For a number of years, I would tell people that I am not that educated. Sure, I went to college, and then to graduate school, but I am not all that educated. The entire basis for this statement was that I received my undergraduate degree in music. The major focus of my study was the bassoon (a worthy focus of study indeed). In addition to learning as much one could about the bassoon without making it too weird, I studied music theory, music history, aural skills, counterpoint, conducting, and how to talk like a musical snob without really trying (i.e. how to make people who love music feel bad about the music they love). I looked back on my education and saw that I did not study any history (although I did take an Art History class), philosophy (I also did take an introduction to philosophy class) or English. I coupled my music degree with a public-school education and would tell people that I am not very educated. And now, after graduate school and doctoral studies, I still live with a feeling that I am under-educated. This is a truth that I have continued to carry despite the fact that from an outsider’s perspective there is little veracity to such a claim.

I suppose I should wrestle with such a perspective on a therapist couch or in some clinical setting.

This truth that I was claiming was actually a falsehood steeped in privilege, self-pity, and probably some family of origin issues. I used such a claim to avoid discussions around certain books, movies, thinkers, and writers. In time I have read a bit more, looked at a substantial amount of art, watched a considerable number of movies, and have studied the ideas of many thinkers. Yet in my own effort towards self-betterment I did all that I could to avoid reading or engaging in poetry. Imbedded in the false-truth of a weak education was an excuse to not know or engage with any poetry. I had grown up hearing little poetry, the random poem by Ogden Nash or Shel Silverstein, but not much more. Poetry was never a part of my experience of language. Every now and again my mother or grandmother would start quoting a Robert Frost poem, but that would be the extent of my exposure.

Thus, I lived with a fear of and distance from poetry. Poetry was other. Poetry was foreign. I could listen to people recite poetry and more often than not I would walk away saying, “I don’t get it.” I would read lines of poetry and scratch my head and wonder why it was that people were so moved by these writings. I would listen to music and know immediately a good melody or a bad one. I could look at a painting and be moved and inspired. But poetry never really spoke to me. There must be something to poetry that has moved the masses for generations of humanity. There must be something that has inspired people. I was wondering what it was that I was missing.

In an effort to start a relationship with poetry, I read a number of poetry books. I read the poems of Emily Dickenson, and of Longfellow. I worked my way through Leaves of Grass and Paradise Lost. I started to get it. I started to see the way that the words spoke beyond the surface to an experience and how it universalized that moment. But I was not inspired, and felt that I was still missing something more.

There was a time when children were expected to memorize poems. There was a time when one could expect to know at least a handful of poems, to keep them at the ready, or at least that was what I thought. I had a romantic picture in my mind of a time when part of classical education was to make sure that people had memorized poetry so that they could pull out a poem in those moments when entertainment and inspiration was needed. This may have never been the case, but in reflecting on my own distance from poetry, I longed for those times. If only I was made to memorize poetry as a child then I would have a better understanding of poetry today, or so I would think. Thus, the romanticized ideal of memorizing poetry as an achievement to gain toward becoming an educated individual along with the yearning to understand or appreciate poetry more led me to memorize poetry. I decided that just as I like to learn pieces of music, and just as I enjoy reading books, I would add memorizing poetry to my routine of making myself a better person. Maybe then I could claim, with confidence, to be an “educated person.”

Ah, but where to start. I could have begun with one of my favorite poems by Ogden Nash:

“Fleas”

Adam

Had’em

That seems a little too basic and easy. I was sure that there is something more to learn. I am still a beginner, a visitor to the world of poetry, so I did not know where to look and what poem to consider. And then I remembered a friend saying, “If you ever want to memorize a poem, memorize ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,’ by T.S. Eliot.” Again, I do not know poetry well. I have heard of Eliot, especially “The Wasteland” and his muttering something about April being the cruelest month, but did not know “Prufrock.” But my friend was so excited about this poem and I tended to trust his judgement, so I decided to give it a try.

I’ll get to the poem in a moment, but first, a few thoughts about the process of memorizing poetry. I preach for a living. I understand the value of words. I preach without notes, and so I understand the challenge of remembering things. But I do not memorize my manuscript. I remember ideas, concepts, and maybe, from time to time, specific lines, phrases, or sentences. To memorize poetry is very different. I do not usually dwell on the prepositions or the definite articles of a sentence. I do not usually worry if the word is plural or singular. But I believe that the author of the poem does. I believe that the author of the poem agonized over which word to use and when. Is it “on the window pane” or “at the window pane”? I normally wouldn’t care, but I need to respect the author and make the effort to be aware of the difference. This was a much different way of reading. This was a much more involved approach to reading and was different for me.

