Chopinalia (4)

 

Czemu nie istnieje podobna polska płyta? 

Jadźka i Barbara

 

Powstaje Super Trasa Warszawska

 STW - zapraszam do współtworzenia:

Pomnik Syreny - Zamek Królewski - Rynek Nowomiejski(1) - Belweder(2) - Ogród Botaniczny(3) - Aleja na Skarpie(4) - Muzeum Chopina(5, 6 i 7)

W przyszłym roku, 3 Maja, przypada 230 rocznica uchwalenia pierwszej w Europie konstytucji, a także odbędzie się w październiku, odłożony o rok, Konkurs Chopinowski.

1.

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/11/od-zamku-krolewskiego-do-nowego-rynku.html

2.

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/11/chopin-i-3-maja.html

3.

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/12/3-maja-1792.html

4.

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/11/chopinalia-1.html

5.

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/11/chopinalia-2.html

6.

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/12/chopinalia-3.html

7.

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/12/chopinalia-4.html

Mam talent

https://wpolityce.pl/swiat/531868-katolicka-rodzina-wygrywa-mam-talent-nad-sekwana

Myślę, że w kategorii "talent specjalny", sześćdziesiąt lat temu, nasza 7-mio osobowa rodzina nie byłaby bez szans

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2011/12/rodzinne-koledowanie.html

Zamieć

Chopinalia (3)

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQHAxA03uRs

Błękitne Anioły

 Czy to dopada tylko facetów?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OihjKgimiR8

O psach i ludziach

 

Międzynarodowe konferencje

 

Gagarina w operze?

 Zaczęło się od prawdziwej historii wojennej:

Potem był film - już z pieśnią śpiewaną przez Gagarinę:

Gagarina śpiewała Kukuszkę wielo-wielokrotnie:

Dla współczesnego pokolenia Rosjan Kukuszka zastapiła "Oticzestwiennuju wajnu":

Ale jej walory docenili również Chińczycy:

Polina doskonali cały czas swój głos:

Ma 33-lata i podobno chce przejść na repertuar operowy!

3 Maja 1792

 W warszawskim Ogrodzie Botanicznym UW jest szczególne miejsce. Tutaj 3 maja 1792 roku, w pierwszą rocznicę uchwalenia Konstytucji 3 Maja, położono kamień węgielny pod budowę Świątyni Opatrzności. Miało to być wotum dziękczynne za jej uchwalenie. Były już nawet plany budowli, opracował je architekt Jakub Kubicki, twórca warszawskich rogatek miejskich i przebudowy Belwederu. Rozpoczętą budowę przerwał upadek Rzeczpospolitej. Podczas zaborów odbywały się tu uroczystości patriotyczne. Po obchodach setnej rocznicy Konstytucji władze carskie wydały zarządzenie, że publiczność do ogrodu może być wpuszczana dopiero po 8 maja. Obecnie w tym miejscu zachował się jedynie fragment wielkiego, ośmiobocznego filara, który miał podpierać sklepienia kościoła dolnego, oraz tablica pamiątkowa z napisem: "W tym miejscu 3 maja 1792 roku położono kamień węgielny pod budowę Świątyni Opatrzności. Wzniesieniem jej Sejm Czteroletni pragnął uczcić uchwalenie Konstytucji. Rektor i społeczność Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego".

Moje niedawne zdjęcia z Ogrodu Botanicznego:

Długi weekend i Emerytura

 

https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=kabaret+pod+wyrwigroszem+emerytura+i+sklep

Uzależnienia i Smok

 

Mieszko i poseł

 

Chopinalia (2)

 Do maszerowania nadają się szczególnie Mazurki i również Polonezy:

Pod żaglami Zawiszy

 https://www.tvp.info/51075543/remont-zaglowca-przed-jubileuszem-zawisza-czarny-bedzie-jak-nowy

Spotkanie rodzinne w 1957 roku - wujek Stefan na stojąco, za komandorem jego córka.

Komandor Romanowski był przez kilka lat kapitanem Zawiszy, ale oczywiście bardziej jest znany z dowodzenia okrętami podwodnymi Jastrząb i Dzik:

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/08/dzik-na-morzu-srodziemnym.html

Chopinalia (1)

 

Brzydkie wyrazy

 

Od Zamku Królewskiego do Nowego Rynku

 Brzegiem Wisły dochodzimy do podziemnego przejścia tuż za mostem:

Dobrze widać okna sali, w której uchwalono Konstytucję 3 Maja.

