My Favourite Poems – No.1 (The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

I’ve reviewed a lot of films and books on here but I wanted to start a series annotating my favourite poems and had to start with T.S Eliot. Hope you enjoy and don’t forget to like and follow 🙂

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

I love this poem. A lot. It had some beautiful imagery in it that just captures you as a reader. The Poem is full of questions and indeed there will be time to wonder “do I dare disturb the universe”

At the start of the poem, we can really picture the streets he is telling us about

 Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

We wonder who he is going with if there is some romantic partner he is talking about or if it just the reader. The writer uses the word choice of “certain” which is obscure as for most of the poem he is doubtful.

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,

The writer uses personification effectively here “licked its tongue into the corners of the evening” this gives the night a mysterious feel.

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

The writer uses the repetition “there will be time , there will be time” he is almost reassuring himself and is aware of his mortality.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

Again the writer uses the repetition in the first line. He is almost looking back on his life and the monotony of it , he is apathetic and sees his actions as meaningless.   

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

He is questioning the reader and the quality of his life. He questions the daily activities he undertakes and if they have any point.

  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

               That is not it, at all.”

I love this line in the poem. The writer is timid , perhaps In  his life and work he has been seen as arrogant or pretentious and this line shows that he has been misunderstood.

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

This supports this point the author is devaluing himself and his life and work by calling himself ridiculous and almost at times “The fool”

Till human voices wake us, and we drown

The last line of the poem is so emotional it is not happy or positive , it makes life and the end of life seem bitter and helpless. It seems like the author is so caught up in his fantasies , setting and daily activities at the end he romanticizes walking along a beach and eating a peach  and in the last line he almost wakes up to cold reality and drowns in it.

Winter Woes

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Hi for some strange reasons I did a post called Autumn lows last year and it got quite a lot of attention for some reason (You guys are really nosy) I also wanted to hit one thousand followers by the new year. Well sadly I barely put a dent in that but I’ve been writing this blog for like three years and have around five hundred followers so I going to be reasonable and say one thousand by the end of the year. That’s an easy enough goal, I think. So what are my winter woes to be honest my Christmas was quite nice I’ve not been affected by Covid (yet) I got some nice presents I tried Bailys it was ok. What are my goals for the new year :

  1. To finish my Highers
  2. To get a Job
  3. To read more
  4. To eat better
  5. To blog more
  6. To watch less YouTube

Simple right even someone like me with cripling depression can do that. What I’ve achieved so far.. January is a year where I personally want to just be comfortable I’ve watched all the seasons of Him and Her , and am working my way through Doctor Who and Skins. I’ve been taking baths , eating even doing Jigsaws. I’ve not really been studying or dieting I’ve read a wee bit mostly poetry.

There are things I regret though I wish I had been that teenager who wore doc martens and studied like five Highers and smoked pot and listened to I kissed a girl. I wish I could have my youth back and do it differently but I can’t. I still live with my parents, I don’t have a job. I’m not where I want to be. That’s my winter woes I think January isn’t just about the future but reflecting on the past and living in the present no matter how shit it is.

Why I write ?

Why I write?

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I’m not sure exactly why I Write , I suppose before you write stories you read them. As a child I devoured books I would literally start reading as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning. I enjoyed it so much. I wanted to put my mark on the world and like the amazing authors I read , I wanted readers not just be entertained but to see something through the eyes of the writer. Me. I owe a lot of my talent (if I can call it that without sounding too arrogant) To my grandparents my gran would read the wishing chair to me as a child and it would take me off to another world. I think there’s something different about reading and writing as a child. My talent wasn’t really discovered until secondary school after it had been nurtured for eleven years or so through the education system. I also liked to write my own stories in my spare time , I remember as an early teen I got more into young adult fiction and liked thrillers. I would write stories about kidnappings and bizarre things like that.

 I left school prematurely and grew very depressed this is when I started writing poetry. I remember finding a thin paper back book of T.S Eliot poems in my family’s loft and running through to my mum to tell her how amazing they were. Poetry I found a lot easier to read and write. My first poem was called Lang Town which is near where I live. I started to write about things around me which at that point and I suppose still is poverty. I would write about bus stations and dreary things like that. The characters I suppose had my voice but lucky for me I don’t live in a damp run down flat like the protagonist in my story.

Writing is a very personal act you are basically turning out your soul for others to read and scrutinize. I suppose we all want to live forever and a good poem or book is the closest thing we have to it. We don’t know what it was like to live one hundred years ago but through some of the great writers we can have some understanding of how they lived. I write to change people’s perspectives and make my mark on the world. That is why I write.

Witch Poem Analysis

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I found this really interesting poem on Pinterest and thought it would be interesting to look at on the run up to Halloween. The poet is really talented and captures the woman fear and the crowds hostility very well. In the third paragraph it talks about the womans eyes being “terror wild”

The crowd seems to hate the “witch” one woman damming her and another throwing a rock at her.

In the third paragraph the writer shows her innocence stating “she was a slight and commonly maid no smaller than a child” this makes the action of burning her seem like a horrific and unjustified act.

The writers last lines in the poem are especially haunting “beneath the sudden rain she set her mark upon the throng for time can not erase the echo of her anguished cries , the memory of her face” This shows that she will never be at peace and has made her mark on the world and society and the action wont ever be repeated.

Epistle To Hugh Parker Analysis

Hey Guys So I’m on the road to 500 followers so if your new It would mean a lot of you hit the follow button thanks.

