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A Love Song Returned
“A Love Song Returned”
A Response to T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
By Stephany Morgan
“Let me take your hand,
We’ll wander these streets,
And speak
Of distant philosophies,”
But don’t breach the boundary,
Don’t betray that starched, stiff structure of subjugation,
That dictates minds,
Hearts and hopes, with no conscience.
Only law, perceived to save—
Yet fated—
To take the Good to hell.
She’s just a girl,
With books, and songs, and care,
(She wears flowers in her hair)
But you cannot touch her,
Woman of the dreams you never expected to be real—
Never hoped more than to feel
Beyond the stuffy darkness
Of one-roomed apartments,
And windows you can’t—or won’t
Open.
She wove words into smiles,
And cautious glances,
You couldn’t fully bring yourself to ignore.
In the dark to share a secret,
As thunder took its toll
On the sky.
With night so full and
Moon so great, it paid,
No regard to you and her—
Hands against the wall—
Proximity of warmth mere inches of desire,
So close—so close
And you can’t bring yourself to touch her.
You sit alone again,
Reading the voiceless words she’s penned,
And you still can’t understand the story,
More than an allusion,
Intrusion,
Into your reality.
She’s unassuming, yet bold,
Beyond description—
She writes allegories,
You speak
Sharing dreams,
And themes, you convey
With words that stay
Closed like the windows where you live
Alone—
Always walking, crying longing,
Talking;
Between the lines—
And finally,
You understand…
“My heart told my head, this time no,”
She said,
“But I refused.” Written in the valley of wrinkled paper With black ink and blue lines, You found the reply To the question you never knew you asked. Six words, Colossal as Creation, Filled within its core, Begs an answer To tell her if she should stay or go— She’s really just as free.
God—you can’t breathe. The room is dark, Stark, The answer as evasive as untouchable sleep. But closed or open eyes make no difference to your room, Until— The sound shatters the silence and the tears, She stands beneath your window, The ghost of midnight. But would you dare? Stare. Retreat, Beyond that darkness, Of one-roomed apartments, And windows that up till now, You’ve refused to look through. But you do. Hand meets hand, Like the mold God designed for Eden, Perfection— Unspoken words weave songs That poets wish they could borrow. She says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, And I apologize— I’ve fought you just the same, I’ve walked miles in lost and forgotten days, Wishing you were there. You came in and broke my heart in the kindest of ways. I’ll speak, I’ll speak, This confession of lovers That begs for redemption in your answer—” You have the power to free her Bound and dying soul— And she’s only begging for grace And love— “Here I stand,” She said. “Here I am— Shedding every disposition, Every mask, Every insecurity, They lie in dust at my feet, And all that’s left is the light of a star, And within this confession, You’ll finally see— Me— Please. Take what I can give, And live. And live.”
She said,
“But I refused.” Written in the valley of wrinkled paper With black ink and blue lines, You found the reply To the question you never knew you asked. Six words, Colossal as Creation, Filled within its core, Begs an answer To tell her if she should stay or go— She’s really just as free.
God—you can’t breathe. The room is dark, Stark, The answer as evasive as untouchable sleep. But closed or open eyes make no difference to your room, Until— The sound shatters the silence and the tears, She stands beneath your window, The ghost of midnight. But would you dare? Stare. Retreat, Beyond that darkness, Of one-roomed apartments, And windows that up till now, You’ve refused to look through. But you do. Hand meets hand, Like the mold God designed for Eden, Perfection— Unspoken words weave songs That poets wish they could borrow. She says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, And I apologize— I’ve fought you just the same, I’ve walked miles in lost and forgotten days, Wishing you were there. You came in and broke my heart in the kindest of ways. I’ll speak, I’ll speak, This confession of lovers That begs for redemption in your answer—” You have the power to free her Bound and dying soul— And she’s only begging for grace And love— “Here I stand,” She said. “Here I am— Shedding every disposition, Every mask, Every insecurity, They lie in dust at my feet, And all that’s left is the light of a star, And within this confession, You’ll finally see— Me— Please. Take what I can give, And live. And live.”
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Celebration Gets A New Look And Feel
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They will blanket the streets of Rochester Hills with hundreds of postStudents Raise Awareness About Joseph Kony
Where in Rochester Hills will this be taking place. By what roads andBlackberry Winter Returns
I designed and managed this version and the 2005 edition. Good to see