T. S. Eliot - The Waste Land (Jeremy Irons & Eileen Atkins)
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- čas přidán 20. 01. 2017
- The legendary Jeremy Irons and Eileen Atkins read the classic poem The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot. It was first broadcast on 30 March 2012, on BBC Radio 4. I do not own this content.
I had a small paperback copy of this in a collection when I was far too young . We are working class people . This is the collective weath that my mother curated for us. I am thankfull to all who made this avialble . I miss you mom .
Not me shivering when I heard Irons say “fear” because I immediately thought of his role as Scar!
On a real note, both voices are beautiful for this poem.
I have been reading this poem for over thirty - almost forty years - and this is the first time I have heard it brought to its full life and beauty! Wow! Just wow! Thank you!! So beautiful!!!
can you please tell me exactly how many speakers do we have in this poem ?
@@agirlsays -- It's pretty hard to say! Part I has a narrative voice at the start, then a reminiscent traveler, who has a line in German quoted from a fellow-traveler, and who turns out be or turns into "Marie." Then there's the Son of Man passage, which one could attribute to the "narrator" of the poem, supposing it to have one; then the two Wagner quotes, unattributed, sandwich the monologue of the Hyacinth Girl; the Madame Sosostris is introduced by a narrative voice and has a monologue; the section has a or the narrator again. Part II: There's the husband and wife and then the woman in the pub (who relates her talk with another woman) and the barman who interrupts. There are narrative voices at the beginning and end of part II. etc.
@@agirlsays original title of the poem was "He Do the Police in Different Voices" (a quote from Dickens)
@@agirlsays I'd say the number of speakers is less important than the fact that the poem is fragmented - that is, there are several different voices that all reflect the sterility and decay of modern society.
Reminds me of Joyce and even the reading of Under Milk Wood - wonderful indeed.
1.The Burial of the Dead - 00:00 -- 5:00.
2.A Game of Chess - 05:04 -- 10:59.
3.The Fire Sermon - 11:02 -- 19:06.
4.Death by Water - 19:11 -- 19:50.
5. What the Thunder Said - 19:55 --
Thalles Vinicius Hi future Helen! Its Alex Graham!
Thanks to this reading I just finished memorizing the entire poem.
Amazing 👍
The multiple voices and accents are very effective in catching the essence of the poem.
I had really enjoyed Elliot's own reading, as well as Sir Alec Guinness. But this version brings a deeper, stereoscopic dimension by employing the back-and-fourth banter of both a male and female voice. Well done. And bravo on the different accents! The original title of the poem was, "He do the police in different voices."
The rendition of the poem in mixed voices, male and female, is an absolute top drawer; exquisite to the ear. Thank your for a wonderful treat!!!
Only Jeremy Irons should read poetry - his voice is so beautiful, so emotive. This combination of voices is very good. Prickles up the spine whilst listening........
Check out John Lithgow's audiobook "Poets' Corner". It has some beautiful, mesmerising readings from various actors, including Morgan Freeman, Jodie Foster and John Lithgow himself.
A collection of words, spoken so beautifully together has created an art for which we have no word.
Both Eileen and Jeremy recite the poem sensitively without over-performing the jump cuts in the non-linear narrative. Jeremy dexterously elongates the first syllable of the last word 'shanti' to underscore the nuanced subtext of the coda.
…which is…?
Tacit acceptance. Resipiscence: the donnée of the poem. Hope that satisfies Chancellor Gough.
This performance is absolutely glorious!
finally a version where "memory" is not as "memoly"
Both Atkins and Irons are impressive.
Magnificent and alive. I forewent watching television in favor of this performance during my breakfast this November morning. Thank you. ( l can watch Samantha Bee another time.)
Beyond Beautiful! To listen - again and again ...