Robert Burns - Wikipedia
 
IN this strange land, this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose or rhyme;
Where words ne’er cross’t the Muse’s heckles,
Nor limpit in poetic shackles:
A land that Prose did never view it,        5
Except when drunk he stacher’t thro’ it;
Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek,
Hid in an atmosphere of reek,
I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk,
I hear it—for in vain I leuk.        10
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,
Enhuskèd by a fog infernal:
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,
I sit and count my sins by chapters;
For life and spunk like ither Christians,        15
I’m dwindled down to mere existence,
Wi’ nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies,
Wi’ nae kenn’d face but Jenny Geddes,
Jenny, my Pegasean pride!
Dowie she saunters down Nithside,        20
And aye a westlin leuk she throws,
While tears hap o’er her auld brown nose!
Was it for this, wi’ cannie care,
Thou bure the Bard through many a shire?
At howes, or hillocks never stumbled,        25
And late or early never grumbled?—
O had I power like inclination,
I’d heeze thee up a constellation,
To canter with the Sagitarre,
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;        30
Or turn the pole like any arrow;
Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,
Down the zodiac urge the race,
And cast dirt on his godship’s face;
For I could lay my bread and kail        35
He’d ne’er cast saut upo’ thy tail.—
Wi’ a’ this care and a’ this grief,
And sma’, sma’ prospect of relief,
And nought but peat reek i’ my head,
How can I write what ye can read?—        40
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o’ June,
Ye’ll find me in a better tune;
But till we meet and weet our whistle,
Tak this excuse for nae epistle.

Analysis : Part 1

IN this strange land, this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose or rhyme;
Where words ne’er cross’t the Muse’s heckles,
Nor limpit in poetic shackles:   I love the opening to this poem it’s so poignant and

Captivating. I think the first line expresses confusion with the words in this strange land. A land unkown to prose or rhyme. I think this is symbolic of the isolation burn feels as a poor writer not many can relate to him. Also perhaps its symbolic of society’s ignorance whither its to do with illiteracy at the time or poverty that blights Scotland. “Where words no’er cross’t the muses heckles Nor limpit in poetic shackles.” This shows that burns feels trapped perhaps by his situation and lack of money but also by his gift for the written word.

A land that Prose did never view it,
Except when drunk he stacher’t thro’ it;
Here, ambush’d by the chimla cheek,
Hid in an atmosphere of reek,

“A land that Prose did never view it.” I think this expresses burns frustration that although he is one of the most gifted writers in history he still cant capture all that he wants to. Except when drunk he stachert thro it. This reveals what burns sees the drunks of the streets and perhaps his own battle with drink. Here ambush’d by the chimla cheek. Hid in an atmosphere of reek. This shows what the city was dirty at the time and covered in reek.

I hear a wheel thrum i’ the neuk,
I hear it—for in vain I leuk.
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,
Enhuskèd by a fog infernal:
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,
I sit and count my sins by chapters;     In this stanza what stands out to me is the line “k
For in vain I leuk. This suggests that Burns perhaps feels guilty about his

 Fame and talent.

“The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel Enhusked by a fog infernal. These lines are symbolic of heat and perhaps the devil or anger, burns maybe feels like the Devil. “Here , for my wonted rhyming raptures I sit and count my sins by chapters.” He feels guilty about his gift perhaps because of his position in society and the fame and talent he has.

For life and spunk like ither Christians,
I’m dwindled down to mere existence,
Wi’ nae converse but Gallowa’ bodies,
Wi’ nae kenn’d face but Jenny Geddes,
Jenny, my Pegasean pride!

In this stanza he is in conflict with himself and his religion , he admits he’s not a very good Christian maybe because his love of drink or sex. “Im dwindled down to mere existence “here he feels that society does not value his talent and he is merely living a pointless life that wont amount to much.

Like a candle

Poetry is great

Poetry is grand

Almost like a soup that you pour out of a can.

I tell them no! but they don’t understand

Weighing out problems by the gram.

Forever eternally dammed.

Can I be held accountable?

Can anyone

As we slyly manipulate the young

Cruel bitter words on the tip of our tongs.

This life is breaking me bit by bit

Ticking days rolling in like mist.

Like a candle that’s already been lit

Go ahead burn all of it!  

We begged for some bread  

While you bathed in wine.

You stole all that was mine!

I wish I could Rewind the clock !

I wish I could rewind the clock
Like a tape recorder.
So i could sit in that cardboard box
Or bake with my mum.
I long to go back to that couch and watch ghost adventures with my brother and for the night to slip away while we cowered beneath a cover.

I wish I could have toast with my nana at her kitchen table.
Or help her with her scrap book that disappeared.
I think if she new she’d be angry for once ,  perhaps from out of fear.

I wish my gran could read me the wishing chair as a child.
Or make me chocolate spread on toast.
What is there anymore no money,  no life , no hope!

Perhaps I could go back to my English classroom and have a bit of fun!
Instead I’m standing looking down the barrel of a gun.

We could of had a council house with proper rooms or cartons of orange juice instead of frozen food !
But be careful where you point your finger it might come back to you !

What if his had not happened
And we were still hanging about down the point
He offered me a cigarette
I should of smoked a joint! 

I wish I could wash the names out of their mouths with turps.
I don’t want attention , only the peaceful song of morning birds.

My clothes still smell like the flat that I chucked you out of.

If –

If—

Rudyard Kipling – 1865-1936

If you can keep your head when all about you
   Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
   But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
   Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
   And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
   If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
   And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
   Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
   And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
   And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
   And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
   To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
   Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
   Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
   If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—

   Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!