An awaiting response:

Modernism’s response to T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (published 1915).


Oh, Prufrock.

How we cannot go, you and I,

even across the most soothing sky.

As we, in our world, are overwhelmed

with cities, people,

and alienation amongst the streets

but still, it is you who mutters of retreats,

as modernity dissonance falls meek,

a weakening resistance

becomes bleak.

And, please, recall the room

where women come and go

talking of Michelangelo.

What meaning do they impose?

Besides what was said before

just as Nietzsche’s embossed coin, I suppose,

mingling with a lasting sore,

centuries of repetitive boredom,

an embodiment of an Italian postmortem.

So how should you presume, modern man?

Walk throughout our society,

lament the times at hand?

But before I go, oh Prufrock:

Remember that is not it, at all.

You’re my inferno,

as I, your identity,

my puppet,

your entity.



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