Robert Swift's, The Lady's Dressing Room, certainly does an admirable job describing Lady Celia's grotesque beautification habits, bringing into question the concept of beauty during his era. As we are so far removed from women using Lead makeup and awful smells associated with consecutive weeks of non-bathing, it may be even easier for us to see how disgusting this is, but at the time, Swift was going against the contemporary notions of female beauty, which makes this work all the more impressive.

What makes this poem stick are the vivid descriptions Swift uses of the sight and scent of the less appealing elements used in beautification:
But oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's Bowels/When he beheld and smelt the Towels, as well as
A Paste of Composition rare/Sweat, Dandriff, Powder, Lead and Hair.

As he continues to add these grotesque descriptions of Celia, my main image his initial assessment of her being haughty, or very snobby and egotistical despite what she is subjecting herself (and those around her) to. There is no sense that, as a woman "squeezing a worm out of her nose," she should retract that nose from the perch she's placed it on, high in the air. Instead she seems to be content, even proud of her apperance.

Swift's parody on contemporary beauty is made great not only by the fact that he absolutely pounds his opinion into your head through your senses, but also because it seems as if the atrocious offender has no idea that she could be considered anything other than beautiful.

Blog Prompt - Imperfect Enjoyment

Howard Stern. Elvis. Hugh Hefner. Nowadays, the group of individuals who thrive in spite of (or because of) the fact that they cause such a shock to the polite, religious sub-culture are daily growing in number. If you will, the "Mothers-shielding-her-children's-eyes club." After reading this poem, I wonder of John Wilmot could have been elected president of this group. However, after acclimating myself to his frank symbolism, I found a great poem.

Part of the reason it jumped out at me so quickly and violently is that the heroic couplet seems to be written for easy reading; instead of concentrating on complex meter, it just kind of bounces along and lets you absorb themes and phrases with ease. It was definitely Wilmot's intention for his reader to approach this at breakneck speed, without holding back (Which also seems to be how the male subject approached sex, to the dismay of his partner) and shock themselves when they realized what they had jumped into. On that note, it seems as if the short, quick verses of the heroic couplet were appropriate for someone who obviously lacked the complexity of a great lover. Additionally, this scheme allows you to concentrate more on the vivid imagery Wilmot uses line to line.

Following the rise and fall of his ego is absolutely hilarious; early on he calls his penis a "all-dissolving thunderbolt," but (apparently quite) soon afterwards, in possibly the best couplet in this poem he uses a blazon of adjectives to describe his downfallen penis: "Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry/a wishing, weak, unmoving lump, I lie." His partner's cry of "Is there no more?" not terribly long after beginning the sexual encounter could not have helped. And no, calling "her very look a cunt" is neither polite nor a good excuse. The main character seems to be trying to rationalize his impotence and his reasoning is as perfectly simple as his performance with his partner, both of which match the poem's simple heroic couplet structure.

Other images such as "My dead cinder" and "...shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower" make it completely evident how disappointed the main character is with the boys downstairs (not directly faulting himself) but at some points he seems to be in denial, telling himself that he's "tingled every" vagina he's come in contact with before. It is somewhat ironic in that he seems to actually have feelings for her. He calls his former sexual encounters whores and wishes his current partner "10'000 abler pricks" to make up for his disappointing performance. The heroic couplet gives you no excuse to not completely notice this amazing imagery. Wilmot writes from the perspective of an unimpressive person; if you can imagine someone speaking in nursery rhyme, it's easy to imagine him being bad in bed. The structure is so basic, it causes absolutely none of the reader's attention to follow the meter, allowing them to pay complete attention to the line-by-line writing. Had this been written in a more complex meter, some of the reader's analysis would have been absorbed by that structure, and I think Wilmot wanted to avoid that.

Masterful job. Of writing that is. Not of... well you get the picture.

The Disabled Debauchee is a perfect characterization of the wit and style that so many strived toward during this era and easily shows why the Earl of Rochester's work was so respected. This poem is phenomenal. Perhaps the psychological process of picturing a face when reading a work (I imagine Johnny Depp's character in the Libertine writing this) helps me indentify more with the writer, but even without that bias I have a hard time thinking of a poem I've enjoyed more. Interestingly, it is written somewhat in the style of Dryden's Mack Fledcknoe as it wittily creates a type of surreal world where a typically undesirable characteristic is admired. The difference is that while Dryden obviously disdains dullness, we are led to believe that Wilmot considers debauchery not only a good trait, but something to be strived for.

As for the structure, I think the title itself lends a great deal of depth to the body and overall message of the work. When the word "disabled" is used to describe someone, it typically refers to a war veteran or (somewhat less often) an employee. Off the top of my head, I can't think of any other situation where the word is used in this context. But an even more interesting portion of the title is the next word: "Debauchee." Wilmot states debauchery as his primary occupation as opposed to calling himself a "Debaucherous Man" or something along those lines. Not only does this indicate that he is proudly and intentionally debaucherous, it makes the comparison to a war veteran more evident.

The poem is overflowed by comparisons of a "Debauchee" to a naval commander and Wilmot floods the line-by-line writing with nautical terms like - When fleets of glasses sail about the [table]. He makes a gradual transition from nautical terms to a more direct sexual tone as the poem progresses, and eventually it becomes very straightforward as to what he is speaking of. The thing that pervades the entire poem and, in my mind, makes it so phenomenal is that Wilmot's tone seamlessly shifts back and forth (whether he is speaking from the perspective of a former playboy or naval officer) and applies perfectly to both perspectives.

Never is this more evident than in lines 21-22. Nor shall the sight of honorable scars/Which my too forward valor did procure. He even refers to his scars as honorable; he considers himself a grizzled veteran of drinking and bed-hopping! In conclusion, he states that Sheltered in impotence, I urge you to blows, saying that he wants to vicariously live through the "next generation." Wilmot seems to say that after his long and accomplished life of debauchery, his only regret is that he can no longer lead the charge, having to settle instead for sitting in the background and watching all the fun from his bed. Did Wilmot truly convert to Christianity following his sickness? Did he actually regret his former ways? Who cares? This is an astounding poem and despite Wilmot's questionable sense of ethics, the literary community is better off with this work.