NOTE: A POIGNANT AND DOWNHEARTED LOOK AT THE PRESENT IN AFGHANISTAN. NO SUBTITLES AND IT IS NORMAL SPEECH SO IT'S PRETTY HARD.
GUARDIAN VIDEO: British troops in Afghanistan: 'We try to help them ... but it just seems pointless'
Friday, August 6, 2010
BBC News (English subtitles)
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
NOTE: AN INTERESTING LITTLE REPORT. THE SUBTITLES ARE OK AND THE BBC IS ALWAYS A GOOD TV CHANNEL TO GET SOME LISTENING PRACTICE WITH.
How to Pronounce -ed verb endings: American English Pronunciation
NOTE: WE ALL KNOW THIS ONE IS PRETTY USEFUL!
The Waste Land (T.S. Eliot)
Saturday, July 31, 2010
NOTE: THIS IS REALLY VERY DIFFICULT (AND LONG) SO MAKE SURE YOU ARE READY FOR IT BEFORE STARTING TO READ IT.
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.
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 archduke'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.
Od' 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 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.
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 to-night. 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 to-morrow?
'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 IT'S 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 IT'S 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 alright, 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 IT'S 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 IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S 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 on 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 seas 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 place 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
D A
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
D A
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, aetherial rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
D A
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 ceu 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
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 archduke'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.
Od' 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 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.
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 to-night. 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 to-morrow?
'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 IT'S 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 IT'S 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 alright, 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 IT'S 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 IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S 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 on 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 seas 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 place 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
D A
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
D A
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, aetherial rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
D A
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 ceu 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
GUARDIAN VIDEO: 'Time to break the cyber-utopian myth'
Friday, July 30, 2010
Who do you read and associate with online? Ethan Zuckerman argues that cultural and linguistic barriers stand in the way of our using the internet to tackle global issues
NOTE: VERY INTERESTING BUT PRETTY DIFFICULT
Aren't Holidays Great?
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Anybody who knows me knows that I'm not really into holidays or 'travelling'. Yes I like to 'go away' for weekends now and then, but I'm too lazy to pack my life into a suitcase (20 kg max), drag it to (and through) an airport, feel like a cross between cattle and a suspected villain as I go through a sequence of queues, passport checks and security checks, and (to top it all) to self impose a rigorous timetable of sightseeing, shopping, and email checking that is far more stressful (to me) than working (I kid you not).
But this post is not about my dislikes (the previous paragraph not withstanding), this is about good things which hide behind other, less good, things. Let me tell you.
A trip to Thailand (which I wasn't expecting much of) had been going really rather well, when I arrived in Chiang Mai on the overnight train from Bangkok. Like I said, the trip had been going rather better than expected but, even so, my arrival in a new place proved to be a sharp turning point for the better.
Chiang Mai is an artisan and artistic university city in Northern Thailand. Its old city sits squarely in the middle of the newer rings that have sprang up around it, but it is neither obscured nor invaded by ultra-modern towers and skyscrapers. Inside the city life goes on, marked by tourism but unquestionably 'real'.
Walking around the old city and much of the 'newer' city you will find many art galleries, studios and schools. Art and design seem to be part of the city's DNA, and not in a clichéd way. I recommend visiting iberry for some interesting design and great ice cream, and the SeeScape gallery for some very interesting art (both have free wifi I am told).
Though I imagine few of us will be able to purchase furniture (even if we do fly first class, which I don't, obviously), Chiang Mai is an outstanding source of a wide range of some very interesting furniture. The workmanship of its craftsmen, the imagination of its artists and designers, and the atmosphere of the place all contrubute towards making it a very special place if you fall for the charms of the aesthetic / message.
Outside Chiang Mai there is a wonderful mountainous area where you can eat by a waterfall, play with elephants, walk through beautiful forests and drive through some great mountain roads with jaw-dropping views. I cannot stress this enough; the mountains by Chiang Mai are a wonderful, a great place to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city and relax.
Really, if you are thinking about visiting Thailand then research it, think it over, and go there.
But this post is not about my dislikes (the previous paragraph not withstanding), this is about good things which hide behind other, less good, things. Let me tell you.
A trip to Thailand (which I wasn't expecting much of) had been going really rather well, when I arrived in Chiang Mai on the overnight train from Bangkok. Like I said, the trip had been going rather better than expected but, even so, my arrival in a new place proved to be a sharp turning point for the better.
Chiang Mai is an artisan and artistic university city in Northern Thailand. Its old city sits squarely in the middle of the newer rings that have sprang up around it, but it is neither obscured nor invaded by ultra-modern towers and skyscrapers. Inside the city life goes on, marked by tourism but unquestionably 'real'.
Walking around the old city and much of the 'newer' city you will find many art galleries, studios and schools. Art and design seem to be part of the city's DNA, and not in a clichéd way. I recommend visiting iberry for some interesting design and great ice cream, and the SeeScape gallery for some very interesting art (both have free wifi I am told).
