I read The Wasteland today —
for the first time in a long time.
I do not understand it all, and I don’t try to. Not really. I’ve never thought that was the point.
But reading it again after a long pause, I realised how much it shapes my experience.
It feels familiar. Life long.
The poem is
for me at least
more a process — a shape of living — than a thing to understand.
Having gone away, and come back after a few years, I see more, understand more than I did.
there are ways in which my life has converged with the poem
ways in which is hasn’t
but what is being done feels familiar
the way of seeing, hearing, perceiving
the way of life
tears come too. Sometimes as Lear enters with the woman’s anxiety.
Sometimes with lilacs.
Today, with Da, Datta, a moment’s surrender.
Elizabeth, you do not like this poem? Tell me: what is is about?
I am not sure I like it either, but there it is. A part of me now. An inescapable truth.