An invitation came for Poetry Friday. Jone posted her poem with a great picture of a "Poetree" made up of poem postcards. Linda posted a challenge on her blog that suggested 'translating' a mentor poem into our own.
My mentor poem: The Waste Land. T.S. Elliott
(Read the full poem here https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land)
I've been studying this poem through the University of Cambridge Winter Festival of Learning. Elliott's language is dense so I'm adding some levity here while also addressing Walk My World (#le3) with Ian O'Bryne and students. This is a #twoforone.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -IV. Death by Water
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea 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.
Where I'm FromShadrach the cattle dog, long gone but in my heart,
Made me forget my worries with his wide grin,
wagging tail and ready to work attitude.
The farm was ubiquitous
It was my youth, collecting eggs from the chooks
Milking cows and exploring paddock corners.
I learnt respect for nature's rules.
The gully rarely filled with water
Witnessing birth and death, made sense to me then
My father's practical sense, my mother grew vegetables.
My siblings found their own loves and losses.
Where nobody cared but you had to care for something
I often bonded with other country folk
Treading concrete tracks, painted by dusk.
A culture of observation
Skyline marked by sea and sand and pine trees
The farmers daughter moves quietly on.