This poem, the first time I learned of it and
studied it, was back in high school in an English class with a brilliant and
inspired teacher, so in love with poetry that he infected us all with his
passion. T.S. Elliot--this guy was a true genius.
“The Love Song of J. Alfred Pufrock,” by T.S. Elliot
leaves me speechless. It is complete and well resolved in a way that leaves me
fully satisfied. I love the pace, the
atmosphere he creates and his incredible use of personification. Elliot asks us
to look at the world through unfiltered eyes. He dares us to take an honest
look at our surroundings, the places we go and ultimately at ourselves as we
evolve, change and age.
(Vincent Van Gogh - "Self Portrait" 1889)
This is the anthem of artists and writers.
Here is an excerpt for you to enjoy on what seems to
be a promising Sunday morning:
The Love Song of J. Alfred Pufrock
T.S. Elliot (1888 – 1965)
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.
Read more of this poem here
(Claude Monet - "Waterloo Bridge, London at Sunset")
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