At a gathering of poets, long planned,
Dylan Thomas and Wallace Stevens co-author a poem:
“Do Not Go Gentle into Sunday Morning”
T.S. Eliot and Gertrude Stein decide to give it a try:
“Tender Buttons in The Wasteland”
Meanwhile, Dante has located Walt Whitman, and they create:
“Song of Myself in Hell”
Yeats has his eye on Sylvia Plath, and they write:
“Sailing to Daddy”
All of this makes Keats irritated, who says it is
not in the truly Romantic spirit. Robert Frost agrees:
“Tender is the Night on The Road Not Taken”
Stein says Romanticism is dead and therefore
nothing is Tender. No one agrees. Stein sets out
to prove them wrong. She begins by rearranging the pieces:
“Do Not Go Gentle into The Wasteland, Daddy”
“Tender Buttons are Tender Buttons are Tender Buttons”
Eliot objects: “Don’t think I don’t know what you are
up to, Gertrude.”
“What’s that, Tom?”
“Ha, what a laugh, you old signifier, you.”
Plath is depressed, Keats is coughing, Frost is looking out
the window at the Birches.
“Pretty trees, eh Robbie?” Stein says.
“Yes, someone should write a poem about them,” Frost says.
“Shall we?” Stein says.
Together they write:
“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”
“That’s a dumb title,” Yeats says.
“I like it,” Keats says.
“It makes me want to put my head in the oven,” Plath says.
“All right, all right,” Stein says. “Robbie and I will revise it.”
“Snowy Stopping: Evening Woods”
They all applauded, and postmodernism was born.