THE ENIGMA OF THE SINGING MERMAIDS

Autumn for me is the season for poetry, both writing and reading;


‘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.        ‘

From ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’ T S Eliot


I first read those lines above in the autumn. I was 18 years old and was immediately enamoured of Eliot’s poetry, to the extent that someone appraising some of my early efforts said, “It’s a shame you ever read Eliot, for otherwise you have the makings of a reasonable poet.” What he was saying was that I had drunk too deeply of the cup, anything I then produced having TS Eliot stamped through it like a slice of Blackpool rock.

The rest of this post can be read at The Blue Room:-
http://alextalbottheblueroom.blogspot.co.uk/

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