Prufrock Poems // Flashback Fridays

Today we’re trying a new segment where I have no time to write anything new, so I post my mediocre writings from high school. Most of these will not be great and most of them will not make sense because they’re response to prompts. Either way, maybe it will be interesting.

For AP Literature and Composition, after reading T.S. Eliot’s “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock” we were told to write our own poem in the style of the original but based off our own personal struggles. Mine was purpose.

Girl, Continuous

holy the unknown
buggered and suffering beggars
holy the hideous human angels
Allen Ginsberg, “Footnote to Howl”

Let us go then, you and I,
When the morning is still fresh and dew yet dry.
Like flowers plucked from their soil,
Let us go, while the petals are still in color;
Through hallways where some fair scholar
May hide their flaws behind Grade A tests
Oh, do not ask, “What are you doing?”
Do not taint the June renewing.

In the room adults talk real low
Praises for a girl I just don’t know. 

And indeed there will be time
To ponder the annual youth migration,
There will be time, there will be time
For co-signing loans with damnation.
There will be time to fail and succeed
And time for nights that never end.
Time for me and time for you,
Suffering for figures dressed in tweed.

In the room adults talk real low
Praises for a girl I just don’t know. 

And indeed there will be time
To wonder “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”
Time to pitch myself off the stair,
Grown and polished with perfect hair
(They will say: How much of an adult she’s always been!”)
Manicured nails on trembling fingers,
A tinted smile that never lingers.
(They will say: How bright she’s always been!”)
Do I dare
Walk that path? 

 And I have known the thoughts already, known them all–
What is good and what is expected,
What makes it seem like I am the one disconnected.
I’ve measured my life in letters and books,
Have seen lives beyond what I’ve thought to look.
How shall I go on?

I should have been a hardened shell
Shut off from light and morning’s glare.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Once I’ve followed history to a tee
Happy, perhaps, but riddled with anxiety.
To have the mortgage pressing in
To say, “I am St. Francis of Assisi!
Live a life of poverty and be free!”
That is not what I want at all.
That is not it, at all.

I am Prince Hamlet, pacing to and fro
Where do I go? Where do I go?
Who can I be if not me?
Someone dutifully tending orchids
Or floating off into outer orbit.

I grow old… I grow old…
Who can I be if not bold?