Not Prufrock Poem by Barry Middleton

how young he was
to claim these lines
it took me a lifetime
to nearly understand

many words frame
an old man's fears
always there is much
for backward looking
yet he looked forward

scholars still wonder
who is he addressing
I know the girl's name
but will not tell you
that's how poets are
leave something misty
for silver haired debate

one thing is obvious
he does not care
for growing old
looking forward
to small visions
life's chattering
he beckons her and I
to follow the ramble

I have rambled
through the fog
left and right
academic prattle
fooled them all
with foolish faces

there are no prophets
but if there were
who would choose
the rack of constant
inquisition, who would
so do I dare, do I

better to be the claws
poetry burned with me
none left for dissection
comfort in a meeker fate
no brouhaha for me

but something I plead
something he pleaded
with gods and devils
whose arms we embrace

the sea awaits
the maiden lingers
consumed in lace
by the garden gate
she turns away
like the turning tide
like a vision that
arrives too late
mermaids or Sirens
call me to darkness
call from where
I do not know
riding seaward
into waters
I have never
seen before