the enso

"Bringing the Outdoors In" by marlowe

the poem

We notice the single crocus
as it rises like a phoenix from her nest
of rotten leaves, snow, and dried roses
wilted like damask gowns. The wind
sings to us like a siren.

Pine needles, disturbed by the wind, bristle
like porcupine quills, and fallen leaves
tumble over the pavement, clapping
like the hooves of galloping horses.
And these holly berries cradled in my palm?
Drops of blood.

And this blood boiling in your veins?
Love. It isn’t what you make it,
love is. Your center, your core:
it is the hub of that wheel.

We walk to the center of the forest. Trees
point paths to the divine, above and below,
but these evergreens stand
as stiff as the Queen’s Guards.

This evening, the cappuccino froth will sit stiff,
as decadent as whipped cream,
in your spoon while peppermint nips
your tongue like frost. You will argue
that the corkscrew of this cinnamon roll
is a mortal coil.

We will be spoiled, coiled in layers.
Our stained glass ornament will glow like the North Star
while the Christmas tree lights shine like constellations.
And this wrapped present will be a universe
waiting to be discovered.

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?

Share your favorite poem by commenting on this post or joining our discussion on the enso poems facebook page.