Waste Land, Prufrock and Other Poems Book

Uncle!

I measured out my life with coffee spoons in the hours, weeks, indeed months between when I first picked this up and when I subsequently set it down unfinished. It gets two stars in deference to the world of literary critics and english PhD's who call Eliot a master.

I want to believe that good poetry has something to share with us. I even keep a copy of Garrison Keillor's anthology "Good Poem's For Hard Times" on my night stand, for Pete's sakes! It's there right now, see? (Ok maybe there the tv remote is sitting on top of it). But, some of those poems I understand - I think.

Ole' T.S. is smarter than me and I think that's the problem here. I could get through a Lovesong for J. Alfred Prufrock well enough, but so much of The Wasteland is unintelligable to me that I found myself reading a page and setting this down. It's disgraceful - the thing can't be 75 pages and here I sit, unable to get through it.

I think the last time I understood poetry was in fifth grade when I had to recite a passage from "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere." Since then I've found that most poetry completely and utterly befuddles me.

Well, I'm dumb. I admit it.

Uncle.

-m