ گرانقدراین دفترِ شعر از 10 شعرِ بلند و 5 شعرِ کوتاه تشکیل شده است و در پایان نیز مقاله ای از الیوت با نامِ سنّت و استعدادِ فردی چاپ شده است به انتخاب ابیاتی از این کتاب را در زیر برایِ شما بزرگواران مینویسم ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ من فكر مي كنم ما در محاصرۀ موش هايي هستيم آن جا كه مردگان استخوا ن هايشان را از دست داده اند ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ موج هايِ قهوه ايِ مه چهره هاي كج و كوجِ دوستانِ گرانقدر،این دفترِ شعر از 10 شعرِ بلند و 5 شعرِ کوتاه تشکیل شده است و در پایان نیز مقاله ای از « الیوت» با نامِ « سنّت و استعدادِ فردی» چاپ شده است به انتخاب ابیاتی از این کتاب را در زیر، برایِ شما بزرگواران مینویسم ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ من فكر مي كنم، ما در محاصرۀ موش هايي هستيم آن جا، كه مردگان استخوا ن هايشان را از دست داده اند ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ موج هايِ قهوه ايِ مه چهره هاي كج و كوجِ خيابان را به سويِ من پرتاب مي كند و از زني كه با دامني گل آلود شتابان مي گذرد لبخندي مي زند، لبخندي بی هدف كه پرپر مي زند در هوا و گم مي شود بر بامِ خانه ها ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ميان تمنا و تشنج ميان توانايي و وجود ميان بودن و سقوط سايه مي افتد چون زمين از آنِ توست چون از آنِ تو زندگي هست چون از آن توست چنين به پايان مي رسد جهان چنين به پايان مي رسد جهان چنين به پايان مي رسد جهان نه با انفجاري كه با ناله اي ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ :چنين است در سرزمينِ ديگر مرگ بيدار شدن در تنهايي به لحظه اي كه از التهاب مي لرزيم لب هايي خواهانِ بوسه اند و نيايش به سنگ شكسته بدل مي شود ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ مگذار نزديك تر شوم در سرزمينِ رويايي مرگ بگذار من هم لباسِ مبدل به تن كنم مويِ موش، پوستِ كلاغ، چوب پاره در كشت زار كه به رفتارِ باد رفتار مي كند ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ آن ها كه با چشم هايِ باز به سرزمينِ ديگرِ مرگ رفتند ما را به ياد دارند- يادشان اگر باشد نه چون ارواحِ خشمگينِ سرگردان چون مردانِ پوك انباشته از پوشال ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ وقتي هر چه كه هست و هر چه كه بود روزي فرسوده مي شود من بينايي، بويايي، شنوايي، چشايي لامسه ام را از دست دادم چه بايدشان مي كردم تا به تو نزديكتر شوم؟ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ دوستانِ گرامی، با آنکه این اشعار به پایِ ضعیفترین شعرهایِ شاعرانِ فارسی زبان هم نمیرسد اما تلاش کردم که بهترین ابیات را برایتان بنویسم «پیروز باشید و ایرانی»

  21. 4 out of 5

    Davide

    Limerick della terra desolata (ispirati da Wendy Cope) I In aprile non sei mai contento Terra arsa dal sole e spavento Veggenti stressanti Pendolari opprimenti Vedo Stetson: gli pianto un lamento! II Lei sedeva su un trono stupendo Scintillava, i capelli pulendo Domandava risposte Feci poche proposte Tristi come Al e Lil: un tormento. III Il Tamigi e le ossa ed i ratti. Sbircia Tìresia i letti disfatti Limpiegata coperta Suona musica esperta Wei la la. Singarbuglia da matti. IV Un fenicio chiamato Flebàs Scordò Limerick della terra desolata (ispirati da Wendy Cope) I In aprile non sei mai contento Terra arsa dal sole e spavento Veggenti stressanti Pendolari opprimenti Vedo Stetson: gli pianto un lamento! II Lei sedeva su un trono stupendo Scintillava, i capelli pulendo Domandava risposte Feci poche proposte Tristi come Al e Lil: un tormento. III Il Tamigi e le ossa ed i ratti. Sbircia Tìresia i letti disfatti L’impiegata coperta Suona musica esperta Wei la la. S’ingarbuglia da matti. IV Un fenicio chiamato Flebàs Scordò uccelli e gli affari di qua Ma senza un lamento Facea testamento Or lasciato nel mar marcirà. V Senza l’acqua, una sete da pena Poi diluvio, citazioni a catena. Van dal Sanscrito a Dante, Fino al monte Himavante, Senza note ’un capite una sega!

