the enso

"Just before the pregnant pause gives birth" by marlowe

the opinion

My Enso Muse went MIA around mid January. After several days, I searched the darkest, furthest corners of the kitchen pantry. I scoured closets. I peeked behind each dusty bookcase.

Nada.

I almost considered filing a Missing Person Report.

She left me a jar of cookies. Asked me not to despair.

In the meantime, I find myself wandering the house while cradling my pen and notepad. I continue to meditate dutifully. I fantasize that she will decide to return unannounced, like always, whether as a delicate surprise or …

I wait. I sit in my desert. There are no desserts here.

A favorite poem is like that first great kiss: you never forget it. The mere mention of it makes your face blush and your heart beat a little faster.

I first read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” when I was just a junior in High School. I immediately fell in love, hard. Its gauzy spell never shook loose, never left me. To this day, I squeal when I find fragments of the poem reused, whether wrapped in pop culture or an academic treatise.

Why?

You see, unlike the very heady and often cryptic “Waste Land” (T.S. Eliot‘s most famous poem), “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” beckons to you from the first stanza. The language teases you, takes you for a walk, and leaves you breathless.

Its modern sensibility, its bleakness, its layered definition of love remain fresh despite the staleness of the title character. We may now measure our days with text messages instead of coffee spoons, but Prufrock’s cautionary tale about the perils of an ordinary adulthood nonetheless resonate. The bitter angst still bites. The wistful hope still lingers. And the unmatched desire remains almost inaudible.

Read It

Check out the full poem at Bartleby.com.

Hear It

Hear T.S. Eliot read his poem:

What’s your favorite poem?

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