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The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock
by T.S. Eliot

EXCERPTS

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.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep...

...I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Last month's prompt with all its quotes and allusions to other poets was like flipping through my copy of The Norton Anthology of Poetry. I played with that prompt and I did page through that old anthology. T.S. Eliot caught my attention. he was an important poet for me in my undergraduate days. I loved the puzzles and allusions in his lines. I like it less today. But his poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is still one I love and some lines are deep in my memory.It was first published in 1915 and later included as the title poem in his collection Prufrock and Other Observations.

The poem is a dramatic monologue whose speaker relays the anxieties and preoccupations of his inner life, and his romantic hesitations and regrets. It is considered one of the defining works of modernism. That literary movement had writers experimenting with form and plumbing the depths of alienation, isolation, and the confusion of life at the turn of the 20th century.

Though Eliot’s poem is less about external events and more about inner drama, rereading it this past week, I saw in my marginalia that I imagined myself walking with Eliot to a party. December is a month of parties. I saw myself walking through town to a party where "the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo." Sounds like a good literary party.

The poem is a dramatic monologue where middle-aged Prufrock wanders the streets. The party is just a moment. And it is a moment surrounded by anxieties, indecision, and fear of rejection. That also fits into some parties I wandered into in my youth!

Our call for submissions this month is for poems about a party. We can be going to the party, at the party, leaving or just remembering a party. It's a story, a narrative, perhaps an inner monologue. But where is the meaning in this party?

Prufrock wanders through fog, smoke, cheap hotels, restaurants and a party. (though my notes seem to doubt that there even was a party.) And he is fearful about his thinning hair, aging body, and inadequacy. He doesn't know if he even dares to “disturb the universe.” He thinks “there will be time” for decisions, revisions, and to confess his feelings to a woman. He knows he is “not Prince Hamlet” but a minor character. Poor J. Alfred. He should have gone to a party and had some fun. Why is the poem a "love song?"

Read the entire poem

EliotThomas Stearns (T.S.) Eliot was born in 1888 in St. Louis, Missouri, and became a British subject in 1927. He is the author of the groundbreaking poem, The Waste Land, the brilliant Four Quartets, and Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats (which is the basis for the musical Cats!), along with numerous other poems, prose, and plays.

Eliot won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1948.

T.S. Eliot died in 1965 in London, England, and is buried in Westminster Abbey.
You can browse all his books on Amazon, and buy his Collected Poems, but you can also get his complete works on Kindle for free.

submit The deadline for submissions for the next issue is December 31, 2025. Please refer to our submission guidelines and look at our archive of 26 years of prompts and poems. Follow our blog for prompts and many topics in poetry.