Here is a picture of Wallace Stevens giving a total blowjob to the word "weather," as described in the eleventh section of "A Primitive Like an Orb":
Here, then, is an abstraction given head,
A giant on the horizon, given arms,
A massive body and long legs, stretched out,
A definition with an illustration, not
Too exactly labelled, a large among the smalls
Of it, a close, parental magnitude,
At the centre on the horizon, concentrum, grave
And prodigious person, patron of origins.
Do you like his frilled shirt? I do. I wanted to make this drawing extra-classy because the last technical day of the Wallace Stevens Emperor of Ice-Cream Cakes party was two days ago, and I wanted to award our hero one last eyeful of my sumptuous art to propel him through the next hundred years of bored afterliving.
This party is far too majestic to let die, so I have decided that we should devote the rest of our lives to creating artistic desecrapretations of the poems we love. Together we will pick a different poet each month to massage with our collected talents, beginning with three poets that will be chosen by our prizewinners. That's right, my geniuses, I am awarding you Intangible Prizes of Imperial Choice--Cuchulainn will pick a poet for November, Tony will pick a poet for December, and Ana will pick a poet for January. I will, of course, continue to welcome any Wallace Stevens submissions I receive as long as our eternal party here lasts, since we have only managed to scratch the surface of his euphemistic brilliance in the past few weeks, and also because I am kind of disappointed that I never got to dress up like a silentious porpoise.
I anxiously await the decisions of Cuchulainn, Tony, and Ana. I trust the judgment of each of these people implicitly, and though I will be rooting very strongly for James Whitcomb Riley to be the second mastermind to receive my nuanced treatments, I will be delighted to accept whichever poets they choose. More news as it comes, little partygoers--I hope you will stay all night and well into the morning.
5 comments:
You didn't have to flush it out! We'll still be posting all the entries here, so your actual blog will not be disrupted. I'm going to be redesigning the blog later this week to reflect its new and broader purpose. Besides, I really miss that picture of Tina Fey spreading herself wide.
Hart Crane would be GREAT.
I love your decisivenenss! That gives me an excuse to go out and buy his collected poems, too, which I currently do not have. Excellent choice.
The night before last I had a dream: that the prize was
"either one amusement-park ticket per each week of summer, or a bulk payout of 10 tickets at once."
This is the truth.
Only your truth is so much better!
I will announce my pick in December.
PS I heart Hart.
What a charming selection! Not only do we have an abstraction given head, but by these lines:
"...a large among the smalls,
Of it, a close parental magnitude..."
it is apparently a pronderously-hung and incestuous abstraction, as well! Bravo!
Did you say a picture of Tina Fey spreading herself wide? How did I miss out on that? Woe is me!
I heart Hart as well, Ana, and I apologize for tantalizing you in your dreams with promises of amusement park tickets. God knows that if you are ever in Orlando, though, I will gladly accompany you on a visit to The Holy Land Experience.
Admiral--I like to think it is pr0nderously hung, myself.
Yes, Cuchu, the abstraction's erection is perhaps a bit more swooping and snaking than I had originally planned. I tried thickening it, but all my efforts increased the obscenity of the drawing by a thousandfold. I also originally drew a little drop of rain falling from the tip, but lost my nerve at the last minute. Hmmm. I should probably go back and add it again.
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