This poem is a re-wite (I don't want to say parody...) of T.S.Elliot's
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" You don't have to have read the original
to understand my poem, but it would help (it can be read at: http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*The Love Song of P. Clifford*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
By Glenys Packer
(bohemianheart@gmail.com)
Let us go then, you and me,
through the forty shades of green,
laid out upon the irish hills.
Let us go to a certain half deserted pub,
Definitely life's central hub,
of the people of Ballykay
who come and visit every day.
And arguments that follow on,
between Brendan and Siobhan,
that lead you to an overwhelming headache.
Oh do not ask, "Where is it?"
Let us go and have our visit.
At the bar Brendan gives a shout,
calling for his pint of stout.
The faulty plumbing that drips upon the window panes,
the yellow light that shines from the window-panes,
called people from all corners of the evening,
lingered upon the beer that stands in mugs,
Let fall into it the soot that falls from the chimney,
Slipped by my house and made a leap,
I, seeing it was early evening, and she was still awake,
walked to her rather then fall asleep.
And indeed there will be time,
for the yellow light that pulls me along the street,
Slinking out from behind the window-panes;
There isn't time, there isn't time!
To prepare an explanation for her when we meet;
There isn't time to murder or create!
No time for work, or days of hands,
to pluck the worries from this curate.
Time for her, and time for me,
Time for a hundred bad decisions,
and for a hundred dreams and visions,
before taking of pints or tea.
At the bar Brendan gives a shout,
calling for his pint of stout.
And yes there still is time,
To wonder, "Do I dare, do I dare?"
Time to come and sit upon the chair,
And look upon my love so fair,
[I will think: "How beautiful she is tonight."]
My clerical coat, collar mounted firmly in,
My expression rich and modest, but asserted by a simple grin,
[I know she wonders: "What do I see in him?"]
Do I dare,
Disturb this world?
In a minute there is time,
For a last drink, and thoughts which a minute will reverse.
I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the funerals, weddings, and lessons;
I have measured out my life with confessions
I know the dying voice, with a dying fall
Beneath the chatter from the main room,
Is this what I should presume?
And I have known her arms already,
Arms that are bracleted and white and bare
[And her porcelain face, framed by deep red hair]
Is it her walk or dress,
that makes my thoughts digress?
Arms that lie along the bar, or folded against her chest.
How should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
* * * *
*
I shall say I have gone at dusk to the little pub,
And watched the smoke that rises from the cigar
Of a man in a tweedy hat, leaning on the bar.
I should have been a polar bear,
lumbering through the freezing arctic air.
* * * *
*
And the afternoon, the evening, I sleep so fretfully!
In dreams caressed by her slender fingers,
Asleep or tired, her memory lingers.
Sitting at the bar, here beside you and me.
Should I, after thai food, cake, and beer,
Still have anything left to fear?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my heart, brought in upon a platter,
I am no priest - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment when my faith flickered,
And I have seen Fr. Mac look at my collar and snicker,
And in short, I was annoyed.
And would it have been worth while after all,
After the pints, the Guinness, the tea,
Among the regulars, among whispers of her and me,
Would it have been worth while
To have bitten into the sandwich with a smile,
To have squeezed the chip bag into a ball,
To roll it to some overwhelming question,
To say, "I am a polar bear, freezing and cold,
I do not know what I revere."
With a raised eyebrow she would say,
"Your mind's indecision is getting old,
It's what's in your heart I need to hear."
And it would have been worth it after all,
It would have been worth while,
After the trials, and the hills, and the walks by the lake,
After the food, after the talk, after the flowered skirts that trail above
the floor
After this, how could I possibly want more?
It is impossible to tell her what I mean!
But if she could see my mind upon a screen,
Would it still be worth while
If her, with a raised eyebrow, and a look so cold,
turning towards me would whisper in my ear:
"Your indecision's getting old,
it's what's in your heart I need to hear."
* * * *
*
No! I'm am not the Pope, nor was meant to be;
Am an attending priest, one that will do
to forgive your sins, say a word or two.
Advise the parish; no doubt the faithful few.
Deferential, glad to be of use.
Caring, cautious, at times recluse.
Full of high faith, which at times seems tedious,
At times, to her indeed, ridiculous.
I seem to her at times, the fool.
I grow sad...I grow sad
Another pint of lager shall be had.
I shall wear civvies and walk upon the beach
I have heard Fr. Mac and Kathleen speaking each to each,
I do not think they'll speak to me.
I have seen her smile in the sun,
Brushing back her hair gleaming red,
When the wind blew it about her head
She had lingered in the chamber underground,
By electric danger wreathed silver metal and gray,
Then the fuse's voice wakes us,
my love shall not see another day.