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Where Poetry Fits In

The Waste Land, Lines 60-68

Real is a city.
Poetic maps it out.
Unreal paints it with brown fog.

With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

Real are the people.
Poetic sees them flow.
Unreal follows them uphill and over the river.

So many ...so many.

Real are the landmarks.
Poetic calls them king and saint.
Unreal casts them as characters.

London Bridge is falling down.

Real is the time.
Poetic counts with sighs.
Unreal begins at the final bell.

Hurry up it’s time.

Real is life.
Poetic feels the seasons.
Unreal sees death undone.

In my end is my beginning.

Real feels weary.
Poetic hangs its head.
Unreal fixes eyes to the pavement.

I would that I were dead, she used to say.

We live in the life of real.
We breathe with the power of a poem.
We wonder in the realm of unreal.

In my beginning is my end.

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