Re: T. S. Eliot/ Preludes
Posted by:
Pam Adams (---.bus.csupomona.edu)
Date: April 16, 2022 03:58PM
Try reading the poem out loud. Does it sound happy, sad, pensive?
Is the speaker going to jump off a cliff or lead a parade? The tone and mood are in the word choice, the subject choice, etc.
As an example, in Section 1, Eliot sees 'the grimy scraps of withered leaves.' Is that how you normally see fallen leaves? A poem with a happy mood might talk about 'crunching through leaves' or connect them with the smell of a bonfire.
As for 'scene or occasion,' ask yourself 'what are these people doing?' Pretend this is the description of a movie. Where are these people? (Hint- where would you find grimy fallen leaves?)
pam
Preludes
by Thomas Stearns Eliot
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.