Capital Notion
They’re funny things, these Proper Nouns,
They’re Folks and Brands and Months and Towns,
And once achieved, each Noun then gives
Us just-as-Proper Adjectives.
Capital Notion
Category: Grammar
Just-So Grammar
Just-So Grammar
If you ever stumble on pronouncing a tricky word,
Or if you’ve often seen it written, but it’s one you’ve never heard,
Or if you find this language arbitrarily absurd,
Well, that’s because it really rather is.
The thing about this English, and the reason why it’s so,
Is just to show who’s truly in the know, oh doncha know,
And that’s why there’s still esses in debris and apropos,
It’s often less a language, more a quiz.
The spellings show the origin – the past, not present tense.
And even if the origin is wrong, that’s no defence –
For if we change the spelling, they will hate our common sense –
We’re punished with the snigger and the snub.
Well, pedants gotta pedant, and scolds gotta scold,
They make up all the rules, and the rules they then withhold,
And if we have to ask them, well, it’s too late to be told –
They’ll never let us join their little club.
Each Word is a Species
Each Word is a Species
Un·in·ter·es·ted – so dictionaries claim
Has meaning specific, restricted by rules;
Dis·in·ter·es·ted – it now means the same
To ev’ryday users of linguistic tools.
So Dis has migrated to Un’s patch of speak;
Is language more poverished ? Meaning dis-hanced ?
Nat’ral selection defavours the weak,
But look how im·par·tial is grabbing its chance.
For “Whom”, the Bell Tolls
For ‘Whom’, the Bell Tolls
Bid goodbye to ‘whom’ – her days are numbered.
She falls out of our usage, and she goes the way of ‘thee’ and ‘thou’.
And slowly shall our speech be disencumbered.
(It’s down to our subconscious, really, what we do and don’t say now.)
It’s not a case of messier or purer,
It’s more a case of slowly just forgetting her and losing her.
I don’t believe our language ends up poorer,
For if we had a use for her then surely we’d be using her.
So let us bid goodbye to ‘whom’,
She softly slips away to make some room for ‘who’ instead.
He makes his meaning just as well –
So sorry, pedants, but it’s time to tell you ‘whom’ is dead.
He comes to fill her role, as he
Has done for many years informally, and kept his thread.
He’s coming – look ! Our future syntax bursting free –
So do you see whom I see ?, (as is never ever said).
Shelf-Life
Shelf-Life
I love cake –
I never will be through with it,
Cos any kind we bake
Has so much we can do with it:
Use it as an ornament,
Use it as a pet chair,
Use it as a jotting-pad,
Use it as a set square,
Use it as a dickie-bow,
Use it as a floor mop,
Use it as a paperweight,
Use it as a doorstop,
So many ways of having it,
It’s really off-the-ball.
To even waste a little bit
By eating it at all.
Jealousy & Envy
Jealousy & Envy
These words are mine,
And you shan’t have them –
These are mine, and mine alone.
I guard them close
So none may grab them –
Guard them close, these words I own.
Oh, how much you want them, want them,
Oh, how much you seethe and pine
So here, take envy, just for you…
But jealousy is mine, all mine !
It should be pointed out that the conflation of jealous to mean envious has a long history, and Wiktionary provides quotes of both Oscar Wilde and Mark Twain using it this way. As a strict descriptivist, I have no problem with this (as shown here), but tend not to use jealous at all, preferring envious and possessive. But that’s just me.
A Malady of Arms
A Malady of Arms
Sir Lucas Drake was a dragon of a knight:
His scale-mail always polished bright,
Charging headlong into battle,
Stalling left and swooping right
To circle round and dive again –
His wind-filled cloak, his flying mane,
His sword as sharp as any talon,
Raining over foes with death
To make their sabres rattle.
He also had a fiery breath
From quaffing claret by the gallon.
Sir Lucas Drake was a dragon of a knight,
Yet his coat of arms would dishonour a sergeant:
Not for him a griffon argent,
Nor a wyvern passant gules –
His blazon, rather, came a cropper,
Listing not a battle-stopper,
But a shield befitting fools:
‘Azure, a mallard with head vert,
Naiant contourny proper’.
Oh, how that blazon hurt !
A green-headed duck upon a blue ground,
Swimming the wrong-way round.
