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.