Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem


How like Eliot it is in tone.
Even the landscape has the grime
of London in each line. I must have been
no more than nineteen when I wrote 
the poem caught in the spell of his hypnotic 
rhythm and rhymes.
The bright, clean air of my home 
was seen through the filter
of a foreign fog, his soulful exhaustion 
washed a gray tide across my youth.
He stood as a monument in whose shadow 
nothing could grow.
Prufrock haunted the back alleys
of my mind, a rebel almost in the guise
of a comic. He was hardly me
in a world of pub rock and cold beers
on lazy, sun drenched Aussie afternoons -  
no rolled up trousers but instead,
reefers, flared pants and mini skirts 
and a future balanced on the whim
of a conscription ballot
hanging over my head.

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