  22. 4 out of 5

    Shaikha Alkhaldi

    أرض الضياع رائعة الشاعر "ت. س. إليوت". نشرت أول مرة عام 1922م وتعتبر علامة بارزة ومنعطفا تاريخيا في مسار الشعر الانجليزي بصفة خاصة والشعر العالمي بصفة عامة كتبها في لوزان عندما سافر إلى سويسرا للاستشفاء شتاء 1921م. وبعد ثلاثة أشهر عاد إلى باريس وقدمها إلى صديقه "عزرا باورد" الذي قام بمراجعها وحذف مايقارب نصفها ولم يعترض "إليوت" بل اعترف أنها قصيدة مشوشة وفي حاجة إلى تناسق. . لولا شرح وتحليل الدكتور نبيل راغب الرائع لأرض الضياع لما أحببته. وترجمة جزء من القصيدة باللهجة المصرية جميل جدا لمست فيها أرض الضياع رائعة الشاعر "ت. س. إليوت". نشرت أول مرة عام 1922م، وتعتبر علامة بارزة ومنعطفا تاريخيا في مسار الشعر الانجليزي بصفة خاصة والشعر العالمي بصفة عامة، كتبها في لوزان عندما سافر إلى سويسرا للاستشفاء شتاء 1921م. وبعد ثلاثة أشهر عاد إلى باريس وقدمها إلى صديقه "عزرا باورد" الذي قام بمراجعها وحذف مايقارب نصفها ولم يعترض "إليوت" بل اعترف أنها قصيدة مشوشة وفي حاجة إلى تناسق. . لولا شرح وتحليل الدكتور نبيل راغب الرائع لأرض الضياع لما أحببته. وترجمة جزء من القصيدة باللهجة المصرية جميل جدا، لمست فيها جماليات النص الشعري بشكل واضح.

  23. 5 out of 5

    Nahed.E

    ملحوظة : هذه المراجعة لترجمة د . نبيل راغب وليس ترجمة : د. عبد الواحد لؤلؤة يمكنني أن أغفر الكثير من الأشياء في عيوب الترجمة ولكن كيف يمكنني أن أغفر ترجمة بعض أبيات من شعر إليوت إلي العامية السوقية فللأمانة ليست القصيدة كلها مترجمة إلي العامية بل بعضها فقط إلا أنني لا أتقبلها ابدأ حتي لو كانت النية جيدة في تقريبها من ذهن القارئ فالعامية هنا مرفوضة تماما اعترف أن هناك مجهود كبير من قبل المترجم في شرح وتحليل إسلوب إليوت ومقارنته بسائر الشعراء حتي إنني لفت انتباهي مجموعة من الأبيات وجدتها مشابهة ملحوظة : هذه المراجعة لترجمة د . نبيل راغب ، وليس ترجمة : د. عبد الواحد لؤلؤة يمكنني أن أغفر الكثير من الأشياء في عيوب الترجمة ولكن كيف يمكنني أن أغفر ترجمة بعض أبيات من شعر إليوت إلي العامية السوقية ؟؟ فللأمانة ليست القصيدة كلها مترجمة إلي العامية بل بعضها فقط ، إلا أنني لا أتقبلها ابدأ حتي لو كانت النية جيدة في تقريبها من ذهن القارئ، فالعامية هنا مرفوضة تماما اعترف أن هناك مجهود كبير من قبل المترجم في شرح وتحليل إسلوب إليوت ومقارنته بسائر الشعراء ، حتي إنني لفت انتباهي مجموعة من الأبيات وجدتها مشابهة للغاية بأبيات أخري قرأتها لشارل بودلير في طبعته الاولي من ديوانه أزهار الشر، وقبل أن أقارن بين بودلير وإليوت وجدت المترجم بالفعل قد انتبه لهذه الأمر وفسر لي هذا التشابه بين الاثنين مجهود جيد للغاية .. ولكن لماذا تفسده بالترجمة إلي العامية ؟؟؟ لقد أحزنتني )):

