I haven’t forgotten my old friend, J. Alfred. Have any of you joined me in this Tweetspeak Poetry dare? I’m almost there.
Here’s proof that I earned barista badge #9 for this stanza:
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 is 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.
What’s your favorite line in this stanza? Why?
Martha Orlando says
I so admire you for doing this, Sandy! No, I can’t choose a favorite stanza, but the word “malingers” jumped out at me – you just don’t see that word in writing any more!
Blessings!
Sandra Heska King says
I can’t even begin to understand a lot of what Eliot meant in this poem. I’m thinking about how an afternoon/evening pretends to be ill.
I find the references to John the Baptist and and the weeping, fasting, and praying interesting. This poor guy is growing old. I don’t think he likes it much.
L.L. Barkat says
I like “malingers” too. 🙂
Also, this part:
“Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?”
It’s such an interesting juxtaposition—the delicacies of the party and the crisis of self. It helps create more of an off-kilter feel, like he sees everything in 3D strangeness of perspective. Now I am wondering about Eliot’s relationship, if any at all, with the surrealism movement. (Was it before, after, or during his time?)
Sandra Heska King says
Hmmmm… I don’t know much about surrealism, so that’s another rabbit trail. A quick run to Mr. Google tells me Prufrock was published before it was a “thing.” But this whole poem has an off-kilter feel–from ragged claws to cakes and ices to teacups and sunsets and sprinkled streets and novels… How does someone as young as he was write something like this?