Wzdłuż skarpy dochodzimy ulicy Starej:

Ulica Stara łagodnie wznosi się na skarpę i po skręcie dochodzi do Nowego Rynku:

Od jego północno-wschodniej strony odchodzi ulica Przyrynek.

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/11/chopin-i-3-maja.html

Nowe bajkopisarstwo

 

Chopin i 3 Maja

 7-letni Chopin skomponował ten Polonez w 1817 roku. Ojciec Mikołaj go zapisał, a znajomy z czasów mieszkania Chopinów na ulicy Przyrynek - proboszcz kościoła Nawiedzenia Najświętszej Panny Marii - wydrukował (powielił)  w kościelnej sztychciarni.

Mazurek B - Flat Major skomponowany w 1826 też został powielony litograficznie.

W 1831 roku pojawił się Mazurek 3 Maja(40 rocznica). Melodię przypisywano Chopinowi, ale jest to raczej jeden z wielu znanych w tamtych czasów mazurków.

Słowa napisał Rajmund Suchodolski:

https://pl.wikisource.org/wiki/Mazurek_3_maja

https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/4706414474004360063/4032324208797102700

Rok 2021 będzie Rokiem Konstytucji 3 Maja - 230 rocznica!

Skojarzenia - gra towarzyska

 

Najgorszy wiek

 

Rozterki Chopina

 

Bliźniak Maltański

 Polskie okręty podwodne służące w brytyjskiej flocie wojennej sprawdziły się w zaciętych starciach z Niemcami i ich sojusznikami. Dwa z nich - Sokół i Dzik - w roku 1943 stacjonowały na Malcie i zyskały przydomek "terrible twins" https://opinie.wp.pl/orp-dzik-i-orp-sokol-srodziemnomorska-odyseja-terrible-twins-6126040696006785a. 

Poniżej opis działań jednego z "bliźniaków":

Dzik na Morzu Śródziemnym

Wydarzenia z Dzikiem w roli głównej, mogą być punktem wyjścia d o ciekawej “morskiej gry wojennej”. Jej uczestnicy - kapitanowie łodzi podwodnej - wybierają port, w pobliże którego będą podpływać na patrolu. Wiele zależy od stanu morza i widoczności na morzu (te stany pogody będą ustalane przez rzut kostką). W pobliżu portu i wokół statków-celów, krążą okręty osłony - ich zagęszczenie też jest losowe. Rzucając kostką, gracze zbliżają się do portów, a na drodze wodnej z portu, albo w jego pobliżu, ustawiają się w pozycji dogodnej do wysłania torpedy w duży statek. Napotkanie statku osłonowego kończy się utratą danego okrętu podwodnego.

W 1958 roku, komandor Bolesław Romanowski (jego i mój pradziadek byli braćmi i to prawie "bliźniakami" - tylko jeden rok ich dzielił) opublikował swoje wspomnienia z walk na okrętach podwodnych zatytułowane “Torpeda w celu”. Książka miała dziesięć wydań. W serii “Polskie okręty wojenne w Wielkiej Brytanii”, jako tom XIV, ukazało się w roku 2018 opracowanie “Okręt podwodny ORP Dzik” Na podstawie obu tych książek napisałem poniższy, krótki tekst:.

Stacjonowanie Dzika na Malcie

5 maja 1943 roku Dzik przybył na Maltę. Malta była bazą morską dla wielu okrętów wojennych i stąd wychodziły patrolować Morze Śródziemne. Drugi z kolei patrol Dzika, rozpoczęty 16 maja, miał go maksymalnie przybliżyć do portu Crotone u wybrzeży Kalabrii (p. mapa):



Tam, 24 maja Dzik zaliczył pierwsze trafienie torpedą - zniszczony został duży zbiornikowiec włoski Carnaro. Posypały się gratulacje, a wśród nich depesza do kapitana Romanowskiego od Naczelnego Wodza - Władysława Sikorskiego, z takim zdaniem:

"Wasze szable tną dzielnie" (aluzja do "szabli" dzika).

W lipcu Dzik brał udział w operacji "Husky", którą było lądowanie wojsk alianckich na Sycylii. W dniach 9-18 lipca blokował wraz z innymi okrętami port Taranto (p. mapka).

Dużym osiągnięciem Dzika na jednym z kolejnych patroli, było trafienie i zatopienie dużego włoskiego frachtowca Goggiam w pobliżu portu Bari (p. mapka) w dniu 15 sierpnia.
               