  24. 4 out of 5

    B. P. Rinehart

    [From 2012, I think]: One of my early Goodreads reviews was of the anthology of Eliot The Waste Land and Other Writings where I reviewed the structure of the book more than I did any of the poems. I have looked back since writing it and am unsatisfied. This is one of my favorite poems, if not my favorite and it deserves better, so I will review it by itself. Now this is a *cue sudden dramatic music* modernist work (which is to say, no "roses are read/violets are blue" here). It was released in [From 2012, I think]: One of my early Goodreads reviews was of the anthology of Eliot The Waste Land and Other Writings where I reviewed the structure of the book more than I did any of the poems. I have looked back since writing it and am unsatisfied. This is one of my favorite poems, if not my favorite and it deserves better, so I will review it by itself. Now this is a *cue sudden dramatic music* modernist work (which is to say, no "roses are read/violets are blue" here). It was released in THE year for literature 1922 (Ulysses anyone). I think all through Eliot's and his contemporaries careers they were sort of making the point that society as a whole had lost something in its understanding and appreciation of literature. So this wide assortment of writers decided they would employ some "tough love" to counter this trend. When I read Eliot, Joyce, Faulkner, some Ezra Pound, and others I really enjoyed the whole "breaking the rules" aspect of their work and I got a blast out of reading and deciphering their works. So now I am going to the land of the Dead and try to talk quickly about the first part of this poem now: The Burial of the Dead is the first, most famous, and for some the only read section of this poem. The first line alone: "April is the cruelest month" has become legend (on a smaller note my b-day and my father's d-day happen to be the same month [and year] so I had a dark chuckle at this line). So the stanza goes on into a story which you have no idea what is happening (and you don't need an idea) because it is the rhythm of the poem that is key, and it is only when you realize that you should be (maybe) reading this aloud that it makes sense. Now for the next two stanzas it is more of the same: something is happening with some people and as soon as it looks like a coherent story is taking place--NEW STORY. All the while rhythm-wise nothing has changed, even the non-english lines keep the same pattern and rhythmic verse as the english. Then the whole tempo changes when you get to '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!" Now we are in a apocalyptic/dystopian setting (complete with Dante quotes) and we see the narrator recognizing someone in "underworld London" and acquiring about both a corpse and gardening (a theme that is alive all through this poem) and more non-english. Like all of this poem nearly every line could be an allusion to some obscure piece of literature that Eliot knows most of his readers won't get (jokes on him now, we have 'internets'). Though I could go through all of the sections of this poem thoroughly, the other section of this poem that is worth pointing out is the last section which is the section Eliot wrote to Bertrand Russell the whole thing was leading to. “What The Thunder Said” is my favorite section and it also showed the future direction of Eliot’s poetry and ideas. "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" - lines 1-9 of WTTS The trick with Eliot (and all modernist poet's) is to not to get hung-up on the reading, but focus on the recitation of the lyrics. As crazy and out of focus as this poem may seem to sound, if you listen to it or recite it yourself, the beauty of it manifest itself. The allusions while interesting (Dante and the Fisher King are the main culprits) are not actually the focus of this poem, but the tools in-service to it."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 violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal" - lines 40-57 of WTTSAnother person who deserves credit for helping to shape this poem is Ezra Pound, who was its main editor. Looking at this large "facsimile/manuscript" edition, it is amazing to see how much longer this poem was suppose to be (it verged on "epic" status) and just how thorough Pound was with his red pen (Eliot's first wife also did some editing to the poem, but this was mainly Pound's judgment most of the way through). It is no wonder to me that Eliot dedicates the whole work to Pound who is given the title in Italian "The Better Craftsman.""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" lines 84-88 of WTTSOne of the big influences in this poem and Eliot's subsequent works is South Asian religion (i.e. Hinduism and Buddhism). The magnificent third section of this poem is of course called The Fire Sermon, one of the most well-known of all Buddhist texts. In WTTS though, he turns decisively towards Hinduism and this section permeates with references to The Bhagavad Gita and The Upanishads. It is interesting to note that even after his conversion to Christianity when he writes his most religious-themed volume of poetry, Four Quartets, he still quotes the Gita at length for one entire piece of that work (one wonders why Eliot never thought to actually just become a Hindu, Ash Wednesday not withstanding). In any case, I always find myself listening to this poem on my iPod (Eliot's recording of it) and there is a very good fanedit of it on Youtube So to end this review I will quote the end of the The Waste Land itself: "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 his prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumors 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 a la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. Da. Dayadhvam. Damyata. [from a Hindu fable: 'Give, have compassion, have self control'] Shantih shantih shantih [from a Hindu mantra: 'Peace...peace...peace']"