What an amazing job, what an amazing poem. It's the best thing
A recitation to remember. Jeremy Irons is a legend. His acting in the film Lolita first made me his fan. His utteration of the beginning lines of Lolita has made me a permanent lover of the book. I have heard T. S. Eliot's lovesong in his voice, and here he has again stolen the soul. There are many recitation of Wasteland to be found in CZcams but this is the first I come across with recitation by both man and woman. The 'Hurry up please' portion is wonderfully done. Next I wait for a rendition totally by a female voice.
1:56 - 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.
Eliot surmised that that post WWI was a time of cultural and moral dust. Christ, I wonder what he would make of today.
There is in fact hope here. If your shadow in the morning is behind you and in front of you in the evening you must be moving eastward, that is toward the land of the rising sun and therefore enlightenment.
his voice is so beautiful, so emotiv
Incredible to think that this is a century old. The twin narration bring the multiple voices to life. Amazing.
Good reading i was deeply moved
Simply incredible!
This is so so so beautiful and powerful! Thank you so so much!!!
Thank you So Much : Captivating and Very Helpful
My fav narration of this brilliant poem 😄
Absolutely phenomenal...
Amazing amazing performances
Amazing!
A poem for these troubled times.
o, great! both of them r great. i have never heard before though passed post graduate from english. That means m totally nil.
thank u so much.
I love this poem so much it is my favorite
This was in my syllabus... the poem I am now hearing.... amazing reciting, Irons and Atkins. Thank you so much for uploading.
Wonderful narration
A masterpiece
Wow! Just Wow.
Was für ein Erlebnis!!!!
Excellent just excellent or simmplly, WOW!
Wonderful
7:21 I love this part, it’s so dark. It’s reminds me a bit to The Hour of the Wolf by Ingmar Bergman
Loved it
fantastic
Thank goodness for this . I thought we were stuck with
the Alec Guinness " Shakespearean Thespian " parody !!
Oh it's great 👌👌👌👌
Oooh, I have chills. Amazing!
FABBRO
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 arch-duke’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.
Oed’ 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!”
Fantastic! 🙏❤👼💕🥰
Fantastic
the last shantih shantih shantih gave me goosebumps
Excellent.
Amazing.
Thanks :D
Wonderful reading, thanks a lot to whole team...
perfect.
The poem was published exactly 100 years ago in the October issue of _The Criterion_ #TheWasteLand100
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 one 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
DA
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
DA
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, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
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
em>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
soon you'll achieve the stability you strive for. in the only way that its granted. in a place among the fossils of yer time
dope
Nice
can you please tell me exactly how many speakers do we have in this poem ? i need help with it.
Oh to sit in front of them as they recite
I think I like Alec Guinness's version more but this is the one that gets the meaning across with greater clarity.
7:22
A REQUIEM FOR THE RULING MINORITY A SYMPHONY FOR THE BOURGEOISIE BOURGEOISIE BOURGEOISIE A SING ALONG SONG TO FREE THE PEASANTS SERFS AND SLAVES MAN IS BORN FREE AND IS EVERYWHERE IN CHAINS
"MAN IS BORN FREE AND IS EVERYWHERE IN CHAINS" Wow! Did you come up with that yourself? Just kidding.
Abhishek line 13:56
Never heard this before. Is the poet dissecting his own psych?
In part, yes. His mind is fragmenting as was Europe after World War I
Welcome to the beautiful corpse of ''Modernism''
1:21
25:36
خراب المملكة أم خراب الملكوت ؟! ....خطيئة أصلية ام رؤيا (( سفر الجامعة )) ...الكل باطل وقبض الريح ؟! .....الثمالة الأخيرة في كأس النزوة الرومانسية ؟
A Scapeshifter
No.
Superb stuff. Two voices works very well especially when they are as good as these. I liked the Guinness version, but prefer this. I could never listen to Eliot reading it himself. It may have been technically accurate, but so dry and tinny!
@@petersmith4891 "he do the police in different voices"
Terrible reading.
Actors always spoil poetry with their tedious acting and this is no exception.