Happy Birthday to T. S. Eliot (1888-1965)

T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)

Happy Birthday to one of my greatest inspirations: T.S. Eliot (he is the reason I write as D.L. McHale)

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is perhaps one of the most introspective and transforming pieces of modern poetry ever written. It resonates, for me, on a substratum of my inner being, to which I rarely penetrate; for my life has been mostly a constant evasion of myself. My losses stack up accordingly.

In honor of his birthday, and his priceless contributions to both modern literature and to my own creative metal, “let us go then, you and I” to:

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse 
A persona che mai tornasse al monda, 
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. 
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo 
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, 
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo

Let us go then, you and I, 
When the evening is spread out against the sky 
Like a patient etherized 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 windowpanes;  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 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 a 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 morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,  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 know 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?      

And I have known the eyes already, known them all– 
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,  
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?     

And I have known the arms already, known them all– 
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare 
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)  Is it perfume from a dress  That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   

And should I then presume?   
And how should I begin?  . . . . . .      

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets.And watched the smoke that rises from the pipesof lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .   

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.  . . . . . .    

And the afternoons, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!   Smoothed by long
fingers,  Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,  
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. 

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,  Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,  Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, 

I am no prophet–and here’s no great matter;  
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 

 And, in short, I was afraid.     

And would it have been worth it, after all, 
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,  
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, 

Would it have been worth while, 
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,  
To have squeezed the universe into a ball 
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,  

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”– 

If one, setting a pillow by her head,   
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;    That is not it, at all.”     

And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, 
After the sunsets and the dooryards and sprinkled streets,  After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor–  

And this, and so much more?–  

It is impossible to say just what I mean!  
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:  

Would it have been worth while 
If one, setting a pillow or throwing off a shawl,  And turning toward the window, should say: 

   “That is not it at all,    That is not what I meant at all.”. . . . . .     

No! I am not 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

               MY HUMBLE ANALYSIS:

Meet Prufrock. (Hi, Prufrock!). He wants you to come take a walk with him through the winding, dirty streets of a big, foggy city that looks a lot like London. He’s going to show you all the best sights, including the “one-night cheap hotels” and “sawdust restaurants.” What a gentleman, he is! Also, he has a huge, life-altering question to ask you. He’ll get to that later, though.

Cut to a bunch of women entering and leaving a room. The women are talking about the famous Renaissance painter Michelangelo. I don’t know why they’re talking about Michelangelo, and I  never learn. Welcome to Prufrock’s world, where no one does anything interesting. 

Did we mention that it’s foggy. Like really, really foggy. The fog has a delightful yellow color, and it acts a lot like a cat.

Yawn. What a day. i’ve accomplished so much already with Prufrock. There’s still a lot of stuff he still wants to get done before “toast and tea.” People to see, decisions to make, life-altering questions to ask. But not yet…There’s still plenty of time for all that later.

Where did the women go? Oh, yes, they’re still talking about Michelangelo.

Yup. Pleeeen-ty of time for Prufrock to do all that really important stuff. Except that he doesn’t know if he should. He’s kind of nervous. You see, he was about to tell someone something really important, but then he didn’t. Too nervous. Oops! At least he’s a sharp-looking guy. Well, his clothes are sharp-looking. The rest of him is kind of not-so-sharp-looking. People say he’s bald and has thin arms.

But he still has pleeen-ty of time. And he’s accomplished so much already! For example, he has drank a lot of coffee, and he’s lived through a lot of mornings and afternoons. Those are pretty big accomplishments, right? Plus, he’s known a lot of women. Or at least he’s looked at their hairy arms, and that’s almost as good.

Prufrock says something about how he wishes he were a crab. Oh, Prufrock! Always the joker. Wait, you were serious? That’s kind of sad, my friend. Don’t you have important things to do?

Oops! It looks like he didn’t do that really important thing he meant to do. He was going to tell someone something life-altering, but he was afraid of being rejected. So he didn’t. Oh well.

Meanwhile, Prufrock keeps getting older. He doesn’t worry about that really important thing anymore. Instead, he worries about other important things, such as whether to roll his pant-legs or eat a peach.

Ah yes…the peach!  This is no ordinary question about fruit. This is perhaps the raciest line ever written…given the time in which it was written.  Again, ” Do I dare to eat the peach?”  Im not going to spell this out for you.  I think you now know to what the “peach” refers.

It turns out that Prufrock really likes the ocean. He says he has heard mermaids singing – but they won’t sing to him. Boy, you sure do talk a lot about yourself, Prufrock.