I had to learn to listen to the words. Not just the actual words, but the rhythm of the words, the ways that they moved from one point to the next, and ask where I should pause, where I should take a breath, and where I should push ahead. This was a very different type of reading. And there were times when I was not sure what the poet was trying to say. There were times when I was reading something and trying to memorize the words, but I did not know what the poet was talking about. Sure, it is important to eat a peach, but what is the danger in doing so? Why should one ask if one dares to eat a peach? What is the text under/beneath the text?

I had to trust (a big part of reading). I had to trust that as I engaged the poem more and more I would understand it more and I would build a relationship with the words, the commas, the spaces, the ideas, and perhaps come to a sense of understanding. This is something that I would not have encountered if I simply read the poem and moved on. In working to memorize the poem, I had to stay with it, with the words, and really learn it. I had to get to a place where I could own the work, and where I would own the words and the sentiment behind the words. To a degree, I had to make the poem mine. In doing so, I needed to trust that the time and energy put into learning the poem would be worth it. There is value to memorizing poetry.

Thus, I studied, learned, and eventually memorized “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” I learned the poem to a place where I was able to recite it before an audience without notes. And for a moment, the poem was mine.

It was mine, but it never was truly mine. I understood Eliot, but very likely I did not really understand Eliot at all.

Perhaps it is a sign of hyper-isolation of specializations in our times that leads me to immediately express an apology before even writing a word about Eliot’s poem. As I already stated, I am not a poet and do not have any formal training in poetry. Because of a lack of a formal degree I feel I have no place saying anything at all This is what I mean by a hyper-isolation of specializations. There may have been a time when people could speak with some authority about multiple disciplines, trusting that their desire for knowledge was enough to add value to the larger conversation that was happening on a global scale. Now it feels that one must have an advanced degree in English Literature or something related to even offer a thought on such a great work of art. And yet here I am, someone with just mild training in music and a little more in theology talking about one of the great poems of the 20th century. All this is to say that I am not an expert, and I am sure that there are aspects of the poem, nuances of the rhymes, the imageries, etc., that I am going to miss. I cannot offer an in-depth analysis of the poem. I am not an expert. What I can offer is my reaction. Yet is that not what Eliot was looking for, the reaction of a reader? I would like to believe that Eliot wrote this poem, not just to impress the experts, but to speak to people, to move people, to engage people. I would like to consider myself a “people,” I have engaged the poem, and thus I offer my reaction.

Note: I am not going to reprint the text of the poem here (for multiple reasons, copyright among them), but encourage you to take a look at it before continuing with this post. You may want to have a copy of the poem side by side with this essay.

I read of an overwhelming question, I read of time yet for a hundred indecisions, of wondering Do I dare? I read of being watched, and judged. I read of eyes looking, bald spot noticed, being dressed just right, and worries of how to be present in appropriate company. I read of a desire to speak and be heard, and the fear of getting it wrong. I read of a poet who had been doing what he could through life, getting by, and realizing that this was very likely the totality of his life this far; taking chances, just getting by, and afraid. I am pulled into the streets that lead to overwhelming questions, I am pulled into the paralyzing moment just before walking down the stairs into the crowd of people, I am pulled into the realization that it has just been gathering after gathering of saying and doing the same thing. And I fear that I have been getting it wrong.

It is too simple a thing to say that I find in this poem a connection or allusion to the experience and the reality of a mid-life crisis. I partly want to avoid such a label because it feels petty and overly simplistic. Yet there is a truth to the struggle of the mid-life crisis. The label does speak to an experience of looking back at one’s life thus far and then looking ahead at how much time one realistically has left and feeling that time is running out. It is as if the poet is saying, “I am half-way through life and I have still yet to buy that flashy new car.” I am in that place where I find myself looking at what I have done thus far and how much time I have left. References to time are a mockery. Yet there is also a sense of the plodding movement of time that does not move at all, that stays in a cycle of repetition. Hence:

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 a little later:

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

I hear these and other lines that refer to the passage of time and the ambivalence of the author to take a chance, I empathize, and I feel mocked. I feel pressured. I don’t know if there will be time. I don’t know if I can prepare my face for others any more. I don’t know if I can wonder if I dare. Part of the crisis of reaching middle age is wondering if there is any time at all. So many have been in those moments and so many more will be in this moment. This realization of the continued forward motion of time (a realization that seems as obvious as saying that the sky is blue) leads me to question the repetition of the mundane moments of life. The eyes, the arms, the voices, the spoons, the skirts, the tea all evoke the watching and the expectations of living in cultural norms. It is a way of living that can make one numb, accepting the ideals, the values that we are told to accept.