  25. 5 out of 5

    Chiara Pagliochini

    Ho i nervi a pezzi stasera. Sì, a pezzi. Resta con me. Parlami. Perché non parli mai? Parla. A che stai pensando? Pensando a cosa? A cosa? Non lo so mai a cosa stai pensando. Pensa. Penso che siamo nel vicolo dei topi Dove i morti hanno perso le ossa. Mi sento sola stasera. Le lacrime premono sulla punta degli occhi. E cè un piccolo nodo di nausea là in fondo, che non si vuol sfogare in nessun modo. Forse è la stanchezza, è tutto il giorno che sto sui libri con questo piccolo entusiasmo frenetico. O “Ho i nervi a pezzi stasera. Sì, a pezzi. Resta con me. Parlami. Perché non parli mai? Parla. A che stai pensando? Pensando a cosa? A cosa? Non lo so mai a cosa stai pensando. Pensa.” Penso che siamo nel vicolo dei topi Dove i morti hanno perso le ossa. Mi sento sola stasera. Le lacrime premono sulla punta degli occhi. E c’è un piccolo nodo di nausea là in fondo, che non si vuol sfogare in nessun modo. Forse è la stanchezza, è tutto il giorno che sto sui libri con questo piccolo entusiasmo frenetico. O forse è tristezza. Una tristezza piagnucolosa e indefinita, che viene da tanti pensieri sciocchi, inutili, astrattissimi. Eliot si è aggiunto a tutto questo come un sommario, una coroncina, un regalo premio coi punti dell’Agip. Non è colpa sua, o almeno non solo. Ma sono sicura che non se la prenderà se gli attribuisco un po’ della colpa. Ho cominciato La terra desolata alle diciotto e trenta di questo pomeriggio. Alle dieci e trenta, ho alzato bandiera bianca. Non c’è dubbio, sono troppo piccola, troppo poco intelligente, ho studiato troppo poco per capirla. Eliot non è un poeta gentile, non vuole farsi capire, non ti presta le battute su un piatto d’argento perché tu possa farle tue e recitarle innanzi a un pubblico. Eliot sta lì, dice le sue battute, parla di antropologia, di cristologia, di tarocchi, di mitologia, e senza le sue note neanche il Padreterno nella sua onniscienza lo avrebbe probabilmente inteso. Ma non si tratta di questo. Ho fatto i miei sforzi, una corsa frenetica dai versi alle note, dalle note ai versi, dall’introduzione ai versi alle note, i commenti dell’antologia, la pagina su Wikipedia. Qualsiasi cosa fosse a mia disposizione per penetrare anche un poco in questo labirinto tascabile. Nulla da fare, la profondità mi rifiuta. Ho intaccato solo di poco la superficie e mi sento come uno che cerchi di pulire il Titanic dalle incrostazioni usando uno spazzolino da denti. Ma vedete, non è neanche questo. Non è la frustrazione. È il sapore della frustrazione, è quel che rimane in bocca alla fine, quando hai detto “voglio capire” e hai concluso “non ho capito”. È angoscia, sgomento, ansia da prestazione, rammarico, contrizione. Vorresti far qualcosa, scrollare le pagine perché ne piova una polverina dorata di conoscenza. Niente da fare, non è così che si fa. E allora, se hai percorso rigo per rigo cercando te stessa e non ti sei trovata, se hai scorso le sillabe perché si aprissero e loro hanno solo sbattuto le ciglia, cosa ti resta? Ecco, io penso che resti proprio quel che si promette. Una Terra Desolata, un nulla, un enigma, un vuoto, un intrico ineffabile, la tua miseria umana. “In una manciata di polvere vi mostrerò la paura”. Certo, Eliot, questo lo fai proprio bene. “Sulle Sabbie di Margate. Non posso connettere Nulla con nulla. Le unghie rotte di mani sporche. La mia