Finally, he brings us back into the conversation. He talks about how we lived at the bottom of the sea with him (geez, we don’t remember that one!). It turns out we were asleep in the ocean, but all of a sudden, we get woken up by “human voices.” Unfortunately, as soon as we wake up, we drown in the salty ocean. Boy, what a day. We thought we were talking a walk, and now we’re dead.

And we die…we drown. And in that moment we understand, finally, the message of his love song….

Does any of it really matter…life, love, indulgences, hope, fear? For we age, and in aging become, not someone, but something to laugh and point at. And then we die.

Makes you think, eh?



Be still my love.

There now, can you hear it?

within the shadows
of our mingled selves,
softly rising upon
the rhythms of our breath.

Rest now,
sweet angel of love.
Lie spent upon my breast
and listen;
surrender to the
symphony of our souls.

Feel your senses
to the chords
of desire’s keyboard;
delicate fingers
upon colored notes
within the crimson chambers
of our dream-soaked hearts.

Hear the song
muted passion sirens
lilting lightly across
the dim-lit chasms
of our melded minds;
musical interludes
in sigh-minor.

See the trees
laughing willows of lust
sweeping low over
our embrace;
bending sensuously to us
in morning’s whispered light.

Taste the waters
melting fantasies
washing over our
quenched, naked forms,
cascading into deep pools
of ecstasy.

Smell the frangrance
desires fully blossomed
with petals of relief
falling, simply drifting
from the branches
or our love.

Touch the ribbons
colors blending
behind love-clenched eyelids;
blinding pastel visions,
stretching, softly binding
soul to soul in evening’s brief rapture.

Sleep deep, my love.

Carry this lullaby
into your hazy slumber,
and rest.

In the cool, gray light of morning
we will write another.



You ask if love’s forever –
A promise I can’t make,
But if I could, or thought I should
I would not hesitate.

I’d promise you forever
And then a day or two
If I were free to guarantee
Forever loving you.

But promises are born of doubt
A doubt that’s seldom real;
The love we know can only grow
In trusting what we feel.
Yet, I’ll promise you this moment
If words can still your fears;
Just hold me now and show me how
To love you through the years.


My thoughts on life….


We are closest to God when we exhibit compassion.  We are furthest when we withold it.

– dlmchale


I wrote this poem 25 years ago. It was the beginning of my insanity! (photo credit: H. L. Cross)

Rainbows are illusions –
There are no pots of gold,
And unicorns have never grazed
In emerald fields of old.

No knight in shining armor
Has ever rode a day
To save a damsel in distress
And carry her away.

Merlin the magician
Was a phony and a fraud –
King Arthur but a fiction tale
That causes one to nod.

Wizards are a special breed
Of fantasy it seems,
And magic castles little more
Than figments of our dreams.

And what of dragons long extolled;
Flying lizards breathing fire?
I do believe the product of
Some pathological liar.

There dwell no trolls beneath the bridge
To thwart it’s passage way –
Belief in goblins, ghouls, and ghosts
Has long since passed away.

Wicked witches have never flown
On gnarled brooms of straw,
And gypsies with their crystal balls
Is truth stretched much too far.

And yet, of all these fairy tales,
The hardest to believe?
This silly notion we call “Love”…
What utter fantasy!


Photo credit: Jazmin Dakar©

Death in Syria and Libya, financial collapse in Greece, fires in California, ISIS atrocities in Chattanooga, famine in the Sudan, murder by cop everywhere!

The list is endless.

Where are the uplifting stories?

Where are the tales of human heroism
that lift us beyond our everyday blues ,
the stories that reveal the true range
of human experience?

Are we shackled prisoners of a media
obsessed with the belief that the only thing that sells is grief and despair?

To overcome evil, we must be vigilant
about the abuses we humans bestow upon one another, stalwart against the evil forces of our inner demons.

We cannot stick our head in a bucket of wilted flowers and hope that things get better.

We need inspiration.

We need stories of triumph and victory.

We need to imagine and create.

Our imagination is a book of inspiration;
On its pages are found the stories of shared love,creativity, hope, and universal promise.

Ours is the story of lives imperceptibly bound, threads weaving a rich and colorful tapestry of humankind, of hope.

Where can we find hope?

It is found in our children, our future,
a new generation moving out into
and experiencing their worlds.

It is found in the creative outpouring of strangers ever reminding us that the true nature of humanity is to seek higher ground and to share with one another the voice of our inner genius.

It is found in the artists, the dancers, the poets and writers…the storytellers, the musicians, the singer’s, the community activists, the revolutionaries, the preachers, the atheletes, the lovers, and the loved.

It is found in the spiritual and collective vision of each of us.

The stories that diminish us will one day
be supplanted by those that lift us up!

Ours is a story of the capacity to love,
to overcome, to perservere.