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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In London’s gaslit, art-enamoured scene, Lived two great wits, with egos sharp and keen. The Painter James, with monocle and cane, The Poet Wilde, who found in art no pain, But only beauty, in a world mundane. They vied for notice, ‘midst the social whirl, Two shining stars, one butterfly, one pearl. Their row, half-feigned for the public’s gay delight, Was a rap contest in the fading light, A friendly jousting for the bon mot’s might. Whistler speaks, "Au cobtraire, you!" “Now Oscar, pray, observe my ‘Nocturne’ blue, A symphony in tone, a vision true. No moral burden, no heavy, social plea, Just ‘Art for Art’s Sake,’ for the world to see.” Wilde retorts articulately: “Your art, dear Jimmy, is a lovely thing, A shell where the ocean’s music seems to sing. But tell me, James, without a hint of ire, When you paint nature, do you find desire? Or just a canvas for your genius’ fire?” Whistler snaps back, playing a lyre: “Nature, my boy, is usually wrong! She’s seldom perfect and does not last for long. I merely help her, lend a guiding hand, To make her beauty understood, and grand.” Wilde replies, with a theatrical strand: “I wish, dear James, that I had said that line!” Whistler’s eyes, with mock-offence, do shine: “You will, good Oscar, you will, in your time!” A stinging jest, a hint of plagiarism’s dart, Which Oscar parried, with his usual art. The playful jousting became a la carte, Their friendship ended on bit of a bitter notary. Whistler complained his ideas were filched away, That Wilde had stolen his dandyish display. He called him “middleman,” a critic, not an artistian, Wilde, in return, called Whistler an “ill-bred” person, A “venerable impostor,” to make the matter worsen. The battle moved to newspapers, bold and crass, Their lively letters, a gift to the masses. “When you and I are together,” Wilde did opine, “We talk of nothing but ourselves, I find.” “No, no, dear Oscar,” Whistler quickly wrote, “When we’re together, we talk of me, note!” A final jab, a rivalry complete, The war of wits, a well-known, public feat. Wilde had the last word in his novel, Dorian Gray, Where the murdered artist had his little say. Their rivalry remembered, for the wit they shared, Two sparkling egos, gloriously paired.
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