Wednesday, August 22, 2007


Occasionally I like to put poetry on here, just for edification purposes - everyone needs to be extended now and then. Anyway, I was going to put The Waste Land here, by T.S. Eliot, but really who's got time for that? This version's so much better.

Waste Land Limerick


In April one seldom feels cheerful;
Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;
Clairvoyantes distress me,
Commuters depress me--
Met Stetson and gave him an earful.


She sat on a mighty fine chair,
Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;
She asks many questions,
I make few suggestions--
Bad as Albert and Lil--what a pair!


The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;
Tiresias fancies a peep--
A typist is laid,
A record is played--
Wei la la. After this it gets deep.


A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
About birds and his business--the lot,
Which is no surprise,
Since he'd met his demise
And been left in the ocean to rot.


No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,
Then thunder, a shower of quotes
From the Sanskrit and Dante.
Da. Damyata. Shantih.
I hope you'll make sense of the notes.

-- Wendy Cope

Scissored and stickered from here


  1. Anonymous11:48 AM

    So much better. I guess you have read The River Girl by Wendy Cope. Should be warning enough about poets for all girls. Now poetry, that's a different matter.

  2. I love Wendy Cope - poetry that doesn't hurt my poor inadequate little brain cells.

    I particularly like this one:

    You have to try. You see a shrink.
    You learn a lot. You read. You think.
    You struggle to improve your looks.
    You meet some men. You write some books.
    You eat good food. You give up junk.
    You do not smoke. You don't get drunk.
    You go to yoga, walk and swim,
    And nothing works. The outlook's grim.
    You don't know what to do. You cry.
    You're running out of things to try.

    You blow your nose. You see the shrink.
    You walk. You give up food and drink.
    You fall in love. You make a plan.
    You struggle to improve your man,
    And nothing works. The outlook's grim.
    You go to yoga, cry and swim.
    You eat and drink. You give up looks.
    You struggle to improve your books.
    You cannot see the point. You sigh.
    You do not smoke. You have to try.

  3. hihi i love that wasteland poem.

  4. Naughty, but like most good pastiche, quite fun. (TWL is a fragment I have shored, after all. For better or worse.)