It’s a long, modernist poem in five parts tracking man’s place (or lack thereof) through history and literature.
Modernist?
That basically means it doesn’t rhyme or have a fixed metre.
Don’t we call that “prose”?
I’m not getting into that. The poem is a series of references to classical and not-so-classical literature and songs expressed as various people from different time periods making prophecies and jokes.
Although if you’ve read Game of Thrones and you can’t handle a complicated series of interwoven narratives from different times and places, you should present yourself to the relevant authorities at first light.
That sounds complicated.
If you think that’s complicated, wait until you read the series of notes he wrote to “explain” all the imagery. They’re so abstruse that he might have written them specifically to mock the sort of people who look at a piece of art and ask, “Yes, but what does it mean?”
What should I say to make people think I’ve read it?
“How can a poem be so full yet broadcast so much emptiness?”
What should I avoid saying when trying to convince people I’ve read it?
“My April didn’t go to badly.”
Should I actually read it?
Yes. It’s a barrage of images and voices that you may not have experienced before, and that’s never a waste of time.
Had a brilliant day at Charleston Festival @CharlestonTrust watching and listening to Benedict Cumberbatch and the Britten Sinfonia perform TS Eliot’s The Waste Land, as well as enjoying the beautiful gardens.
“A joy to be performing with Benedict Cumberbatch today (during a performance of T. S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’). His voice is as flexible and beautiful as a Strad cello.”x
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 carvèd 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.
“A joy to be performing with Benedict Cumberbatch today (during a performance of T. S. Eliot’s ‘The Waste Land’). His voice is as flexible and beautiful as a Strad cello.”x
