Booth Tarkington’s Alice Adams
My appropriation of Booth Tarkington’s Alice Adams continues. Here’s an excerpt:
You were hopeful a week ago
that you could make even asperity listen
but realized that,
philosophically, the hothouse of words
is neither a fluffy idealization
nor a dreamed and unfounded drama.
It is a ransacked background
drenched in camellias,
but, as in a great bouquet with no
flowers, the unknown magnifico
may be there.
Sometimes, you said,
you returned to an opened meadow
in which the surcharged moments
were forever a omen of what your rare
and protracted attention would become,
a not wholly recognizable expanse
dreamily groomed in dismaying detail.
It always stems from a transitory meeting
in the way that jazz can produce
intensely sympathetic difficulties
with the introduction of a hearer.
In the white archway of prophecies,
besooted questions dropped
before a tiny shot of blue.
Read the rest here.