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!

Dec 13, 2012 6:38pm
Kenneth Patchen: 23rd Street Runs into Heaven
You stand near the window as lights wink On along the street. Somewhere a trolley, taking Shop girls and clerks home, clatters through This before-supper Sabbath. An alley cat cries To find the garbage cans sealed; newsboys Begin their murder into pennies round.
We are shut in, secure for a little, safe until Tomorrow. You slip your dress off, roll down Your stockings, careful against runs. Naked now, with soft light on soft flesh, you pause For a moment; turn and face me- Smile in a way that only women know Who have lain long with their lover And are made more virginal.
Our supper is plain but we are very wonderful.

Kenneth Patchen: 23rd Street Runs into Heaven

You stand near the window as lights wink
On along the street. Somewhere a trolley, taking
Shop girls and clerks home, clatters through
This before-supper Sabbath. An alley cat cries
To find the garbage cans sealed; newsboys
Begin their murder into pennies round.

We are shut in, secure for a little, safe until
Tomorrow. You slip your dress off, roll down
Your stockings, careful against runs. Naked now,
with soft light on soft flesh, you pause
For a moment; turn and face me-
Smile in a way that only women know
Who have lain long with their lover
And are made more virginal.

Our supper is plain but we are very wonderful.

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