W następnym patrolu Dzik miał wpłynąć głęboko na Adriatyk i dojść w pobliże Triestu, ale w dniu 3 września Włochy skapitulowały.
 
Pozostałe w różnych portach włoskie statki przejmowali Niemcy i wpływali do nich swoimi okrętami. 15 września z Malty w kierunku Korsyki wypłynęło kilka okrętów, a wśród nich Dzik, z zadaniem atakowania niemieckich jednostek. Na poniższej mapce:



przedstawiony jest atak Dzika na trzy okręty w pobliżu korsykańskiego portu Bastia (21 września):

1. na "San Pedro" - niecelny

2. na mały transportowiec Kraft i celne trafienie torpedą w duży transportowiec Nicolaus.

Jesienią i zimą Dzik operował głównie na Morzu Egejskim, które jest oczywiście częścią Morza Śródziemnego, ale specyficzną, gdzie Turcja była państwem neutralnym, a jednostki greckie były małymi statkami.

W dniu 11 marca 1944 roku Dzik opuścił Maltę i wyruszył w drogę powrotną do Anglii.

Dobra pogoda

 

Covid armagedon goes away!!!

All You Need is Dance

 

Beiden+

Under Biden (whatever it means) there will be Squad:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Squad_(United_States_Congress)

headed by VP Kamela Harris:

Are you prepared?

Biden

 

From Eighty to Infinity

 

All three above steps are only "technical". Because only one step is enough to get from Eighty to Infinity: 

https://www.infinitysymbol.net/infinity-symbol-in-math-and-history

Wyspa

 

The Waste Land

 

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/the-waste-land-by-t.html

Ideał kobiety

 To są nasze ideały:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJSJx1dT32Y

Italiano Vero

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=loTKJdxozXA&t=53s

Dwa super wykonania

 

Dla mnie jest to manifest Kobiecości zupełnie przeciwstawnej dzisiejszemu Feminizmowi.

T.S. Eliot Societies

http://www.tseliotsociety.uk/

http://tseliot.sites.luc.edu/ 

http://tseliot.sites.luc.edu/quotes.php

Eliot-aided programming

 Mamy już "Eliza-aided programming":

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2019/01/eliza.html

https://faculty.ist.psu.edu/wu/papers/pie.pdf

Eliza odniosła niezwykły sukces jako pierwszy program AI mający swoje znaczenie nawet wśród psychoterapeutów. 

AI rozwija się w najlepsze. Czas podrzucić komputerom coś kulturowo naprawdę ważnego. Takiego jak twórczość T.S. Eliota:

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/the-best-of-ts-eliot.html 

Konkretnie, proponuję wybranie ok. 1000 zdań z zasobów "eliotowskich" i podział ich na trzy części (głownie chronologiczne):

 I

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/portrait-of-lady_17.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/the-waste-land-by-t.html

II

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/the-idea-of-christian-society.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/ts-eliot-definition-of-culture.html

III

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/joruney-of-magi.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/ash-wednesday.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/four-quartets.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/cats.html

Oczywiście celem jest komputerowe tworzenie Haiku: 

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2018/12/haiku-generator.html

O miłości można bez końca...

 

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/portrait-of-lady_17.html

Portrait of a Lady

Portrait of a Lady
BY T. S. ELIOT

Thou hast committed —
Fornication: but that was in another country,
And besides, the wench is dead.
(The Jew of Malta)

I

Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon

You have the scene arrange itself — as it will seem to do—

With "I have saved this afternoon for you";

And four wax candles in the darkened room,

Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,

An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb

Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.

We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole

Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.

"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul

Should be resurrected only among friends

Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom

That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."

—And so the conversation slips

Among velleities and carefully caught regrets

Through attenuated tones of violins

Mingled with remote cornets

And begins.


"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,

And how, how rare and strange it is, to find

In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,

(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind!

How keen you are!)

To find a friend who has these qualities,

Who has, and gives

Those qualities upon which friendship lives.

How much it means that I say this to you —

Without these friendships — life, what cauchemar!"

Among the winding of the violins

And the ariettes

Of cracked cornets

Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins

Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,

Capricious monotone

That is at least one definite "false note."

— Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,

Admire the monuments,

Discuss the late events,

Correct our watches by the public clocks.

Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.


II

Now that lilacs are in bloom

She has a bowl of lilacs in her room

And twists one in her fingers while she talks.

"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know

What life is, you who hold it in your hands";

(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)

"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,

And youth is cruel, and has no remorse

And smiles at situations which it cannot see."

