The Hopeless Song of U.N.I. Werywright
(A student’s take on T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock”)
Let us not go, you nor I,
while the student body passes by;
like a cadaver qualified for surgery lectures.
Let us go, through half-deserted aisles
and recite a while
in library shelves looking for similar styles
restless looking over our own poetry files:
my words that follow like a tedious argument
of satirical intent
that lead you to many overwhelming questions…
Oh, do not ask, “What do I need?”
Just come along and let us read.
Into the classes they carry their stacks;
anthologies, leather bags on their backs.
Never yellowing papers that rub their ink upon your shirt-cuffs,
the un-yellowed page that rubs its edge on your shirt-cuffs,
flicked its thoughts up onto your lap,
filed among the forgotten mess in your back seat,
let fall upon its fold the dirt that drops from shoes and assorted stuff,
slipped by the kitchen table, made a sudden snap,
and seeing that it was a cruel April evening,
laid once upon your desk, and fell asleep.
And perhaps there will be time
for your white page to meet the faces you meet
rubbing its back on the palms of the callous-less,
there may be time, there may be time
to prepare some words to replace the words that you delete;
there will be times of deletions and balances,
and time for all assignments and days of demands
that present a waste basket to put your drafts
time for you and time for me,
and time yet for a span of complete lack of craft,
for a hundred lines and outlines
before the skyline is undefined and dim.
Into the classes they come with their stacks:
computers in cases from the campus store racks.
And indeed there will be time
to wonder, “Does it sound right?” and, “Is this right?”
Time to turn back from the open mic night,
with a burn mark on my collared shirt
(They will say: “those aren’t exactly poems”) and things that hurt.
The morning sleep-in, job hours, ah, daily routines
will get in the way of writing more than it seems
(They will say: “He claims to make Art but we only see him flirt!”)
Do I dare
disturb the University?
In a minute there is time
for lines and outlines which a better line will rhyme more fittingly.
_ _ _ _
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through the campus
and watched the smoke that rises from the vents
and kids lighting lighters leaning out of room windows?
I should have been the engineer in my father’s dreams
talking calculus over calculators
And will it be worth it, after all,
after the coffee, the gum, the campus eateries,
among the atriums, some talk of our degrees,
will it have been worthwhile,
to have persuaded our parents’ funding with a smile,
to have squeezed all higher learning into a scroll,
be handed it in some overwhelming ceremony,
to say “I am the first of my family, from working-class -----,
graduated to show you all, I will show you all”—
If a friend, settling into your after party,
should say: “This is not the meaning of life at all;
this is not it, at all.”
Would it have been worth it, after all,
after the walks home and the walkway lights,
after the beer someone bought you and after free smokes,
contraception, the noise through the floor,
after the team jerseys, the school sweaters and so much more?—
It is impossible to say what I mean through the phone!
_ _ _ _
No. I am not Shakespeare, nor was born to be;
am a group member, one that will suffice
to push policies, stir topics, avoid a fight
move into a neighborhood, get married under thrown rice,
no doubt one with one dream,
indifferent, glad to be alive,
politically aware, drinks more than he seems;
jokes on the fly, but a bit dry,
at times, almost depressing,
almost, at times, your regular guy.
I grow drunk…. I grow drunk…
I shall write girls messages and fall off the dorm bed bunk.
Shall I grow a beard? Do I dare to read outdoors?
I will write limericks on the bathroom stalls of each library floor.
I have professors singing: “Write more, write more!”
I do not think that they will truly reach me.
I have seen the swans, the geese crossing streets,
the gargoyles, Socrates, the founders in stone.
I walk past the library with my notebook alone.
We have lingered between the lofty library shelves
beside our fellow students, dreaming of our contributions
till home calls us home and we leave these institutions.
© Nicolas Eckerson, 2014