Lumpy pudding

Judging a poem is like judging a pudding or a machine. One demands that it work. Poetry succeeds because all or most of what is said or implied is relevant; what is irrelevant has been excluded, like lumps from pudding and 'bugs' from machinery. (Wimsatt & Beardsley)

Here we celebrate the excluded, lumpy parts of the pudding!

Sep 16, 2011 1:30pm
Robert Gibbons: The Mystery of the Feminine* Before eating the lamb heart yesterday I said a prayer a bit more primitive than usual Grace. Carl, the guy I got it from said he likes heart. That when he shoots a deer it’s the first thing he eats. A certain anti-linearity to my existence these days. No circularity, nor spiraling exactly, an anti-form. More anarchic, I suppose, or vortexual: allowing everything in at once. Today, I caught shades foreshadowing autumn’s arrival in just over a week, along with a batch of New England asters, which always herald the season here. Sun lower on horizon by a few degrees skimmed across the ocean, while I walked about what Rimbaud defined as paradise. My rock cliff kept mostly to itself. Over the weekend, at Brad Fuller’s suggestion, we took in Werner Herzog’s documentary film on the discovery in 1994 of the Chauvet-Pont-d’Arc cave in the Ardèche region of France. It wasn’t surprising that the film centered so much attention on the sole human form: that of a Woman in the embrace of the Minotaur. It’s the mystery of the Feminine artists are forever trying to solve. Herzog heads back to Germany to track down comparably aged Venuses, including one from the cave at Hohle Fels. We trekked to Pech Merle, & know that talk is love. The week before last I showed her curvilinear lines that go from anklebone to bend at knee past thigh to sexual intersection. In some ways I wish I could draw it for you here, or take you to see navel to nipple, shoulder bone & neck to crescent moon for face & head. But I can’t. *The voice of Silence, image of the Hidden, embodiment of Beauty, signature of Peace, source of Love, etc.

Robert Gibbons: The Mystery of the Feminine*

Before eating the lamb heart yesterday I said a prayer a bit more primitive than usual Grace. Carl, the guy I got it from said he likes heart. That when he shoots a deer it’s the first thing he eats. A certain anti-linearity to my existence these days. No circularity, nor spiraling exactly, an anti-form. More anarchic, I suppose, or vortexual: allowing everything in at once. Today, I caught shades foreshadowing autumn’s arrival in just over a week, along with a batch of New England asters, which always herald the season here. Sun lower on horizon by a few degrees skimmed across the ocean, while I walked about what Rimbaud defined as paradise. My rock cliff kept mostly to itself. Over the weekend, at Brad Fuller’s suggestion, we took in Werner Herzog’s documentary film on the discovery in 1994 of the Chauvet-Pont-d’Arc cave in the Ardèche region of France. It wasn’t surprising that the film centered so much attention on the sole human form: that of a Woman in the embrace of the Minotaur. It’s the mystery of the Feminine artists are forever trying to solve. Herzog heads back to Germany to track down comparably aged Venuses, including one from the cave at Hohle Fels. We trekked to Pech Merle, & know that talk is love. The week before last I showed her curvilinear lines that go from anklebone to bend at knee past thigh to sexual intersection. In some ways I wish I could draw it for you here, or take you to see navel to nipple, shoulder bone & neck to crescent moon for face & head. But I can’t.

*The voice of Silence, image of the Hidden, embodiment of Beauty, signature of Peace, source of Love, etc.
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