The exploration into our latest poem continues. What lurks behind the writing of the second part of A Modern Wasteland?

Had some very lovely feedback from the first instalment of my new poem A Modern Wasteland last week. So I thought I’d carry on, and I’ve just released the second part on my social channels. If you eschew social media, or just don’t follow me there, Part II of the poem is below:

A MODERN WASTELAND

II. NOR CAST THY PEARLS BEFORE SWINE

What foul thing can this be, giving chase?

Pursuing me as I pass through endless corridors and rooms.

I never find the exit, and thus

That demon – my guilt – ever looms.

I have a scratchy feeling in my throat

A sharp flinty shingle slowly choking me

Can this be the knowledge

Of my lack of charity?

“You should follow the Bishop’s example,”

My mother said to me.

“The Bishop of Digne. Valjean’s absolver.”

I knew the title instantly.

He gave up his God-given palace to the sick,

And took rooms in the hospital instead.

“True sacrifice is there displayed,” my mother preached.

“Easy for you to say,” I said.

For never cared she for jewels or fashions.

Few have been my mother’s treasures.

And thus she knows nothing truly

Of casting them aside for desperate measures.

“So forgive me if I cling to my finery,” I tell her,

“And my portable wealth.

“But know that guilt will forever be

A plague upon my health.”

I like to think I have blended modernist and post-modernist principles a bit here. The involvement of cultural references continue, in the style of T.S. Eliot’s original The Waste Land. For example, the title of the segment comes from the Sermon on the Mount, same as Part I from last week (and so the trend will continue into Parts III and IV). Victor Hugo’s immortal Les Misérables is referenced with the mentions of Valjean and the Bishop of Digne, who does indeed give up his palace so the overcrowded hospital next door can use the space. Meanwhile, I also reference a couple of English lyrics from one of my favourite songs My Yiddishe Momme. Namely, “How few were her pleasures, she never cared for fashion styles. Her jewels and her treasures, she found them in her baby’s smiles.”

In terms of the post-modernist, however, there is a degree of self-reference. Pertaining to anxiety and recurring dreams. I have one in which I am running in a grand house or hotel, through a series of doors that lead to various rooms or hallways. Can’t put my finger on what exactly I’m running from, mind you. But there it is – one of my recurring dreams. And then there’s the scratchy feeling at the back of my throat, which I’ve been feeling a lot during my anxious moments throughout this entire pandemic. Don’t get the wrong idea – there has been no cough, or any other symptoms for that matter, to go with it. It comes and goes episodically. And I thought it was a nice bit of imagery to chuck in with this character’s crippling guilt.

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Dipped back into poetry for a spell. What started as a uni task turned into something that inspired a full story…

Some of you may have come here by way of Instagram or Facebook, and if that’s the case, then great! Either way, you probably know I’m not normally one for poetry. I was once upon a time, when it was the only real creative writing you got to do in school. But after GCSE English, I was so focused on writing the Berylford books (plus I didn’t do English Literature at A-Level), my love and competence for poetry just vanished. Until now, where I present something I’m calling A Modern Wasteland.

A few weeks ago, as part of my Masters, I was required to read T.S. Eliot’s famous The Waste Land. To sum up a rather complex and important Modernist piece, it is a 434-line blending of various episodes of British society, cultural references and different languages. Furthermore, it is broken up into five sections, each with their own tones, narrators, themes and so on. I do actually urge poetry lovers to give it a go. Its deeper meanings might not be clear from the outset, but isn’t that half the fun? Anyway, we were asked to write versions of our own. And after writing the first segment GIVE NOT WHAT IS HOLY TO DOGS, I enjoyed it so much (and the feedback received), I decided to finish the remaining three.

A MODERN WASTELAND

I. GIVE NOT WHAT IS HOLY TO DOGS

Herein lies the lesson

That my father confirmed upon me

That no solace may be taken

In hapless acts of generosity

With the landscape mired in vagrancy

Aggressive begging and

The self-righteous shouting after

The lords and ladies of the land

Who oblige them with little less

Than the silent contempt they deem them due

But never resort to rehome their coins

Stay cold as they pass through.

Are there no prisons? No poorhouses?

The homeless should go there.

If they’d rather die, they’d better do it:

Their fate’s their own affair.

Confer upon them no funds:

No shilling, penny, or pound

For honour is rare in their intentions

Booze and drugs are what’s to be found.

Admittedly, not too many cultural references in there. Two, to be frank, and one is in the title of the segment. Give Not What is Holy to Dogs comes from The Sermon on the Mount — the only part of it that I actually know. And so the three lines that follow it form the titles for the succeeding segments of this poem. The other reference some may know if you’re big fans of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Three lines in there that are quite applicable to the attitudes towards the poor and homeless in the UK.

FUTURE

I’m likely to publish the remaining parts on my channels in due course. But the best thing to come out of this, apart from a renewed interest in poetry, is the decision to expand the entire storyline into a prose piece. More likely a short story or novel, rather than a Berylford Scandal-length novel. Tentatively titled Ode of a Godless Man, I may begin work on that in and around my continuation of You Can Hear Chopin from the Attic, and the projects I’ve committed to for uni.

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