gente, gente modesta che non chiede Nulla.” […] “Dayadhvam: ho udito la chiave Girare nella porta una volta e girare una volta soltanto Noi pensiamo alla chiave, ognuno conferma una prigione Solo al momento in cui la notte cade” […] “Sedetti sulla riva A pescare, con la pianura arida dietro di me Riuscirò alla fine a porre ordine nelle mie terre? Il London Bridge sta cadendo sta cadendo sta cadendo […] Con questi frammenti ho puntellato le mie rovine” Io non voglio immaginare Eliot affacciato alla finestra. Non voglio sapere cosa vedeva. Questa terra apocalittica, arida, avida, atavica, allucinata io mi rifiuto di credere che fosse la sua. Ma era questo il suo sguardo? Era davvero questo il mondo? Il mondo dopo una guerra mondiale era così? Gli occhi che lo guardavano erano questi? O siamo di fronte al delirio di un pazzo, di un bislacco intellettuale, di uno scrittore egoista ed elitario che spende e spande citazioni a vanvera? Ed io che sono qui seduta al tavolo della cucina, che ascolto musica nelle cuffie a tutto volume per isolarmi dal volume della tv, che aspetto che la casa si svuoti e si acquieti solo per ritrovare una dimensione intima, spirituale, non corrotta, io ragazzina ignorante dell’anno duemiladodici, che si suppone vedrà la fine di questo mondo apocalittico, arido, avido, atavico, allucinato – io, che cosa ne so? Niente. Io sono qui e posso solo essere triste. Sono triste perché non farò mai poesia. Non ho le palle per la poesia: il mondo non ha bisogno di altre scempiaggini sentimentaliste. Sono triste perché non vedo la cresta dell’onda, non faccio parte di qualcosa, sono una bollicina in isolamento, e non come questi scrittori modernisti che si conoscevano tutti, prendevano il tè insieme, scopavano insieme, si copiavano, si correggevano e cercavano di andare da qualche parte. Noi stiamo andando da qualche parte? Io sto andando da qualche parte? Stiamo fotografando il mondo? Stiamo costruendo qualcosa? Qualcuno potrà leggere le nostre terre desolate? A volte penso semplicemente che ci sia troppo squallore. Che ci sentiamo ripugnati. Che non sappiamo guardare perché non vogliamo vedere. E per questo non lasceremo niente che valga la pena leggere. Ma forse sono troppo intransigente. D’altronde io parlo per me. Gli altri, in qualche parte del mondo, qualcosa di buono lo staranno pur facendo. Ma poi penso che non è così importante. Mio padre, ad esempio, dice che non è importante. Certo, c’è la fame nel mondo a cui pensare e pure i conflitti in Cecenia e anche le liberalizzazioni, certo. Dobbiamo pensare a queste cose, dobbiamo prendere una laurea, dobbiamo trovarci un lavoro. Non possiamo perdere tempo a pensare alla letteratura in astratto. No, la letteratura non si mangia, non mette niente in pancia e neanche salva il mondo. Come diceva Oscar Wilde, tutta l’arte è sommamente inutile. Certo, non ci dobbiamo pensare. Non pensiamoci. Non serve. La Terra Desolata non mi serve e non serve capirla. No. Ma allora perché la voglio capire? E perché non poter capirla mi fa venire così voglia di vomitare? “Che farò ora? Che farò? “Uscirò fuori così come sono; camminerò per la strada “Coi miei capelli sciolti, così. Cosa faremo domani? “Cosa faremo mai?” L’acqua calda alle dieci. E se piove, un’automobile chiusa alle quattro. E giocheremo una partita a scacchi, Premendoci gli occhi senza palpebre, in attesa che Bussino alla porta.

