10 Oct: "The Hollow Men" (again)



I recommend listening to Marlon Brando read the entire poem. Maybe add the Apocalypse Now interpretation into the poem?




"The Hollow Men" by T. S. Eliot

Mistah Kurtz-he dead
            A penny for the Old Guy



                       I

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar
    
    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
    
    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us-if at all-not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

    
                              II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.
    
    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer-
    
    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom

    
                   III

    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.
    
    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.

    
                     IV

    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
    
    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    And avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
    
    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.

    
                           V

    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.

    
    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
    
    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
                                   Life is very long
    
    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
                                   For Thine is the Kingdom
    
    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the
    
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.

3 comments:

  1. It is a creepy poem. It reminds me of the walking dead/zombies in the beginning, except even worse. Zombies don't seem to have enough awareness to suffer.

    The hollow men cannot act but just exist. Even envious of people in hell.

    I like the Apocalypse Now reading. The soldiers could be seen as hollow men. Doped up and messed up. Maybe not wanting to die, but maybe envious of those who died because they are no longer in the hollow land of the Veitnam War.

    Not being able to pray is a strong metaphor. Being so dry and unable to act that pray, or hope, isn't an option. Is it a concern with neutral or passive living?

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  2. So empty...so purgatory. Like they are stuck with no hope, no future, destined for death. Not a death like humans, but a death without a soul.

    "is it like this in death's other kingdom"? As if the hell we know is better than where they are now...as if hell has a purpose. So sad.

    Where did T.S. Elliot write this from? Did he, too, feel so empty?

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  3. He must of had a pretty dark phase

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