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?

Time is moving, calling, demanding that I dare. I do not dare. The eyes, the expectations have pinned me, have held me down so that I am reduced to basic, the simple spitting out of what is life. To meet the expectations of others is to find oneself in a place of feeling detached, of not being seen. And when I dare consider attempting to be seen, to take a moment and speak, I worry that I will fail, that I will be told by the ideal (the woman in this poem) that:

That is not what I meant at all;

That is not it, at all.

In my attempt to dare, to fully and be, I very likely could get it wrong.

As I write this I realize how much I sound like a whiny, white male worrying about things like being noticed, making a difference, and “speaking my voice.” I realize how my reaction to the poem, the navel-gazing spiral into a mid-life moment of self-pity elicits my own eye roll and sigh and very likely the eye-rolls and sighs of others, especially those who have much greater and more life-threatening challenges than just trying to get through a privileged mid-life crisis. Perhaps I dare not. Perhaps I stay silent in response to Eliot’s poem. A walk on the beach may be best. To be forgotten, to realize that the mermaids do not sing for me, might be best. To allow myself to wake from the dream of being more than I am and to drown in what life actually is may be best. Especially when I consider all the gifts and blessing I have already received in life.

The poem is labeled by Eliot as a “Love Song.” It begins with a quote, in the original Italian, from Dante’s Inferno, thus obscuring the reference from the casual reader (I had to look it up). The Dante quote is one that speaks to a place where one does not escape; a place where one does not want to live – hell. Eliot starts with this quote, and then in “Prufrock” seems to be alluding to the experience of being trapped in a hell. It is a hell of being stuck. Like the majority of the characters that Dante meets in Hell, the author of the poem expresses a twisted love towards being in that place of being stuck in mediocrity. I have been living in a place of trying to meet expectations, to meet demands, to be good, to do what I am supposed to do, and I am stuck, and I do not like the feeling of being stuck, and yet I love where I am. It is a love song, but not one that we may normally consider. This is not a joyful love. It is not a love that is fueled with passion and pathos, but a love for the safe, the expected. This is a love of the middle, of the predictable. As I read this poem and memorize this poem, it is not easy to sit with it. It is not easy because the love song of J. Alfred Prufrock is my love song as well. It is my love song to a life that is fine but not always fulfilling. It is my love song to a life that is full of indecision and fear but that desires to stay in that place of indecision because of fear. It is a love song to a life, to my life, in which I end up agreeing with the author, believing that the world would be fine if such a life as mine were forgotten.

It is from what I see and perceive as a hell of complacency that the poem pushes me. The poem does not end with a moving, stirring battle cry convincing me that I should go and live my best life now but instead struggles to shake out of what Kant described as a “dogmatic slumber.” This is the slumber of mediocrity. The poem does not tell me what it is that I must do in response to the malaise of the life that I live. I am not convinced that Eliot wants to shake me out of my atrophied existence. Instead of a divine awakening, “Prufrock” brings me to a place where I look at my own ennui and to realize that I am not the only one who struggles. The poem brings me to a place where I realize that others have gone before me and this realization validates the friction and struggles that I have been articulating. But more than validation, the poem pushes me to consider those moments of stress and conflict. The poem pushes me to look closely at what it is that I rub up against. Is it that I am not noticed enough? Is it just that I need more positive affirmation? Can I give voice to what it is that I think I need?

Do I dare. Do I dare.

Do I dare to look beyond my desires for validation and affirmation? Do I dare move from being a servant to being the master of my own time (or at least attempting to steer my way through the currents of expectations and desire)? Do I dare move from the questions that become frivolous, questions like eating a peach, and move to questions that speak to the core of my being and my existence?

I don’t know.

I don’t know if I can dare to live with decision and deliberateness that take real, life-changing risks. I don’t know if I can take the chances that I say I want to take. And I find I can be stuck in the poem, stuck with the poem. I would rather walk away, would rather find a different set of words, a different expression of the human experience to embrace. But I cannot. I have not only read the poem, I have sat with it, studied it, memorized it, and in the process, worked to make those words my own. I cannot give the poem back. I cannot escape the realization of the hell that I find myself comfortable dwelling in. I start to stir from the slumber and wish I didn’t. Do I dare?