Though I imagine few of us will be able to purchase furniture (even if we do fly first class, which I don't, obviously), Chiang Mai is an outstanding source of a wide range of some very interesting furniture. The workmanship of its craftsmen, the imagination of its artists and designers, and the atmosphere of the place all contrubute towards making it a very special place if you fall for the charms of the aesthetic / message.
Outside Chiang Mai there is a wonderful mountainous area where you can eat by a waterfall, play with elephants, walk through beautiful forests and drive through some great mountain roads with jaw-dropping views. I cannot stress this enough; the mountains by Chiang Mai are a wonderful, a great place to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city and relax.
Really, if you are thinking about visiting Thailand then research it, think it over, and go there.
Steve Jobs Stanford Commencement Speech 2005: Parts 1 & 2 (English subtitles)
Friday, July 23, 2010
NOTE: SOME DIFFICULT EXPRESSIONS BUT VERY GOOD STRUCTURE, CLEAR SPEECH AND EXCELLENT SUBTITLES, IT'S A 'MUST-SEE'. I REALLY MEAN IT.
Think Different - Apple Commercial - 1977 [english subtitles]
Sunday, July 18, 2010
NOTE: VERY CLEAR BUT YOU MAY HAVE TO LOOK UP A FEW WORDS / EXPRESSIONS.
The People of the Rock: Llanitos of Gibraltar
Thursday, July 15, 2010
NOTE: NO SUBTITLES BUT THE LLANITOS SOUND JUST LIKE ANDALUCES... BUT NO SUBTITLES. THANKS TO GARRET WESLEY GIBBONS.
"The People of the Rock: Llanitos of Gibraltar" (2009) from Garrett Wesley Gibbons on Vimeo.
This is cruel/sad/unfortunate, and I bet it would happen to me (Miss Teen USA South Carolina 2007)
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Sasha Needs a Family (dog for adoption)
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
NOTE: ESTA ENTRADA ES SOBRE UNA PERRA QUE NECESITA SER ADOPTADA. SI ERES, O CONOCES A ALGUIEN QUE PODRÍA CUIDARLA, MÁNDANOS UN CORREO Y NOS PODREMOS EN CONTACTO CONTIGO.
Sasha is a special girl. She is the kind of dog that likes to look around at the birds and the flowers when she is taken for a walk. Even though she loves going for walks (and gets excited and happy when you take her out), she will always follow right behind you ('to heel') if you tell her to do so. You can walk around without worrying about where she might be, she never tries to 'sneak off', not because she's particularly well trained but because she REALLY REALLY wants to please you. That is the kind of dog she is.
Her current owners found her in an animal rescue centre, she was very shy and very afraid. If she could talk she would tell you that she has lived through some sad experiences, but she didn't need to talk back then, you could see it the moment you met her. Time heals, even if you are a dog.
Now Sasha embodies the essence of the happy dog, she loves every part of the day and sometimes she gets excited about certain things, but nothing is more important for her than knowing that her owner loves her.
Unfortunately her owners (who love her very much) really can't afford to keep her. They are desperately trying top find a new home for her, but not just any home, one where she will be loved and appreciated. It is all she needs.
Sasha is a special girl. She is the kind of dog that likes to look around at the birds and the flowers when she is taken for a walk. Even though she loves going for walks (and gets excited and happy when you take her out), she will always follow right behind you ('to heel') if you tell her to do so. You can walk around without worrying about where she might be, she never tries to 'sneak off', not because she's particularly well trained but because she REALLY REALLY wants to please you. That is the kind of dog she is.
Her current owners found her in an animal rescue centre, she was very shy and very afraid. If she could talk she would tell you that she has lived through some sad experiences, but she didn't need to talk back then, you could see it the moment you met her. Time heals, even if you are a dog.
Now Sasha embodies the essence of the happy dog, she loves every part of the day and sometimes she gets excited about certain things, but nothing is more important for her than knowing that her owner loves her.
Unfortunately her owners (who love her very much) really can't afford to keep her. They are desperately trying top find a new home for her, but not just any home, one where she will be loved and appreciated. It is all she needs.
Ballad Of The Skeletons - A Poem by Allen Ginsberg
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
NOTE: THIS IS A POEM, SO SOME OF ITS GRAMMAR STRUCTURES ARE A BIT ODD (STRANGE), LIKE THE POEM ITSELF I SUPPOSE.
Bob Dylan and John Lennon in a taxi (English subtitles)
NOTE: THIS VIDEO IS ALMOST UNINTELLIGIBLE, VIEW IT AS AN INTERESTING PIECE OF VIDEO DOCUMENTATION. NOTICE THE HUGE DIFFERENCE IN CLARITY BETWEEN LENNON AND DYLAN.
