“jellyfish – OED first citation, 1796 medusa – in this sense, 1752 sea-nettle – 1601”
What did we call the jellyfish Before we called them that ? Aristotle was the first To note what they were at – He called them akelephe In his mighty omnibus – While Pliny called them sea-lungs – That is, pulmo marinus.
At some point, they were likened To Medusa, with the snakes – So when Linnaeus crowned them that, He simply upped the stakes. But what about in English, From before the mighty Swede ? Shakespeare never mentioned them, Nor Caxton, Chaucer, Bede.
I guess those Middle Ages folk Just neither knew, nor cared – Though fishermen, at lease, you’d think, Would need to be prepared. Sea nettle, I suppose Could make the strongest claims, But hands that felt the stings were not The hands that wrote down names.
Yet surely they are tailor-made To populate in Hell ? It seems their nightmares missed a trick, When jellies did not gel. They kinda look like floating heads, (Though clearly going bald). Much like Cthulhu’s nameless ones, Who knows what they were called ?
‘Jelly’ entered Middle English between 1350-1400 via Old French, ultimately from the Latin root meaning ‘to freeze’. nbsp;’Fish’ is Anglo-Saxon.
Detail of tentacle of Physalia microscoped by Rob Growler. Each of those finger-like projections is considered to be a separate creature. Or perhaps each separate tentacle is a single zooid – there seems to be much confusion on this.
Life in the Colonies
What’s the plural of man o’ war ? ‘Men’, or ‘wars’, or stays the same ? (And why are you so Portuguese ?) All told, a silly name.
But scientists insist That you’re already plurals, each. That what we see are vibrant cities Washed up on the beach.
See, ev’ry egg, once fertilised, Divides in two, and two again, Until a little larva, sized No larger than a grain.
You then begin your budding, Popping clones that stay attached. So from a single egg, it seems, A hundred brothers hatched.
Genetic’ly identical, But not such dead-on ringers, Specialising as they do, As feeders, breeders, or as stingers,
Sharing nutrients and tissue, And even gender too, we note. And one (and only one) will swell Into a gas-filled float.
But are you really colonies ? So should we view your ev’ry clone As sep’rate creatures ? Even though That can’t survive to swim alone ?
Perhaps it’s the lack of a nervous system That makes you many, not one – But do your individual zooids Each have their own, or also none ?
If the latter, why are these animals, And not mini-colonies all of their own ? I guess the stingers at least must feel A sense of touch (though they act alone).
Infact, the latest research says That they do all communicate yet – Though less as a mainframe brain, as such, And more of an intranet.
So, much the same as your jellyfish-cousins, Which are single, the sciences agree – I guess it’s just a matter of degrees, And the whims of the arbit’ry.
It’s like you’re halfway between your single-celled past, And their unified future – If we look close, we can still see the joins, Though they’re barely more than a suture.
Victorians proposed their status, As best as they could see – And we repeat their holy writ, Afraid to disagree.
Now evolution is wholly unplanned, But teamwork is what wins the cup – Yet the scientists would round you down, Where I would round you up.
You’re just like us – we’re not so special, We’re all made of cells, For all we call in pedants To deny the parallels –
Especially when we realise That zooids cannot change their role – From stems, they are assigned a job for life, To build a greater whole.
That sounds alot like organs, doesn’t it ? Time we came to terms. For we began the same as you – A ball of cells, a swarm of germs.
So as for what we call you, Just what kind of things you are ? ‘Men’ or ‘wars’, it matters not – Let’s call you singular.
Perhaps the boffins have got it right, and syphonophores really are collectives and are fundamentally different from single animals like jellyfishes. But they’re gonna havta do a much better job of explaining it. So kudos to The Octopus Lady for her illuminating video which is the first attempt I’ve seen to actually ask the question “but why do we think these are colonies…?” Her answer – because although the zooids cannot survive alone, it is slow starvation that kills them (because they cannot feed themselves in solo), not biologiocal breakdown as would quickly befall any of our shed cells.This feels like a decicion based on no more than a gut feeling, and until it is quantified somehow, I don’t want to hear a peep from all of you factoid vomiters out there who just love a sneery “well, actually…”
They’re coming ! Raise the alarm on the dockside ! They’re swarming, and pushing us out of the sea ! Their billowing sails, from Pembroke to Leigh, Are storming our beaches, invading our sands ! Their cargo is toxic, their ballast monoxide – These by-the-wind sailors, these rafts of medusa. Mohican’d above, while their dreadlocks hang looser – All laces and ruffles, and hooks ’stead of hands ! On the hottest of days, when the skies are clear blue, And the southerlies breeze off the sea to the shore, This deadly armada with venomous crew Are planting their colonies right at our door… These silent bluejackets are coming for you – These unthinking killers, these seamen o’ war.
