Poetry and the Plaid Pirate: Eliot and Elliot

 The Jacket

Two weeks ago my mother and I ventured out intent on finding a Pascha (Easter) outfit for my youngest son. Earlier that week, on a Tuesday evening, I had unsuccessfully braved the mall desperate to find some new dress-up clothing for Thomas and Elliot. (What a nightmare, just shy of Sodom and Gomorra, really. Alright my judgment might be a bit excessive. Still, have you seen what is being produced for our young children to wear?) It had been determined that Russell, because of his easy-going nature and jovial spirit, would be the best candidate between the twins for adorning the adorable sailor outfit worn by Thomas three Paschas ago. When I spied a multicolored plaid jacket in exactly Elliot's size hanging on the rack at the children's consignment store, I knew we had succeeded in our quest. Upon bringing the jacket home, my dear husband was less than enthusiastic and more than a bit skeptical about my find. What was darling to me - a jacket splashed with orange, blue, yellow, and green, which would be further complemented by a brown, line cap - seemed a bit unnerving to my husband. Sheepishly he questioned, "Isn't it a girl's jacket?" 

Unlike his father, Elliot harbored no reservations about his new coat and was enchanted with it at first sight. Insisting that he try it on, Elliot strutted around the house, cap on head, proudly displaying his new threads. And Elliot's love for the jacket shows no sign of waning, but steadily continues to wax, which is a bit of a mystery to Jared and me. You see, over the course of the last month, clothing of any kind has become disdainful to our youngest son. During the day, Elliot, more often than not, can be found shirtless; at night, he has usually stripped himself down to his diaper and even then has somehow managed to get out of his cloth diaper cover. Nonetheless, today, while getting ready for morning "naps," Elliot began to point and express that he wanted something. "Little dog?" I asked. Head shake no. Glancing at the changing table, I caught sight of the jacket. With a bit of incredulity I questioned, "your jacket?" Head shake yes. And there he stood ready and set to read the story he chose, Is Your Mama a Llama? wearing dog pajamas, his coat of many colors (which, of course, had to be buttoned up), and a big smile. 

 The Pirate

As many of you will remember, Thomas, at a young age, began to present a variety of faces to amuse any audience that he or we could find. There was the "surprised face" in which he opened his eyes and mouth widely; the "stunning face" in which he stuck his bottom teeth out; and the pensive face (thank you Aunt Rebecca) in which he lifted his finger to his chin and said, "Mmm." And of course, Jared, Thomas, and I could not resist passing on to Russell and Elliot these tricks of the trade. Our two sons caught on quickly; Russell even added a couple faces of his own - the scary face and the monkey. Perhaps in an effort to distinguish himself from his twin brother and demonstrate his own individuality and creativity, Elliot likewise sought to introduce a new funny face to our list. 

Honestly, I cannot recall the moment when "the pirate" entered the scene, but it has become a favorite among all our children (although Thomas will tell you Russell does not quite perform the face with the gusto he should), as well as among the young children at church, who after Elliot morphs into "you know who," joyfully scream, "It's the pirate!" and race pell-mell down the hallway. We know the pirate is present when Elliot closes his left eye, wrinkles up his nose, squishes up his face, and initiates a subtle snorting sound. And once Elliot has begun, it is mandatory that you too transform your face to mimic his. So at any given moment, and especially while our family is all together, eating our dinner at our dining room table, cloth napkins and classical music in tow, "the pirate" will manifest itself, and with a point of a finger and a grunt, Elliot wields his self-attained authority, demanding that the four of us follow his lead. And of course, we comply. 

Poetry

 

Last November, it was my turn to choose my book club's next work to be read. Because of the holidays, we needed something short and so I opted for T.S. Eliot's play, "The Cocktail Party," which I had first encountered by randomly pulling the work from the library shelves while a college student many moons ago. Upon my discovery of Eliot's play, I read the work in one sitting, soaking in the characters, their dialogue, and the ideas which these men and women unveiled. Awestruck by the content, this work offered to me one of those watershed moments in which I was faced with a decision: I could either choose to do something with the truth presented to me and change or discard it and remain in the status quo. 

After meeting with book club members and discussing the play, I climbed into our chilled Hyundai, affectionately known as "Gold Bug," and read afresh Eliot's poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." To be fair, I must clarify that I am no intellectual. While I desperately love good literature and poetry, most of the time after reading a Faulkner, O'Connor, Kafka, or Eliot, I am baffled by the meaning of their work. As I grow older, however, I do find that I am more affected by the power of the language itself than by my attempts to dissect the writing. I may not be able to explain what a particular piece means, but I can tell you if I have been moved by it. As I silently read "The Love Song," and especially as I read parts of it aloud to my husband, I was quite mesmerized by Eliot's words. And while the poem elicits a feeling of melancholy within me, I find it strangely beautiful, and so, since I believe we all need a little beauty throughout the course of a day, I opted to share some excerpts of this work with you all. 

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 a 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 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-

[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-

[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]

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?

No! I am not a 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.