BBC Radio 4: An English Student's Dream
Although it is somewhat disappointing to face up to it, most students of English lack the time and / or the motivation to practice it like they should. There is no need to criticise anybody here, it is a widespread problem and those who do put some time aside to read or watch some films, are the the exception and not the rule.
For this reason I have taken to repeating my new mantra every time I'm given the chance (and even when I am not). Listen to English language internet radio like you would to normal radio in your language. That is, don't listen to it, just play it in the background. Your brain will soak it in slowly but without tiring you.
You can focus on the kids, work you may have brought home, cooking, whatever, your brain will absorb new vocabulary and grammar structures, while at the same time confirming other vocabulary and grammar that you may not be one hundred percent sure about.
And so it is with this end in mind that I now suggest going on to the BBC Radio 4 website and clicking on the "ON NOW:" link, you can also browse around and listen to one of the many programs in their back catalogue. The point, however, is that you must 'boomark' the page so that you can easily find it on a daily basis. Between ten minutes and an hours should be enough to see some noticeable improvements within no more than two months.
Go on, give it a go, it could potentially be one of the best habits to get into.
For this reason I have taken to repeating my new mantra every time I'm given the chance (and even when I am not). Listen to English language internet radio like you would to normal radio in your language. That is, don't listen to it, just play it in the background. Your brain will soak it in slowly but without tiring you.
You can focus on the kids, work you may have brought home, cooking, whatever, your brain will absorb new vocabulary and grammar structures, while at the same time confirming other vocabulary and grammar that you may not be one hundred percent sure about.
And so it is with this end in mind that I now suggest going on to the BBC Radio 4 website and clicking on the "ON NOW:" link, you can also browse around and listen to one of the many programs in their back catalogue. The point, however, is that you must 'boomark' the page so that you can easily find it on a daily basis. Between ten minutes and an hours should be enough to see some noticeable improvements within no more than two months.
Go on, give it a go, it could potentially be one of the best habits to get into.
Annoying Orange (subtitled)
WARNING: THIS VIDEO DEPICTS SCENES OF FRUIT & VEG ABUSE THAT MAY OFFEND SOME VIEWERS. IT ALSO CONTAINS EXTREME (FRUIT & VEG) VIOLENCE AND COARSE LANGUAGE.
Getting English Into Your Life
If you are reading this you should feel very privileged, at your fingertips lies the biggest resource an English learner could ever wish for: the internet.
It brings together such a mass of information that it is difficult to quantify it. Like the omnipresent Wikipedia it is a fallible source of information, but its very vastness also allows us to double check and contrast anything we come across. It is up to us to maximise its potential and minimise the impact of its weaknesses.
All learners of English and those for whom English is a second language should integrate some reading, listening and writing into their daily routines. Speaking (that most important of exercises) can be very hard to do on a very regular basis, and this is something we must make up for.
News websites can be great places for the more advanced learners, and some news websites (such as the BBC) keep their articles so succinct that even intermediate learners can read them without having to over stretch themselves. Then there are never ending supplies of videos, podcasts, radio streams and other media available for listening.
It is also very easy to find structured / formal exercises for listening, reading, and grammar / writing. Get out there and find them.
It is essential for English learners to maintain their motivation and consistency. This does not mean that you have to stress or tire yourself out, quite the opposite in fact. Try to make your English exposure enjoyable, watch comedy programs like “The Simpsons” or any other programs you enjoy. Try to make it fit in around your life, and not the other way around.
Remember, you are not alone. Use forums to discuss doubts and compare opinions. Sign up to courses where you can practice speaking and where a structure will be provided if you need it, but never forget that most learning has to take place in your own time and in your head. Make use of everything you can and make it part of your life.
It brings together such a mass of information that it is difficult to quantify it. Like the omnipresent Wikipedia it is a fallible source of information, but its very vastness also allows us to double check and contrast anything we come across. It is up to us to maximise its potential and minimise the impact of its weaknesses.
All learners of English and those for whom English is a second language should integrate some reading, listening and writing into their daily routines. Speaking (that most important of exercises) can be very hard to do on a very regular basis, and this is something we must make up for.
News websites can be great places for the more advanced learners, and some news websites (such as the BBC) keep their articles so succinct that even intermediate learners can read them without having to over stretch themselves. Then there are never ending supplies of videos, podcasts, radio streams and other media available for listening.
It is also very easy to find structured / formal exercises for listening, reading, and grammar / writing. Get out there and find them.
It is essential for English learners to maintain their motivation and consistency. This does not mean that you have to stress or tire yourself out, quite the opposite in fact. Try to make your English exposure enjoyable, watch comedy programs like “The Simpsons” or any other programs you enjoy. Try to make it fit in around your life, and not the other way around.
Remember, you are not alone. Use forums to discuss doubts and compare opinions. Sign up to courses where you can practice speaking and where a structure will be provided if you need it, but never forget that most learning has to take place in your own time and in your head. Make use of everything you can and make it part of your life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