  26. 5 out of 5

    Monika

    T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land is a vast tentacular earthly creature. If its head is in Russia, one of its tentacle is in Honolulu while other is in Cambodia. Since this creature is so big, just two legs won't do. And that is not all. I am not sure what zoologists would say, but I am certain that this creature's tentacles are rigged. If you want to climb on it, you can't do so without taking help and mind you, this system of climbing is so faulty that you can't even take help of any random person. T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land is a vast tentacular earthly creature. If its head is in Russia, one of its tentacle is in Honolulu while other is in Cambodia. Since this creature is so big, just two legs won't do. And that is not all. I am not sure what zoologists would say, but I am certain that this creature's tentacles are rigged. If you want to climb on it, you can't do so without taking help and mind you, this system of climbing is so faulty that you can't even take help of any random person. Call it the shyness for speaking out, but finding the person is going to be very difficult. It is the modern world you see, we no longer believe in staticity.

  27. 4 out of 5

    Steph

    i think this might make me an anti-intellectual, but i enjoyed this poem so much more when i read this outside of the classroom and infused it with my own tenuous understanding of what was going on in the poem. in class, explicating every single obscure reference effectively killed it. still such a powerful opening though. his poems have lines you want to taste in your mouth, and repeat over and over like magical intonations, or write down covertly in a secret book of quotes.

  28. 5 out of 5

    B. Faye

    Το είχα διδαχτεί στη σχολή πριν μια αιωνιότητα ....Έχοντας την έκδοση της Guttenberg που είναι δίγλωσση προτίμησα να το διαβάσω στο πρωτότυπο 20 χρόνια μετά απόλαυσα κάθε του στίχο

  29. 5 out of 5

    Teresa

    "Abril é o mês mais cruel, gera Lilases da terra morta, mistura A memória e o desejo, agita Raízes dormentes com chuva da Primavera. O Inverno aconchegou-nos, cobriu A terra com o esquecimento da neve, alimentou Uma pequena vida com bolbos ressequidos. (...) Nas montanhas, aí sim sentimo-nos livres. Leio, quase toda a noite, e vou para o sul no Inverno. Que raízes se prendem, que ramos crescem Neste entulho pedregoso? Filho do homem, Não consegues dizer, nem adivinhar, pois conheces apenas Um montão de "Abril é o mês mais cruel, gera Lilases da terra morta, mistura A memória e o desejo, agita Raízes dormentes com chuva da Primavera. O Inverno aconchegou-nos, cobriu A terra com o esquecimento da neve, alimentou Uma pequena vida com bolbos ressequidos. (...) Nas montanhas, aí sim sentimo-nos livres. Leio, quase toda a noite, e vou para o sul no Inverno. Que raízes se prendem, que ramos crescem Neste entulho pedregoso? Filho do homem, Não consegues dizer, nem adivinhar, pois conheces apenas Um montão de imagens quebradas, onde bate o sol, E a árvore morta não dá qualquer abrigo, nem o grilo alívio, Nem a pedra seca qualquer ruído de água. Apenas Há sombra debaixo desta rocha vermelha (Anda, vem para a sombra desta rocha vermelha), E vou mostrar-te uma coisa ao mesmo tempo diferente Da tua sombra quando ao amanhecer te segue E da tua sombra quando ao entardecer te enfrenta; Vou mostrar-te o medo num punhado de poeira." (...)

  30. 5 out of 5

    Tyler

  31. 4 out of 5

    Kolie

  32. 4 out of 5

    nathaniel

  33. 4 out of 5

    Randall

  34. 5 out of 5

    Payam

  35. 4 out of 5

    shahram

    a gerat poem in the world literature .

  36. 4 out of 5

    Sally

  37. 5 out of 5

    Vivek

  38. 5 out of 5

    Kristi Marshae

  39. 4 out of 5

    Nick

  40. 4 out of 5

    Doug

  41. 4 out of 5

    vanessa

  42. 4 out of 5

    Rachel

    my own personal jesus.

  43. 5 out of 5

    Kit

  44. 4 out of 5

    Alexis

    The best edition of The Wasteland. There are footnotes and endnotes and excellent essays and critical readings of the text.

  45. 4 out of 5

    Kristi C.

  46. 4 out of 5

    Michael

  47. 5 out of 5

    Chris

  48. 5 out of 5

    Sarah

  49. 4 out of 5

    trisha

  50. 5 out of 5

    Robert

  51. 5 out of 5

    Julia

  52. 5 out of 5

    Tom

  53. 5 out of 5

    Andrew

  54. 4 out of 5

    Ryan

  55. 5 out of 5

    Andrew

  56. 4 out of 5

    Margaret Mitchell

  57. 5 out of 5

    Alden Bass

  58. 4 out of 5

    Aurora Shimshak

  59. 4 out of 5

    Benjamin

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