Fiona Shaw The Waste Land by T.S

[Music] the wasteland the burial of the dead April is the cruelest month breeding lilacs out of the dead land mixing memory and desire stirring down roots with spring rain winter kept us warm covering earth and forgetful snow feeding a little life with dried tubers summer surprises can be over the stand rug is a with a shower of rain we stopped in the colonnade and went on in sunlight into the half garden and drank coffee and talked for an hour being a Kenosha's a mouse a toy and a storage and when we were children staying at the Archduke's my cousins he took us out in a sleigh 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 for 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 no 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 fish weight event there hi Matt sue my nearish Kent whoa - - you gave me high since first a year ago they call 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 and lair yes ma'am madam Asus oestrus famous care Bryant had a bad cold nevertheless is known to be the wisest woman in Europe with wicked pack of cards here said she is your card the Drowned Phoenician sailor those are pearls that were his eyes here is better Dada the lady of the rocks the lady of situations here is the Babbitt three staves and here the wheel and this is the one-eyed merchant this card which is blank is something he carries on his back which I am forbidden to see I do not find the hangman fear death by water I see crowds of people walking round in a rig thank you if you see dear mrs. Eckhart on tenor I send the horoscope myself I must be so careful these days unreal city under the brown fog of a winter dawn the crowd float over London Bridge so many I had not thought death had undone so many sighs short and a frequent were exhaled and each man fixed his eyes before his feet flowed up the hill and down King William Street to where st. Mary willness kept the hours with a dead sound on the final stroke of nine well there I saw what I knew and stopped him crying Stetson you pull with me in the ships at me lie that corpse you planted last year in your garden as I began to sprout will it bloom this year or has the sudden frost disturbed his bed keep the dog far hence its friends to mend or with his nails here dig it up again you hypocrite Lecter mon-sol blabla no fair

Channel: childofclay

Views: 65,683

Rating: 4.9407067 out of 5

Keywords: Poetry, T. S. Eliot (Author), The Waste Land (Poem), Fiona Shaw (Opera Director), Theatre (TV Genre)

Id: lPB_17rbNXk

Length: 5min 59sec (359 seconds)

Published: Sat Apr 06 2013

Reddit Comments

[u/TheOperaCar]

This is incredibly gripping. Thank you for posting this!

[u/pfrcks]

Oh look, it's Mrs. Dursley.