Inspired by my early morning reading of Bill William Richardson’s Substack, ostensibly dedicated to Mavis Gallant, and he mentions Wallace Stevens.
I always liked the poetry of Wallace Stevens, especially this one, The Emperor of Ice Cream.
The Emperor of Ice-Cream
BY WALLACE STEVENS
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
I especially love the fact that Wallace Stevens was an insurance executive for most of his life, and married for 46 years. Whether this admiration stems from the verisimilitude of his servitude to actuarial tables, or his persistence in his relationship is not clear; I am about to work this weekend at a trade show in my professional life, not be be confused with my artistic endeavours. One pays the rent and one feeds my soul.
And like Nicolas Cage’s two headed snake, one head tries to eat the other, attempts repeatedly to climb into the others head, pushing out thought, reason, and ambition, replacing them with shards of poetry, meringues of lemon potential, bad notes and soft heads. Oh fontanelle, afraid I would plunge my hands inside your tender pre-formed mind, afraid of my own strength, afraid to jump off the ledge.
Bill writes his letter daily, before he goes off to stock the shelves at Whole Foods. I love the Whole Words that Bill concocts in the dawn, getting them down, getting it out.
I have to go get ready for my day, so my thoughts on what constitutes cancel culture will have to wait. But consider this, was Howard Zinn’s A People’s History an answer to the cancel culture of history, the ritual forgetting of actual events that shaped our existence, banned by the forced narrative of the majority?
I am barely awake, leaving discussion ps of what Woke really means for another day.
On the strength of your writing about her I went out and bought Plath's The Bell Jar this morning. 12 holds on it in the library system here, I found one copy at a local book sellers. I look forward to connecting with Plath again on paper, as with you, through these diary pages.
Yesterday at 4:45 AM when the robins were starting up, I skipped past the ornithological train of thought and wondered what you were writing about MG. Will it always be this way?
Wallace Stevens! I was mesmerized by a tiny collection of his I found in the Goodwill in Courtenay. Sunday Morning - complacencies of the peignoir and those damn wakened birds will live forever in my teenage brain. Hadn't thought about him in donkey's.
Inspired by my early morning reading of Bill William Richardson’s Substack, ostensibly dedicated to Mavis Gallant, and he mentions Wallace Stevens.
I always liked the poetry of Wallace Stevens, especially this one, The Emperor of Ice Cream.
The Emperor of Ice-Cream
BY WALLACE STEVENS
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
I especially love the fact that Wallace Stevens was an insurance executive for most of his life, and married for 46 years. Whether this admiration stems from the verisimilitude of his servitude to actuarial tables, or his persistence in his relationship is not clear; I am about to work this weekend at a trade show in my professional life, not be be confused with my artistic endeavours. One pays the rent and one feeds my soul.
And like Nicolas Cage’s two headed snake, one head tries to eat the other, attempts repeatedly to climb into the others head, pushing out thought, reason, and ambition, replacing them with shards of poetry, meringues of lemon potential, bad notes and soft heads. Oh fontanelle, afraid I would plunge my hands inside your tender pre-formed mind, afraid of my own strength, afraid to jump off the ledge.
Bill writes his letter daily, before he goes off to stock the shelves at Whole Foods. I love the Whole Words that Bill concocts in the dawn, getting them down, getting it out.
I have to go get ready for my day, so my thoughts on what constitutes cancel culture will have to wait. But consider this, was Howard Zinn’s A People’s History an answer to the cancel culture of history, the ritual forgetting of actual events that shaped our existence, banned by the forced narrative of the majority?
I am barely awake, leaving discussion ps of what Woke really means for another day.
On the strength of your writing about her I went out and bought Plath's The Bell Jar this morning. 12 holds on it in the library system here, I found one copy at a local book sellers. I look forward to connecting with Plath again on paper, as with you, through these diary pages.
Yesterday at 4:45 AM when the robins were starting up, I skipped past the ornithological train of thought and wondered what you were writing about MG. Will it always be this way?
We are enjoying the show so far.
Wallace Stevens! I was mesmerized by a tiny collection of his I found in the Goodwill in Courtenay. Sunday Morning - complacencies of the peignoir and those damn wakened birds will live forever in my teenage brain. Hadn't thought about him in donkey's.
I think you left a word out, no, I should say two words out: a “most beautiful” face to wash.