My 1000th post: poetry slam!

[Bicoastal]

Stuck at 999, racking my brain desperately for something profound or inspiring to say, I've drawn a complete blank. So I'm taking a new approach.

Here, in its entirety, are my two favorite poems--and a third one, by me. Well, sort of--it's a song I recently composed for a musical I'm writing. I'm 25, a Grad Student at NYU majoring in musical theater (and straight, BTW, so who knows how I got sucked into such an admittedly campy genre), and this is from my shot at the big time, currently under construction. I'll preface it with an explanation, so you wont confuse it with the likes of Eliot and Houseman. (Hah!)

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot, 1917

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised 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.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
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,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

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

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

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;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head brought in upon a platter,
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.

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,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

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.

2. Oh, When I Was in Love With You, by A. E. Housman, 1896

Oh, when I was in love with you,
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they ’ll say that I
Am quite myself again.

Here's my contribution. Sorry, as much as I trust everyone here, I just can't surrender my privacy to a nerfarious system of tubes--hence the pseudonym. This is a sleazy character in my show, not the main character, taking a stand against his friend's monogamy. You should hear the music that goes with it--it rocks!

3. Dip Your Spoon, by Anonymous Q. Bicoastal, 2007

When you were younger and you craved perfection
The ice cream store
Is where you'd go
But you could never pick just one selection
You wanted more
But mom said no
And so to steer you in the right direction
The counter clerk
Pulled out a spoon
So you could sample ev'ry sweet confection
It wouldn't work
Cause pretty soon

Each wonderful flavor
You'd savor
Was more enchanting
Each newest sample
Was ample
To leave you panting
How could you choose one
And lose one
That wasn't tried--
You'd never forget it
Regret it 'til the day you died!

So dip your spoon and have another taste
Why let those other flavors go to waste?
Ice cream decisions can't be made in haste
But they'll be melting soon--
So go and dip your spoon!

Now ever since the day you lost your cherry
You've been obsessed
With number one
You'd like to find the girl you'll someday marry
And stay repressed
Until you're done
But you should take a cue from Ben and Jerry
Don't waste your choice
On just one dish
Before you leave the store with Claire or Terry
Enjoy some Joyce
Try tasting Trish

And so on cause Trish is
Delicious
This time of year
But so is another--
Her mother--
So have no fear
Try blonde ones and redheads
And Deadheads
And bikers too
Try sweet ones and tart ones
And smart ones home from NYU!

Try tasting ev'ry type of girl in sight
And if they're none of them exactly right
There'll be more weekend after Friday night--
'Til Sunday afternoon
Go out and dip your spoon!

It's just a little piece of plastic
But what it does is so fantastic
Don't be shy and don't be picky
Get your fingers nice and sticky
Between Granny Smith and Baby Ruth
There's plenty to choose and that's the truth
--But they'll be melting soon
--By Sunday afternoon
--And when it comes to poon
You gotta dip your spoon!

Thanks for everything, DU Lounge.

[Dora]

1. Yes.

And yes.