Poetry: The Book of my Enemy — The Wasted Land | clivejames.com
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The Wasted Land

T. S. Tambiguiti

April is a very unkind month, I am telling you.
Oh yes. And summer was surprising us very much,
Coming over the Tottenham Court Road.
What are the roots that grab around you,
What are the branches that grow, actually,
Out of all this? Can’t you tell me that?
You know only a heap of images all broken up.
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd was flowing over London Bridge, so many,
So many people there were crossing that bridge
It was looking like Calcutta.
There I was seeing somebody I knew and crying out
Rhanji! Rhanji! You who were with me
In that correspondence course they were giving
About how to repair railway engines
At home. Did you pass? But that was
A long time ago, oh yes, a long time ago.
Oh the moon shone very brightly on Mrs Murray
Who lived in Surrey.
She washed her feet in chicken curry.
Twit twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug
It is unreal, this place, I am telling you that.
Do you listen to what I am telling you?
Burning burning burning burning burning
The whole vindaloo is burning, Ghita,
While you are talking to that silly Mrs Chatterjee.
These fragments I have shored against my ruins.
Hurry up please, you must be going home now.
Hurry up please, please hurry up.
Good night Rhanji. Good night Satyajit.
Good night Rabindranath. Good night Assistant
District Commissioner Cunningham-Price-Alyston.
Good night. Oh yes. It’s good night that I am saying.
Good night. Good night. Tambiguiti is mad again.
Good night. Shantih shantih shantih.
It’s only a shantih in old
Shantih town.