The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T.S Eliot
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the
window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin
—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
One of the first true modernist poems, The Love Song of
J. Alfred Prufrock is a shifting, repetitive monologue, the thoughts of a
mature male as he searches for love and meaning in an uncertain, twilight
world.
Eliot's poem caught the changes in consciousness
perfectly. At the time of writing, class systems that had been in place for
centuries were under pressure like never before. Society was changing, and a
new order was forming. World War 1 was on the horizon and the struggles for
power were beginning to alter the way people lived and thought and loved.
Greetings poets, wayfarers and friends. It's a beautiful day here and I am looking forward to reading some poetry with a lovely cup of mochaccino.
Before we begin there is an important announcement that I'd like to make, as of September 1, The Tuesday Open Link Platform will fall away. The Weekly prompts will shift to Monday and the Weekend prompts to Friday. See you on the poetry trail! 🍣