I smile, of course,

And go on drinking tea.

"Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall

My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,

I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world

To be wonderful and youthful, after all."


The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune

Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:

"I am always sure that you understand

My feelings, always sure that you feel,

Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.


You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.

You will go on, and when you have prevailed

You can say: at this point many a one has failed.


But what have I, but what have I, my friend,

To give you, what can you receive from me?

Only the friendship and the sympathy

Of one about to reach her journey's end.


I shall sit here, serving tea to friends ...."


I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends

For what she has said to me?

You will see me any morning in the park

Reading the comics and the sporting page.

Particularly I remark.

An English countess goes upon the stage.

A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,

Another bank defaulter has confessed.

I keep my countenance,

I remain self-possessed

Except when a street-piano, mechanical and tired

Reiterates some worn-out common song

With the smell of hyacinths across the garden

Recalling things that other people have desired.

Are these ideas right or wrong?


III

The October night comes down; returning as before

Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease

I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door

And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.

"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?

But that's a useless question.

You hardly know when you are coming back,

You will find so much to learn."

My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.


"Perhaps you can write to me."

My self-possession flares up for a second;

This is as I had reckoned.

"I have been wondering frequently of late

(But our beginnings never know our ends!)

Why we have not developed into friends."

I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark

Suddenly, his expression in a glass.

My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.


"For everybody said so, all our friends,

They all were sure our feelings would relate

So closely! I myself can hardly understand.

We must leave it now to fate.

You will write, at any rate.

Perhaps it is not too late.

I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."

And I must borrow every changing shape

To find expression ... dance, dance

Like a dancing bear,

Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.

Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance—

Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,

Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;

Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand

With the smoke coming down above the housetops;

Doubtful, for quite a while

Not knowing what to feel or if I understand

Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon ...

Would she not have the advantage, after all?

This music is successful with a "dying fall"

Now that we talk of dying—

And should I have the right to smile?

The Best of T.S. Eliot

 

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/the-waste-land-by-t.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/joruney-of-magi.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/ash-wednesday.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/the-idea-of-christian-society.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/four-quartets.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/ts-eliot-definition-of-culture.html

https://wkramost.blogspot.com/2020/09/cats.html

T.S. Eliot Definition of Culture

http://ignca.gov.in/Asi_data/36043.pdf 

Four Quartets

 

http://www.paikassociates.com/pdf/fourquartets.pdf

Śmieszno-straszny Krzysztof Simon

Wywiad ze "słynnym wirusologiem" został przeprowadzony 19 czerwca 2020 roku. Pochodzi z książki „Pandemia. Raport z frontu”. Żeby się przestraszyć, wystarczą dwa fragmenty:

"Więc jeśli narażonych jest dziewięć milionów ludzi, to przynajmniej te osoby chrońmy. Jeśli one wszystkie się rozchorują, to czterysta pięćdziesiąt tysięcy z nich umrze. To jak druga wojna światowa od nowa."

A jak II wojna światowa to oczywiście Niemcy:

Nie potrafimy, jak robią to choćby Niemcy, zjednoczyć się skutecznie w momencie próby.

"Jesteśmy kłótliwi, zawistni, zazdrośni, nie wspomagamy osób wybitnych, zdolnych, które prą w dobrym kierunku. Nie potrafimy, jak robią to choćby Niemcy, zjednoczyć się skutecznie w momencie próby. U nas, gdy ktokolwiek się wychyla, od razu jest cała masa zazdrośników, którzy nie robią nic innego poza ciągnięciem cię z powrotem do piekła."

Niemcy skutecznie zjednoczeni potrafili przenieść do wieczności 6 milionów Polaków. Czemu prof.dr hab. Krzysztof Simon przyznaje im tylko 450 tysięcy eksterminacyjnych sukcesów?

The Idea Of A Christian Society

 https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.209768

The Waste Land

The Waste Land
BY T. S. ELIOT

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 Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
BY T. S. ELIOT

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.



In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.


The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.


And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.


In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.


And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.


For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?


And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?


And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?


Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...


I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.


And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.


And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

That is not it, at all.”


And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”


No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.


I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.


Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.


I do not think that they will sing to me.


I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Ash Wednesday

 

Ash Wednesday by T. S. Eliot

I
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.


II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been
contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each
other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.


III
At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond
repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy

but speak the word only.

IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Whe walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke
no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile


V
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny
the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,
time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.


VI
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHa0zKHQTBw&t=3s