Blason - a genre of poems that praised a woman by singling out different parts of her body and finding appropriate metaphors to compare them with (Wikipedia)
I can't write a blazon.
That's all there is to it. From the mid-twentieth to early twenty-first century the blazon or "the love poem" has become a jaded thing at best. Hell, after WWI there were very few poems glorifying warfare and even Ishtar has very few followers.
But when I looked into the eyes of my girlfriend, I sometimes wondered whether that goddess is dead or fictional. So, here I was - trying to write something that isn't the purple prose of Hallmark, but also doesn't fall to the dark side of bad break-up emo stories, and their older "angst" German counterparts.
Seriously, how does someone like me - who thinks Lovecraft is an author of dark fantasy, and not something kinky from an adult sex-shop - write a blazon, and keep myself from getting hungry in the process?
Read on. If you dare.
No good can come of thisI decided to go to the Lovecraft store. Specifically, Spreading Lovecraft Since 1905. So under a gibbous moon that's romantic more in the sublime and naturalistic sense of the word than in any particularly sentimental way, I read from a book that predates both the Kama Sutra and all humanity, and after resisting doing something with the section on pre-human intercourse (something I fondly call "Caveman Love") I found exactly what I was looking for.
Then, after complimenting the owner on how eldritch she looked, I gathered the following: said book, candles, some very interesting star-fish like symbols, a cute stuffed winged tentacle toy, and chocolate. A shit-load of chocolate.
Now, I know what you're thinking. No good can come of this. Not this combination, not this mindset, and definitely not the direction to which this is going. Hell, you can even say that I forewent the entire good intentions bit and just plain went to the awesome burning part.
But hear me out. You might as well because you've read this far anyway. As I said before, the extent of my Lovecraft only covered Things That Man (and Woman) Was Not Meant to Know, and I had as much romantic experience as young Werther did talking to himself, and a tree. Or was that Mary Shelley?
Anyway, I also could not in good conscience write a poem that I really did not have any business writing, even though my old Battle-ax of Babylon - which I still call her fondly - made it quite clear that Hell hath no fury, and also no bottom. Neither of these is true by themselves, but like matter and anti-matter can be quite explosive. Just like the threatening glare in her lovely eyes.
So, I didn't write a blazon - a pretentious and even prissy ode to love.
I created my Blazon.
Let me just state one fact before we go on. A shoggoth is something of a servitor. Think of it as a construct or building blocks. They're like Lego, even though they can kill you - I mean, arrange themselves into different shapes. Let me also state that the art of creating them is supposedly gone though... Not as gone as people would like you to believe.
So, after some arts and crafts and a whole shit load of chocolate - a whole shit-load - I brought my girlfriend home and lit some nice candles with some soft green (and I still insist emerald) candles and gave her the cute stuffed winged toy with tentacles. She looked at me very ... askance and said something to the effect that this had better be good, or I would be awakening to a whole new reality of maddening pain. My words. Not hers.
So I teased her. I smiled and laughed and I said she would have to guess what I made her. I think she got suspicious at that point, but it is hard to tell - memories being what they are now. She wanted a hint and, very excitedly at this point and like any literary geek I had to pull an Oedipus on her.
No, not like that. You have dirty minds. I mean, I created a riddle. It was all planned out in my head. I would ask the riddle, and she would get the answer or she wouldn't. But that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was that it would finish setting the scene and then I would become all dramatic and present - my Blazon!
So, giggling inwardly but barely, I asked her the following riddle:
What smells sweet,
Yes, I was being a little fresh, but I thought it would be appreciated. My girlfriend, who must have thought I was talking about her, smiled and kissed me and told me how sweet I was. Her answer was along the lines of ...
"My Blazon!" I called out proudly, waving to the darkness behind me.
To this day, I'm not entirely sure what happened. But suffice to say, it could have initially been better. I will admit right now that my attempt turned out more like the robot from Metropolis than any likeness of my girlfriend. A slight oversight on my part perhaps.
That, and the riddle was a little much I think.
At that point she must have run away... or, well, it's better not to dwell on these things. I was upset for a while. I mean, I'd done everything I could. And then some. But, really, it was all for the best. Because Blazon was very understanding about it.
And I realized there really is such a thing as an edible woman.
© Matthew Kirshenblatt 2008 All Rights Reserved
Date and time of last update 09:52 Wed 12 Nov 2008
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