Opened April 20th 1997
And tidied up April 27th 1997
THE LEMONY, FRILLY POEM
                                          I'll tell you a little bit about The Lemony Frilly Poem.
It was based on William Empson's wonderful piece, "Poem About a Ball in the 19th Century." Empson is an English poet who wrote mostly in the 1930's. Be sure to read this poem if you can find it.
It depicts a ballroom dance going on with large swirls of color--people are wearing peacock feathers for the evening. Empson breaks up his language in almost a cubist way, so the piece becomes something like a Picasso painting, which is true of the Lemony, Frilly Poem as well.
His piece starts out: "Feather. Feather. If it was a feather. Feathers for fair, or to be fair, aroused. Round to be airy, very aviary fairy peacock. To be become preferred...." and so on. You could say these are little word sketches of what the eye sees and the heart feels, put together in an assemblage. Its a powerful piece of writing.
Now with the Lemony, Frilly Poem, it's an encounter with a girl. What could be more inspiring than that? Broken up into little pieces and reassembled. Cubist, sort of, and you get the impression of it gradually.

"When she saw" That's the beginning of the encounter, her seeing me or realizing that I was interested. "Oh, I see, you're interested." and in her I I trust in her, I am in her eye, I am having congruence with her because that she ...because I... My nervousness around her because.. when she a formal statement of the subject, that the poem is to be about her, and there is a crescendo here as you read it. she that is A failed attempt to be intellectual about her when she is an object of overwhelming passion.

                                          You get the idea. Now you can work your way through the poem bit by bit. It's a little bit eccentric, but I always felt it could hit you like a quadruple lemonade on a summer day if you get in the right mood. By the way, this poem was written in one draft and never changed, and it's over ten years old.
Best regards,
William B. Hunt

And now back to the poem.