“The Emperor of Ice Cream”

 

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,

Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet

on which she embroidered fantails once

And spread it so as to cover her face.

If her horny feet protrude, they come

to show how cold she is, and dumb.

Let the lamp affix its beam.

The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.

 

“The Emperor of Ice-Cream” is a poem from Wallace Stevens‘s first collection of poetry, Harmonium (1923). Stevens’ biographer, Paul Mariani,

I love the commanding voice that starts this poem, “Call the roller of big cigars/ The muscular one.”  We don’t know who the voice belongs to or what the need, but he’s in charge.  A strangely small task for this big man: “and bid him whip/ In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.”  He continues, ” let the wenches dawdle (flirt) in such dress/ As they are used to wear,”  nothing fancy, just details, suggestive of sex.  There’s a sense of defiance in his orders.  Even the flowers are to be brought in “last month’s newspapers, ” stale news in old, crumpled paper.

 But the tone of the next line changes abruptly, becomes philosophical, “Let be be finale of seem.”  “Seem” would be at a usual funeral:  no muscular men, rollers of big cigars, best dresses for the women,  here called, “wenches, ” today’s clean paper for the flowers.  The “be” is the reality of today: no religious references, no pretense, no solemnity,  just the  fact of a death, which will become the end, the finale, of the illusion of “seem.”

The enigmatic last line,  “The only  emperor is the emperor of Ice cream,”  I’ll put off until we finish the poem.

In the second stanza,  the activity moves to the bedroom of the dead woman and her “dresser of deal/ ( a cheap pine), lacking the three glass knobs”  telling us that she was probably rather poor,  but, in a touching remark, we hear that, in spite of her surroundings, she had an urge to create something lovely, and embroidered fantails ( small, delicate birds from Asia), ” on her sheet.  The  speaker instructed the neighbors to spread it on her face to cover it.  But,  to expose the deathly side of her as well, to let her  “horny feet protrude . . .  To show how cold she is, and dumb.” he directs the lamp’s beam to shine on her alone.

What’s missing, though, is any recognition of an ultimate spiritual power that watches over us, that maybe promises an afterlife,  God.  I think that the emperor serves this role.  He’s the title of the poem and proclaimed twice within it,  in concluding statements:  ” The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.”  The key word here is “only,”  which he says twice. He seems to be emphasizing that there is no God, only the emperor and his promises are not of eternity, but of ice cream, cold, delicious, with a soothing, sensual texture. Like us, it is temporary, vital, desired, and it melts slowly until there’s nothing left, like the body in the bedroom.  For this funeral, we have muscular men with big cigars, dawdling wenches, lusty ice cream, unimportant news. Pleasure is what we should celebrate.

We can’t assume that Wallace Stevens is writing about his own beliefs.  But he has said without hesitation that he doesn’t believe in God.  In the 1930’s and 40’s, he kept  notebooks that he called  “Adagia 1 and 2 ” that were filled with aphorisms about the nature of poetry,  philosophical musings,  and his  personal beliefs.  I’ll list some that I think will widen our understanding of the poem:

Poetry is a means of redemption.

It is the belief and not the god that counts.

God is in me or else is not at all (does not exist).

This  happy creature–It is he that invented the Gods.  It is he that put into their mouths the only words they have ever spoken.

After one has abandoned a belief in god, poetry is that essence which takes its  place as life’s redemption.

In poetry,  you must love the words, the ideas and images. and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.

If you have any comments you’d like to make, please do so.