I almost feel bad in how I’ve deliberately conflated the Spanish Armada with its neighbour (with whom Britain has had a continuous peace treaty since 1386), but good puns must be seized with both hands (unlike the creatures themselves, of course).
Incidentally, according to Wiktionary the nationality of the metaphorical warship remains consistent through most European languages: portugisisk örlogsman (Swedish), żeglarz portugalski (Polish), portugál gálya (Hungarian), and even caravela-portuguesa (Portugeuse).
All the stages came through Hounslow, All the coaches heading West: Driving on to Staines and Windsor, Bristol, Plymouth, and the rest. All the coaches came through Hounslow, From each Western vale and down, Stretching legs and changing horses For the final push to town.
They all knew Hounslow then: The drovers, grooms and highwaymen. But nothing stays the same – And so one day the railway came.
Only three miles north of Hounslow, Yet those three miles meant a lot: Steaming on to Slough and Reading, Faster than a horse can trot. All the West once came through Hounslow, Then the bypass passed you by – And little mark is left to show From when this High Street lived so high.
We all know Hounslow now – A long way from a horse or cow, Beneath where aircraft fly – And like the trains, they pass you by.
To Anacr’on in Heaven, in bounty and might, All night have we drunk from your wellspring of plenty. But come, can you see by the dawn’s early light How the cast-offs the shut-outs are bribing the sentry ? With wearisome head, must quell this new dread And face down the upstarts who’d stand in our stead, Yet oft they look on’t us and find us supine – They’ve come and they’ve seen us, much less than divine.
From mathematics to evolution, Thermodynamics to climate change, Electric potential to air pollution – Anything new and clever and strange !
But when we get home, then what do we read ? Fantasy, dragons, and wizards, and war ! Our only science is fiction, indeed – From laws of physics to psychics of lore !
We like to pretend that we’re Roundheads or Yorks, Or X-Men, or cyborgs, or zombies, or Gauls. So plug in the console and slay a few orcs, Then back to the lab when reality calls…
Breathless. Say slowly. Breathless. Again. Breathless. Now say it once more. Breathless is beautiful, Breathless is pain, Breathless too long we ignore. For the word, for the sound Has lost all her wow – We’ve said her too often, for sure. But breathless – just say it – For once, let’s allow Our ears to hear her soft roar. Breathless. Say slowly, Breathless. Say now – Breathless. As if we had never said it before.
Once a time, horses were ev’rywhere: Carrying knights on their scoutings and charges, Galloping messengers, lancers in battle, Winding our winches and towing our barges, Trekking our caravans, herding our cattle, Ploughing our fields and pulling our drays, Hauling our minecarts, waggons and hearses, The Hansom and omnibus, stagecoach and chaise Were drawn with a mixture of carrots and curses. Chestnuts and roans and brindles and bays, Black beauties, piebalds and fleabitten greys. Rocking our children and hobbying fairs, Stuffing our cushions and gluing our chairs.
So where are they now ? They all got replaced by machines in the end, That can do their jobs better and do their jobs faster – They’re cheaper to build and are quicker to mend, And don’t need reminding just who is their master. The horses can only be worked to the bone, They try hard, but haven’t the means. They’ve all been replaced, through no fault of their own – For who can compete with machines ? In hindsight, of course, it is always the case: When a horse must compete with the new iron horse, Then it’s always a one-horse race.
These day, humans are ev’rywhere – Building our furniture, stitching our clothes, Driving our buses and stacking our shelves. Doing the jobs the majority loathes, For who else could do it for us but ourselves ? Builders and farmers and doctors and tutors – Of course they need humans ! Whyever d’you ask ? You can’t leave the it down to machines and computers – It’s not like there’s robots for every task. We’ll be here for donkey’s years, my dears, Despite such market forces – So close up the stable door once more, We’re all safe as horses !
Rhyming Couplets 