Final Calling

They used his full name, in the notice –
And then carved it on his stone –
I guess that he was born with this,
So that indeed made it his own.
But I never once have heard it uttered,
Not be anyone who cared –
Too many letters, far too cluttered,
When he wore it unimpaired –
With a friendliness in its brevity
And no pretentiousness or strife –
A name with great longevity,
A name that lasted all his life.
For some people, a single syllable
Is all we need to say –
And those others from their name in full
Just get forgotten, tucked away.
But now, formality’s a blessing –
We understand, accept the change –
And we know who we’re addressing,
Though he sounds a little strange.
But the man himself, of course, is the same,
With this not-quite-pseudonym.
Though odd, to see his Christian name
As only ever God would call him.

Good Name, Bad Name

Never trust an author who
Addresses all his male cast
By surname-only, first to last,
As if he never even knew
Their given-names.
As though he doesn’t really like them,
Tolerates at best the lot,
It makes you wonder why he writes them
Just to be forgot.
And quite unlike his wives and dames,
With whom he’s less superior,
Yet overly familiar.
There’s those who see these names we use
As either/ors, up for review –
One part sensible, one silly,
One name functional, one frilly –
Always others get to choose
Which one that we must answer to.
It’s strange, these different forms –
We say the Hadley Cell and Beaufort Scale,
And talk of how in FitzRoy sits a gale –
It’s quite the norm.
And yet we’re first-name-chummy with the devastating storms.

So never trust an author,
Or a teacher, or a sergeant-major –
Never trust a posh-voiced pager
Barking surnames with a clout,
Intent to order them about.
Never trust a critic who ostensibly admires,
Yet then only calls his heroes like some underlings he hires.
And yes, I have been guilty too,
Not wanting to presume a closeness
Or an overly-verboseness
In my always using first and last each time, just in case.
But I hope I’ve never made the crime
Of calling someone bluntly to their face –
As if I owned the place !
And you can call me Mister,
If you need to call me anything –
Just like I talk of Mr Windsor when I mean the King.
But why are we insisting on such old formality ?
It’s just not me !
So even if we’ve never met,
You all still get the same rapport –
To call me by my friendly name –
Cos that’s what our forenames are for !

Personal Names

What could be more personal
Than the name I bear through life ?
Well…maybe it’s my mix of friends,
And my one-and-only wife,
Or maybe it’s my sense of humour,
Maybe it’s my skills,
Or could it be my fingerprints,
My fripperies and frills ?
At least I have a say in those,
Unlike my bloody name –
Which I have to share with countless others,
Like we’re all the same !
We’re pigeonholed at birth, alas,
While babes without a voice.
So what could be less personal
That someone-else’s choice ?

Normanisation

We know who is the hero of the story
By their name,
Who overcomes the Pharaoh
And is master of the game.
They may be short and strong, like John,
Or florid, like Lysander.
But nobody can take the conn
When called by something blander.

Our names say who’s the hero,
Who’s the villain, who’s the fodder –
The latter, if they’re named at all,
Are given names which keep them small.
Who’s an agent of the Bureau ?,
Who’s a desk-bound plodder ?
Why do you even have to ask ?,
Their nametags clearly show their task.

We know who is the hero,
And the hero ain’t called Nigel
But when your name is Nero,
Then you’re Emperor of Rigel !
Nigels never save the day,
And clearly Richards have to lose,
The Mauds won’t steal our hearts away.
And Tracys never make the news.

Our names say who are heroes,
Standing-out from us bystanders.
The latter, if they get a shot,
Are only there to serve the plot.
There’s millions – so many zeroes –
Never Homer, always Flanders.
Yet still the parents set the stage
And give their children names of beige.

Monikers

Nicknames are exonyms,
Imposed against our will.
Based on biases and whims
They think that we fulfil.
They’re oh so unoriginal,
Yet cannot be withstood –
And once we’re dubbed-additional,
We’re stuck with them for good !

Nicknames are exonyms,
We cannot choose our own.
They may be simple Bobs and Jims
That set our names in stone,
Or adjectives that prove too strong
To yield to any protest.
I guess we’ll have to play along –
At least they mean we’re noticed.

Font-Fodder

My parents named me wrong, of course,
But ev’ry parent does, no doubt –
They have no way of knowing
How their offspring will turn out.
That balance between the int’resting and sensible
Can be so thin –
There’s something to be said, while growing-up,
For blending-in.
But when we come-of-age, we need our names
To do a diff’rent job –
So Sallys sometimes change to Sarahs,
Bobbys change to Robs.
But some will chafe at their very stems,
Their unloved exonyms won’t do –
They think they need to shed their skins,
And make themselves anew.

So why do we eye these braver ones
Who take control of their brand, as fake ?
Why must they always bear their parents’
Well-meaning mistake ?
Like letting their mums still buy their clothes,
And letting their dads still pick their roles –
They must grow up and find their style
With which to dress their souls.
But I did the same with my own kids,
I made a guess and made a hope –
And got it wrong, of course I did,
But still, they seem to cope.
Because, we have to name the tykes,
And yes, project ourselves a bit –
But let’s not take offense if they
Have found a better fit.