Fruit Is the Eye of the Plant

Today's post is a reconstitution of T.S. Eliot's great poem, "The Waste Land," followed by a picture.

Stony Rubbish

breeding, mixing, stirring rain,

dull spring roots, the memory’s desire
covering snow, feeding dried tubers
where the sun beats broken images.               Marie went free of branches

                                                                        growing rubbish when

                                                                        the forgetful Russian stammered

                                                                        over the mountains

Relief?  Only rock                                           on a frightened sled of night.

red as your dusty handful of homeland
packed wicked in the garden
like the Phoenician Sailor’s shadow
in the failing eyes of situations.                      The one-eyed wheel

                                                                        forms a ring found in water.

                                                                        Blank crowds hoist careful death

                                                                        over an undone bridge

Frost stunted death                                         exhaling hours at the stroke of 9.

while a corpse lay fixed,
ready for planting, away from those
whose fruited vines turn glass wings
into a throne of flames & rich odors.              Her satin cased jewels

                                                                        confused the ceiling of coffered stone

                                                                        as the dolphin swam nightingale voiced

                                                                        through desert purses of dirty ears.

Fiery points, strangely still,                             “Jug Jug” stumps the hush of wearytime.

speak of sea-wood displayed like mantles
under the bush of withered time.
Unguent ivory burnt green & orange
gave her hair the whole liquid trouble
rushing like pearl eyes to ask the street
to bear a play of chess.                                    Smart teeth said hurry,

                                                                        pick it with Army candle light

                                                                        so tellingly antique & longfaced.

Young George’s never been the same,           Good night, sweet ladies

proper fool, fingers of lead,
saying goodnight to beauty’s wind
over the wet bank’s loitering heirs.                 How softly my song ends.

                                                                        The slimy belly of the Thames

                                                                        reeks unheard as empty bottles click

                                                                        awake departing nymphs running

Father’s brother’s motherland gashouse         the cold blast of rattling bones.

killed dull canal dogs on winter evenings
between pockets of unshaven, demotic
French rats horning in on daughter’s soda
water in the brown fog of human defense.     Bold, carbuncular stares breakfast

                                                                        on the sun’s last rays perilously spread

                                                                        in front of an expected guest.

                                                                        Camisoles slip undesired past response

Low assurance sits atop bored caresses          like indifferent patronizing kisses.

of a millionaire’s unreproved indifference
enacted in moments of half-formed thoughts
on the cycle of the moon’s pass.                     The automatic hand chatters

                                                                        across a mandolin whine

                                                                        within gold walls where a magus

                                                                        swings on the rippled shell

“I came burning,” he incants,                          of Earth Starter’s dirty fingernail.

burning after the event white towers
tickle gulls a fortnight under the sea
passing youthful stages, whirlpools
twisting the light of handsome faces.             No water, no rock, no reverberation

                                                                        cries on distant mountains’ stony agonies’

                                                                        lie of carious teeth & sterile spit.

Hooded woman (white road ahead)               Mudcaked houses sneer feet into sand.

there is no hermit thrush for you
who always wrapped men in violet air.
Black haired Jerusalem towers unreal
above baby faces & reminiscent bells
hours from decayed holes in midnight.          Humped in thunder, an age of obituaries

                                                                        prospers damp gusts shaking clean

                                                                        the solicitor of broken rooms whose poison

                                                                        confirms controlling hands falling down.