poem of the week: the love song of j. alfred prufrock (and other things)

[ontology]

So. I just had this bizarre thing spring vaguely into my head: some sort of fantasy farce involving a somewhat foppish vegetarian werewolf.

Don't ask. I honestly don't know. And time will tell if he has a long coat and a weskit and a pocket watch or not. (Must--not--fangirl--pocket watches--!) 

In almost-related news, Miss Tuesday Aiken has informed me that her birthday is thirteen April. (That's in five days. What a time to tell!) Also, I have lost all ability to Write Coherently. I have about a billion fragments of fics, some jotted on paper, some taking up hard drive, and some Not In Any Tangible Medium At All, which is sort of stupid, I suppose. There are also several tuesday_skyline fragments. Apparently I either don't actually have that Deep Communion with my characters that I fancied I had, or I've offended them (again), and they're refusing to have anything to do with me. The latter is extremely likely. My characters are a monstrously fussy lot. 

Have been reading Little Women again, for the first time in...months? Maybe even a year, as dreadful as it sounds. Originally began out of fangirlishness towards Professor Bhaer, though it takes quite a while to get to his bit. Now that I am actually the age that Jo is at the beginning of the book, I'm finding myself astonishingly more and more like her (even if Jo is the one nickname of mine that NO ONE EVER USES *bawls*). The frenzied writer thing is more than obvious (I need a writing cap, though!), the nasty temper, the blunt manner of speech, the feminine-tomboy personality--it's almost frightning, actually. ^-^ Also, found two-week-old chocolate from my little sister's birthday party, which was a spiffing addition to the Saturday festivities. Or lack thereof.

(Should be writing, should be writing, should be bloody writing! --New mantra. Hopeless, aren't I?)

Speaking of writing: my old, seldom-used poetry journal _plentyofpaper is going to start doing things again. I promise. I'm just branching out a bit. (I mean, look at my profile! It's so much more interesting!) As I don't seem to write poetry very often, mainly due to Lack Of Own Computer, I am showcasing the varied, um...thingummies of my artistic...um...self? Blimey, that was a floundering mess of a sentence. Anyway. Go look. There isn't much, but I changed all my icons and everything!

As it is now Saturday, it is time for The Poem of the Week. This is one of my absolute favourite poems in existence. The very last verse is absolutely stunning. Most of you have probably read it, but re-reading it will be good for you, and who wouldn't want to re-read it, anyway (says she of the very tatted thrift-store paperback Eliot collection)? If you haven't read it, shame on you. Also, it reminds me incredibly of Remus in ways I can't explain. (I have taken the liberty of alluding the the fact that Eliot is Remus' favourite poet in at least two fics, however. ^-^ Eliot in general seems very Remusy to me.) 

EDIT: OMG. I MADE IT WORK. I FIGURED IT OUT. I MADE THE RICH TEXT CUT WORK. (And there was much rejoicing.)

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S. Eliot
 
  S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò 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 etherised 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 windowpanes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes
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.