Love this version... it inspired me to do my own version with artwork by Julian Peters.... kzfaq.info/get/bejne/nq-mlLaitL-raIU.html

Hiddleston's version is good, but this is so deeply, imaginatively, true to the poem, beautiful, sad, elegant, simple in language and complex and nuanced in feeling...thank you...

Not only his VOICE, but Irons' IMAGINATION make the words sing. An actor makes CHOICES and he chose to have an image, a subtex and an attitude about each phrase. Compare this to Hiddleston and you'll see what a few decades of life experience add to the interpretation.

I like both the reading of Sir Hopkins and that of Mr. Irons, they depicted two versions of Prufrock. the first one is overwhelmed, anxious, restless, he wanted to ask the question but he was torn by his desire and his insecurities. I assume that was why Sir Hopkins read it in a fast speed, like a man hovers nervously in a room, asking "how should I presume?". the second version gave our prufrock a shade of introspection, a touch of arrogance to cover his fear, he taunted himself to mask his self-consciousness..nevertheless, I see myself in both of them. that's why after all these years, this remains my favorite poem.

Absolutely a brilliant, emotive reading. Prufrock is not a poem to be rushed. Slow and solemn is my personal preference for this most serious of works. Mr. Irons infuses Prufrock with proper emotion and gravitas. I got “the chills” 4 or 5 times during Mr. Irons reading. Bravo! There are also excellent readings by others, but (so far) Mr. Irons is at the top of this, my favorite poem’s list. Thank you Mr. Irons. Very well done!

"I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was I meant to be." - Scar

Jeremy knows where the party is.

My favourite poem. And Jeremy Irons reads it so brilliantly! I am in love with this!

this is exactly how I always wanted to read this poem but never could....... the reading is an explanation in itself. respect and love!

Just beautiful. A perfect recitation.

Sir Irons' smoke-mellowed voice, his unhurried cadence, his emphasis placed just right ... this rendition and Sir Hopkins' are marvelous (though Hopkins did rush through the early stanzas). Haven't heard the Hiddleston version yet ... Thank you for posting this. This is a poem I return to 35 years after having read it for the first time.

This is the most perfect voice.

Oooohhhh, that voice is unmistakable. Love it.

Bravo! He must have known to Be Prepared for this one.

One of my favourite poems read brilliantly by Jeremy. I was transported!

I heard about TS Eliot's The Wasteland in the 1990's but i never discovered TS Eliot till now and listening to Jeremy Irons read all his poems makes it all worthwhile and pleasurable !

Exquisite narration of the poem; made an artwork of this poem, inspired by a dream. It would be fortunate if Mr.Irons would read "The Wasteland" as well.

I adore this man. I cannot help but think of him, though, as Dr. Stephen Fleming in his 1992 film called "Damage" also starring Juliet Binoche. I'm sure many, if not all, of you have seen it. It certainly contains some disturbing scenes which are absolutely only intended for mature audiences. But in the film he and Binoche are piercingly exquisite together...

Beautiful! My favorite poem. My extended family are all genealogists for generations. When I found family letters that finally proved that TS was my blood uncle (my great…. grandfathers brother) I was so excited. ❤ Thank you for this beautiful reading.

Superb phrasing great job

This was magical! All of a sudden this poem makes so much more sense; it is reduced from an enigma, that everyone says is "Great," to a poem about life passing by, seen from the eyes of an old man. Of course, I could listen to the voice of Jeremy Irons read the old Manhattan phone book and enjoy it, but this brought an iconic piece to life, and I appreciate it and Mr. Irons all the more for it. Thanks!

Brilliant reading. The absolute best. A wonderful poem read to perfection.

Love this!! 🙏🙏

This poem demands a more feebler voice that reflects under confidence or even confusion. This one is way more assertive to capture the very essence of the tragedy, I feel

Marvellous

This is the best rendition I have heard. The diction is precise and easy to understand and the cadence slow and deliberate which for me lends gravitas to the whole thing.

Irons and Hopkins are two favorite actors [and I'm an actor who's done a lot of classical acting & poetry readings]. I prefer the irons and a little disappointed in Sir Anthony's reading--as many have noted, it's so fast that it seems like he's just reading it fast rather than living it--which is what acting is. As Irons does. Though --as some have also said--he does slow it down as the poem goes on. But still doesn't sound like he's living it. i believe Irons is making up these words as the thought occurs to him: again, that's the illusion that actors create.

Wonderful, insightful read! Better, by far, than some others here. Thank you.

Qué gran actuación ¡¡¡

Wonderful

Beautiful....I did my own version too....Good Lord! How I love this poem.

No need to sit and ponder- Hiddleston vs. Irons- COVERED IN GOOSEBUMPS! Wish John Hurt was here and Dylan Thomas, dear Dylan. Thanks for posting and THANKS, MR. IRONS AND OF COURSE, T.S. ELIOT. Amen. May I use your channel to dedicate this to Charlie Watts, drummer extraordinaire for The Rolling Stones- I humbly thank you. Namaste. Z.

bravo!

great

I had a crack at this on my own channel - it's a lot more difficult than I anticipated when I embarked upon the challenge! Talking of challenge - it would be really cool to hear everybody else having a go at this too! 🐾

Oh, this was lush.

It sounds like Scar's reading the poem.

I love j i

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

I've just compared the interpretation with that of Alec Guiness'; same words completely different vibe.

Eat a Peach

Not until I heard this version did I realise Prufrock (Pru-Frock) could also be pronounced as Proof-Rock.

EU QUERIA MUITO LEGENDA EM PORTUGUES ENQUANTO OUÇO EM INGLES.

POETRY FOUNDATION POEMS & POETS HARRIET ARTICLES VIDEO PODCASTS LEARN EVENTS POETRY MAGAZINE ABOUT US Newsletter Search Search by Poem or Poet The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock BY T. S. ELIOT S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair - (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin - (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all- Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet - and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”- If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor- And this, and so much more?- It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.” No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous- Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

How!?

Infinity better than the Hopkins version. Hopkins seem to read it without understanding. Btw I’ve performed Prufrock on stage. It was a long time ago at Millfield School.

About the video. I wonder why you left out so much you left out almost entirely too long versus that begin with and would it have been worth it after all. And you left out one or two lines here and there throughout the poem. And it seems to me that would’ve been easy to repeat the phrase in the room. The women come and go talking about Michaelangelo twice since all you would have to do was rerun it already made video. But it’s in the poem twice and it’s in the video only once. So I wonder why that is

i’ve watched this video at least 500 times and this is the first time adds have appeared in the middle of it. 🤬 totally anti climatic.

It's great but turn the gd gain down. I can hear his tongue moving..................................................................

One of the better versions on here. He doesn’t rush it. Sir Alec Guinness. SUCKED. Anthony Hopkins. SUCKED.

Eliot was from St. Louis. Might an American voice better serve the text?

Very bad… the best version is T S Elliot himself