[Ann Drysdale]

Jayne - I found the Emperor of Ice Cream to be a particularly American poem, which is more comprehensible to UK readers if the ice cream is replaced by ham sandwiches and the cigar-roller (or more probably his wife) is engaged in their manufacture, cutting the crusts off and slicing them diagonally. (The poem is now a period piece.)

What we have at funerals (Hamlet's baked meats) is seen to be far more important than the corpse, an old woman who has outlived her relevance and (I am extending shamelessly here, based on personal experience) her treasured needlework (a sheet from her notional "bottom drawer"?) put gracelessly to a basic use, while the glass knobs of her old dresser, presumably worth a bit, have already been slid into a mourner's pocket.

Those attending have come so as to seem something, but the poet shows them scoffing the ritual repast, with its special-occasion extra, for what they are.

As I read the poem I am always put in mind of the Duchess of Malfi, whose face had to be covered because she "dazzled" her observer. I like playing with the many reasons for the face-covering here, where the face is the deceased, the feet- just old and anybody's. Another choice between being and seeming, though I am not sure which is which.

And the only ruler at the feast is that yummy ice cream (so much more of a rare treat than it is now) so Death (who he?) shall (here) have no dominion.

If I've got it all wrong and wilfully ignored subtexts and tangents, I am unrepentant. I have long loved this poem for what I think it is.

I shall return to my emboidery.
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