Thanksgiving Is Ruined
May 16, 2004
"There Is There Are"
That's how Anne Hyde Greet, in a volume I accumulated today, translates the title of this "calligrame" poem ("Il y a") by Apollinaire, written essentially in the trenches of WWI, in which the line that fascinates me the most this evening, for some reason, is:
"There's an inkwell I made in a 15-centimeter rocket they didn't send off."
The Anonymous Cheese
Hugh Kenner wrote in The Pound Era (1971) about T.S. Eliot, who, in this scene, has just been presented with the cheese board in a restaurant, as follows:
His attention was now bent on the toadstool-yellow specimen. This he tapped. This he prodded. This he poked. This he scraped. He then summoned the waiter.
I discovered this hilarious passage upon noting that the volume's index included an entry for "Stilton Cheese, pgs. 7, 440-1."
I found the Stilton entry while searching the index for any mentions of Algernon Charles Swinburne.
I went looking for Swinburne because he was the fellow, in part, for whom the young Ezra Pound wrote "Revolt: Against the Crepuscular Sprit in Modern Poetry."
(Does "crepuscular" mean "of, relating to, or resembling twilight"? Why, yes it does.)
Psychedeic Republicans trading cards