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/Having visited this page I would be grateful for your feedback, either tick one of the boxes below or make a comment via the comments button.