the enso

"Pink Polka Dots" by marlowe

the compilation

We watched girls in white linen dresses tango in the twilight
while the ferns stood stiff as sentinels and each rose bud
opened to reveal a labyrinth. When we
constructed our truths as elaborately
as our lies, we found what we had been seeking.
Remember? You wrote: we are one.
The blinking Christmas bulbs teased us like
a lighthouse on the shore. A purring kitten,
a cooing dove. Yes, the white flash
of the mockingbird wings announced the illusion.
And the blinds waved in the wind, plastic tassels tinkling
like door chimes that tease us when we depart.
Counting cans of Campbell’s soup, you think of Warhol.
Boxes of Polaroids contain the overflow, the hallowed halls
of our memory, realities we since discarded.
We had planted yellow tulips at the mouth of the river:
a row of torches welcoming, warning. Their leaves
stretched like webbed fingers, like hydras, like tentacles.
Even the widow tree bent under the burden of our griefs.
No, we find what we are seeking by opening our hearts.
Three doves sit on a telephone wire against the turquoise sky
while a helicopter hovers, focused as a dragonfly.
You see the crepe myrtle with its polka dots of pink blooms
and the golden hues of a peach shine like the sunset
This green glass platter reflects a summer pool:
its ripples barely seen, its calm sheen too perfect.
And the swirling tea leaves in your dainty gold
cup? Caught in the tempest we delivered,
its fortune yet untold.

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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