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 archduke’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!”
The Burial of The Dead
Our future bearing Spring
washed up on our shores
too cruel,too young, unsung
On the water, on the land
Golden Queen Mother of the Jade Pond,
Packamama, Sarah, and Hagar’s
Oracle Bones talking from
the ground, the cave, the desert
As numerous as stars in the sky
Glass broken stars yellow
Look down black gold, liquid,
Control it, patrol it, bring it up
Power the ships, the planes, the empires
British Oil Persia, American Oil Saudi Arabia
Your daddy’s rich, Your mother’s good lookin
sleek in her pink pillbox hat
Nothing to kill or die for
The sun shines bright in Dallas
Roasting them over a twig fire
Turning them for just the right golden brown
Too close to the fire they ignite
Making a bright brief orange light
Come in from the cold
The fire not yet
Bold stories untold
Henry, Bill, Harry, Dwight, Franklin
People, promises erased with pens
Slack, Zoom, sit in the Parlor
Google, YouTube, Gab, X
Talk till truth leaves the booth
Eyes and ears bought and sold
Oil, gold, money out walking about
(Vanderbilt’s steamboat company, the New York Tribune wrote, had “long desired to get rid of the town, which … was a hindrance to their supremacy and had defied their power” “Got rid” of San Juan was. After the bombing, the Cyane dispatched its Marines to loot the buildings left standing. Then they burned the town to ashes. President Franklin Pierce defended the incident, arguing that both the town and its residence were worthless: It was “a pretended community,” Pierce said, a recently created boomtown made up of “a heterogeneous assemblage gathered from various countries, and composed for the most part of blacks and persons of mixed blood.”
Grandin, Greg Empire’s Workshop 2006 Page 14.)
Section II: A Game of Chess
criselstro.com 