The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
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.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Copyright Credit: T. S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" from Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T.S. Eliot. Copyright © 1963 by T. S. Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber, Ltd..
Source: Collected Poems 1909-1962 (1963)—Gerard Manley Hopkins
The Love Song of the Cursive Child
Let us go then, you and I,
When the paper lies flat beneath the light
Like a corpse pulled smooth for viewing;
Let us go, through certain half-erased lines,
The trembling confines
Of quiet hours in linoleum-tiled classrooms
And elbows pressed against the laminate;
Margins that follow like a tedious instruction
Of obsessive intent
To lead you to a looping execution…
Oh, do not ask, “What’s the point?”
Let us go and make our letters.
In the room the teachers come and go
Talking of Palmer Method flow.
The green-black board that burned beneath my aching hand,
The green-black board that winced when chalk was pressed too light,
Dragged the piece across the hump of every letter,
Caught along the smears where other names had been,
Took my dust and scattered it against the wood rail,
Snagged my shirt and made a stutter near the tail,
And seeing that the room was almost empty,
Paused once upon my name, and looked around.
And indeed there will be time
For the rubber grip to sweat against the skin,
For the tilt to fuck up the slantless line;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a hand to match the hands around it;
There will be time to press and lift, erase,
And time for all the lines and loops of script
That wrap and vanish on a pad;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred scrawled revisions,
Before the pissed-off snap of a binder ring.
In the room the teachers come and go
Talking of Palmer Method flow.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to crumple pages in my lap,
With the ink beginning to clot inside the pen—
(They will say: “His hand is growing stiff!”)
My posture bent, my pinky grey with smear,
My wrist a little trembled, but determined still—
(They will say: “But he should’ve moved on.”)
Do I dare
Remember how it felt to write for her?
In a minute there is time
For ten backspaces and a sigh.
For I have known her words already, known them all—
Have known the way she paused above the desk—
I have measured out my lines beneath her gaze;
I know the way her silence marked a fault
Beneath the scratch of pencil slowing down.
So how should I resume?
And I have known the voice already, known it well—
The voice that watched my hand and not my face,
And when I brought it crooked, made me start again,
When I was off by half a line,
Then how should I begin
To say I kept the page because it pleased her?
And how should I resume?
And I have known her habits, known them all—
Hands that clicked her Bic then waved the smoke away
(But in her tone, still a firm instruction!)
Is it longing now, or shame?
What makes me think she’d care to see this mess?
And should I then resist?
And how should I resume?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through storage bins
And found her list of capital formations,
Still folded underneath the fifth-grade tests?
I should have been a snapped-off pencil shaft,
Rolled beneath her desk and kicked by accident.
And the hand, the arm, sleeps so peacefully!
Slowed by years, or else pretending,
Stretched along the line, here beside the margin.
Should I, after screens and edits and clean design,
Have the gall to call this art?
But though I have practiced, have rewritten,
Though I have filled my shelves with useless pages,
I am no craftsman—and here’s no great return;
I have seen the death of letters in real time,
I have felt the downstroke fail right at the curve.
And in short, I was not done.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the drills, the checkmarks, the ruled sheets,
Among the carbon copies, among some talk of posture—
Would it have been worth while,
To have slowed it down until the loops aligned,
To have carved a name that stayed inside the margins,
To say: “I learned the stroke from her,
The drag, the tilt, the press, the catch before the curl—”
If one, folding the workbook shut, annoyed,
Should say: “That’s not how we write at all;
That’s not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the whiteouts and the redraws and the stickers,
After the pens, after the erasers, after the gentle “Try again—”
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a bent Bic bled through the final draft:
Would it have been worth while
If one, setting the paper to the side,
And turning toward her task, should say:
“That’s not it at all,
That’s not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not the scribe, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant smudge, one that will do
To leave a note, underline a page or two,
Repeat her script, recall her phrasing—
Deferential, and out of time,
Polite, compulsive, and meticulous,
Full of lines I never quite perfected—
At times, indeed, almost invisible—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow faint… I grow faint…
I shall tear the margin off my page and eat it.
Shall I copy this to Word? Do I dare to hit save?
I shall wear my old writing callus like her praise.
I have heard the keyboards clack, each to each.
I do not think that they will clack for me.
I have seen them stacked inside the cubby holes
Creased at the edges, heavy with old glue
When the Elmer’s crusted white across the fold.
We have lingered in the back of classroom drawers
By strokes she once admired with quiet nods
Till someone called for lunch, and we stood up.