Poet of the Week

[Querida]

Oh good for you all to have discussed Robert Frost...there is something that deters me from reading poetry books...i still have not touched emily dickinson....

TS Eliot on the other hand is melancholy but bitter as well, i would think the most well known of his poems is the following...it works for me more on "oh i like this line for it's sound rather than its meaning..it seems the struggle of an average, immasculated, middle aged man...

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

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 toward 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.

[Querida]

Translation of Italian Passage: A passage from Dante Alighieri's Inferno (Canto 27, lines 61-66) spoken by Guido da Montefeltro in response to the questions of Dante, who Guido supposes is dead, since he is in Hell:. The flame in which Guido is encased vibrates as he speaks: "If I thought that that I was replying to someone who would ever return to the world, this flame would cease to flicker. But since no one ever returns from these depths alive, if what I've heard is true, I will answer you without fear of infamy."

There are key allusions to people associated with death:

I know only the gist of Dante's inferno i would rather have the quote speak for itself.

For Hamlet I am sure we all know his famous preoccupation with death

Lazarus- the man raised from the dead by Jesus

John the Baptist -"Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;"

Herod had imprisoned John because he reproved Herod for divorcing his wife (Phasaelis), and unlawfully taking his brother Philip's wife, Herodias. On Herod's birthday, Herodias' daughter (traditionally named Salome) danced before the king and his guests. Her dancing pleased Herod so much that in his drunkenness he promised to give her anything she desired, up to half of his kingdom. When the daughter asked her mother what she should request, she was told to ask for the head of John the Baptist on a platter. Although Herod was appalled by the request, he reluctantly agreed and had John executed in the prison. (wiki)


Prufrock claims he is none of aforementioned figures, it is like he knows what Dante, Lazarus and Hamlet know but he sorely lacks the confidence tell us...just as Hamlet he is stuck in indecision, cowardice or just lack of confidence to do so, all in all he is not a great figure...:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; [...] Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.


but he knows of aging, death, misery,...note how many questions litter this poem especially of "do i dare?", "how should I presume?"...each confessing a lack of confidence and motivation.

He seems to be among the bourgeois...of women who know of Michaelangelo, of affording desserts such as cakes, ice cream, of braceleted women, picnics, parties, it seems he knows that this society is all an act a facade that he too joins in...

Yet he begins with the lower classes "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 "

There are parts of the poem that to me are incongruent....some lines I find almost too easy and childish:

"In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo."

yet other parts oddly stand alone such as the living creature of yellow fog, who brings to mind more of a dog:

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.


His almost physical inability to move forward, held back and weakened:

When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized (2) upon a table;

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,


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.

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

OVERALL:
He is mired in melancholy, a desire to be desired and praised yet lacking appealing qualities (his age, his lack of hair, his thin figure, his modest attire). He is afraid, lonely, and seems to only know how to be those things...death is impending upon him yet he has accomplished nothing...Prufrock is a pathetic character whose misery makes you want to pity yet also repel his lack of any motivation...it is not how a love song should be...it is too full of human faults, worries, fears, anxieties, and of what ifs? or how comes? Yet they are not met with hope...there is no solution...we know he will do nothing about his inabilities...it is quite fustrating and admittingly quite human...never is a answered let alone spoken it is all thought and put aside...and let to be withered away...He is afraid of life and of death...and in the end this is a love song to a life never lived...

[pavalamani pragasam]

An excellent poem, I must agree. Stunning simplicity of words- a simplicity which is however treacherous since it implies so many unsaid meanings. Rich figures of speech, nice sarcasm, very deep interpretations philosophical & down to earth at once!

[podalangai]

Would there be interest in discussing Wordsworth? He's a poet I had to learn to appreciate, but I'm now glad I did.

Perhaps we could start with his five "Lucy poems"?

[pavalamani pragasam]

Please go on!

[P_R]

Do go on podalangai
I have found him quite uninteresting - I was fed with him as a schoolboy by eager teachers who seemed to think much of him.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Esp. Daffodils!!!

[P_R]

Esp. Daffodils!!!

Oh yeah ! The recitation contest favourite.

[pavalamani pragasam]

And The solitary reaper!!!

[podalangai]

Sorry - having serious internet connection problems - will be back online in a couple of days, hopefully.