Word: prufrocks
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...Wars, to Bly's annoyed proclamation in 1953 that MOST OF THE POETRY PUBLISHED NOW-A-DAYS IS OLD FASHIONED. The Advocate vacillated between innovation and a nervous caution. A reaction in the fifties against the poetic domination of Eliot was expressed by Peter Viereck in a parody of Prufrock: "Today the women come and go Talking of T.S. Eliot." Jonathan Culler, in his introduction to the Centennial Anthology, described a magazine that had "stayed Georgian ten years too late during the poetic ferment of the twenties"; the poets who found themselves at Harvard after the close of World...
...magazine, Blast. This partial autobiography, written in 1937 and now reissued, proves that Lewis could give as good as he got. His book bristles on almost every page with his endless resources for insult. Ezra Pound, after a first impression, was "a cowboy songster"; T. S. Eliot was "a Prufrock who would 'dare' all right 'to eat a peach'-provided he was quite sure that he possessed the correct European table-technique for that ticklish operation...
LAMP UNTO MY FEET (CBS, 10-10:30 a.m.). Te Deum for J. Alfred Prufrock is British Poet Paul Roche's cheerful reply to T. S. Eliot's despair over the barrenness of modern life in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. British Actress Pat Gilbert-Read and the author read the poem...
...hail to TIME for attempting to re-establish the line between the poet and the square. But-is this a dagger which I see before me? Your artist's rendering of the poet looks very like a camel. Or like a whale. Or like Prufrock peering from a nimbostratus. Lowell is an excellent poet within the confines of his own self-lacerations. But the poet who deserves (in sunlight) to grace your cover is James Dickey, who, far from measuring out his life with coffee spoons, writes with joy and imagination and vitality about the sanguine world in which...
David Rockwood's "Simon of Rhodesia" is rambling, exuberant, and fun. If there's more to it than meets the eye, I don't think we should look for it: if mention of a "blue guitar" and a Prufrock spoof (substituting "Henry Miller-O" for "Michelangelo") are supposed to plunge us into thoughts of Stevens and Eliot, the poem does not justify its allusions. But taken lightly it's pleasant, and occasionally striking, as when a guitarist "plucked a flatted fifth as one might pluck the eyeball of a kitten...