Sunday, December 03, 2006

My God, Look at His Princely Beard--Men Don't Grow Them Like That Anymore

My introduction to the poems of Alfred Tennyson came at the hands of Lucy Maud Montogomery, who was given to portentously invoking "crossing the bar" as a euphemism for "dying of old age," and whose Emily books gave me the notion that real poets wore diaphanous gowns and acted like tranced-out manic-depressive seeresses when they weren't busy being total cockteases, an idea which held poisonous sway over my mind until I was at least twenty, and which the legacy of Alfred himself did little to dispel.

As I previously mentioned, I memorized a few Tennyson poems when I was a hot thirteen-year-old--I mean, I never hung a poster of "The Lady of Shalott" in my room or anything, but I probably would have if I had thought of it. Come to think of it, I never hung any posters on my walls at all, which is testament to the inborn poverty of imagination that plagues me to this very day. At any rate, Baron, your party begins now.

Biographical Resources



Cuchulainn said...

Holy crap. I actually have a framed print of Waterhouse's LoS in my bedroom -- but it's under my bed, because I never got around to hanging it. Very seriously. And, now that I realize it's a symptom of geekism, I'm know it's going to make some unaware someone a very lovely holiday gift.

In fact, if you want to do an Alfred Lord contest or something, I'm willing to donate the goddamn thing as le grand prize (and will ship anywhere within the continental U.S.). Just something to consider.

Anyway, I've found my post-Thanksgiving "center" again, and am totally down with roasting Alfred Lord. My photoshop finger is itching, and my Neo-Pre-Raphaelitic freak is officially ON.

Tricia said...

I would LOVE to do an Alfred Lord Tenny Tenny contest--I'm sad we never got to do one for Hart. I think I might switch things up this time, though, and ask people to submit drawings or photos for a particular line that I've chosen, and then have Elegant Choice pick the best one. The Waterhouse would be the perfect prize, too!

I'm just now getting back into the swing of things as well; it was impossible to draw with my fat hands for a while there. I also got totally absorbed in my new flex shaft and started to neglect my duties to the fucking muse, but no more.