Sir Lucas Drake was a dragon of a knight,
But never one for courtly prattle.
Back at home, he spread his wings
Across his mountainous estate,
And hunted game and sheep and cattle,
Anything to fill his plate.
Never one for kissing rings,
Or hearing yet again the jest
The ladies made at his family crest,
So he’d retreat to his hilltop clouds
Away from kings and madding crowds.
Depressed, he’d often spend his days
Within his keep, atop his gold,
Asleep against the winter’s cold
As jealously he’d guard each chattel.
Sir Lucas Drake was a dragon of a knight,
Though he bore much wit from his brothers-in-sword
Who rebuked his arms with much delight –
“It seems our Drake bethinks he a lord:
For look: Sir Luke, by his shield, is a Duc !”
Sir Lucas would curse “That’s just my luck,
To share a name with so artless a bird.
I’m one quack away from a chicken’s cluck !
What forebear had I who was so absurd
That such a pitiful nickname stuck ?
It should be a lion or a viper-snake,
Or a dragon – then they’d bloody quake !
But no, I’m a Drake – I’m a ruddy duck !”
I’m not quite sure about the third verse – does it interrupt the flow ? I still like it though, so it isn’t quite a lame duck yet…
By the way, the best pronunciation of ‘Duc’ is <dook>. And can I just say how much I hate the language of heraldry – write in in English, or write it in French, but this weird Norman-middle English hybrid is…well, come to think of it, it’s the kind of snobbery we’d expect from people who still think that coats of arms matter. I love them for their history, but we’re not living in history. Well, okay, yes, we are allpart of history, because history never stops (despite what Francis Fukuyama may think…) But it only always exists in retrospect.
The facing-right bit is rare, and I’ve touched on it elsewhere. Since most knight were right handed, they held their shield in their left hand, so for the charge (animal) to be looking forwards, it has to face to the left Fine for in battle, but when hung ona wall or used on a letterhead, it always looks like it’s facing backwards, and possibly retreating !
Belgian Lessons
Belgian Lessons
I met a gent one day in Ghent
Within his chic café.
He brought a viennoiserie,
And croissants, and sorbet.
And as he served his fine hors d’oeuvres,
He wished “Bon appetit !”
Aha !, I thought, your phrase has taught
Your mother tongue to me.
My French is good, perhaps I should
Plutôt parler Français.
Of course ! Très bon ! “I say, garçon !
L’addition, s’il vous plaît.”
But Gallic chat was falling flat –
Had I just caused offence ?
But then he smiled and said, unriled,
“Ten euros, sixty cents.”
He’d rumbled me ! My tasse de thé
Had shown my rosbif-hood.
“Don’t worry, sir, for de rigueur –
My English speak is good.”
My grand faux pas was too bourgeois,
My cheeks were burning rouge.
“Your French is fine,” said he, “Not mine –
For I was born in Bruges.”
“I feared as much” I said. “This Dutch
To me is all but Greek.”
“Pardon, meneer, in Flanders here,
It’s Flemish that we speak.”
“Mais oui, monsieur, if you prefer –
A patriot and true !
But help me out and talk about
The change between the two.”
“Each verb and noun when written down”
He said, “is much the same.
But when they’re sung upon our tongue,
It’s quite a diff’rent game.”
“Well, très bien to that, my man,
Indeed, it’s worth a verse !
I’ll write it yet, our tête-à-tête,
With phrases interspersed.
But wait ! Alas, it cannot pass,
If they aren’t en Français.
I have no crutch of schoolboy Dutch
With which to sound au fait.
My masterplan will bring rien –
Veloren hoop, I say !
Oh fame, adieu ! Cruel déjà vu !
The Flems have told me nee !”
Stowaways
Stowaways
I am the B in doubt and in womb,
I am the G in gnostic and brougham,
The P that’s in coup, and in pseudo and pneum-,
The N there in autumn, the dumb L in Hulme,
The W lurking in answer and whom,
The E that is freeloading gaffe.
And I am the H and the T in whistle,
The K in knife and the C in scissel,
The S in debris and the comma in this’ll,
The F in lieutenant and laugh.
A poem about silent letters. Because spelling in English is always an adventure.
Rhyming Couplets 