Siroccos blow across the Sahara, North from the desert to the inland sea, Where Mistrals meet them, off the Alps, To buffet the coasts of France and Italy. The Helm roars in from Winter Norway, And the Bora from the Steppes out East, But most of all, from gale to zephyr, None can blow as often as the beast – From out the West, with not a name but Westerly, He comes, and comes, and rarely drops for long. He’s blowing turbines, hats and weathervanes, From Summer-teasing soft to stormy-strong – Bringing the Atlantic in his clouds, And laden schooners in his wake, From Kerry landfall to the Humber, He’s the one for whom the branches shake. In truth, we rarely name our winds in Britain, Save to tell us where they’ve been – And Westerlies are born on ocean-blue, In cloudy-grey, to keep our island green.
Don’t call me a philistine, That’s racist ! Don’t call me a vandal or a thug. Don’t think just because you’re lower-case-ist That these words don’t have history to lug, That each was once intended to be place-ist, And keeping up old rivalries is strictly for the mug.
Or am I being studenty and smug ? The slandered tribes are all long gone, They’ve changed and merged and all moved on, And only pedants care enough to bug. Of course, the history involved Is fascinating to behold, Yet language doesn’t care, as it sweeps it all beneath the rug. But if you disagree, that’s fine, You’re free to call me philistine – And even though I’m not, I’ll only shrug.
Who burned down the Temple of Artemis ? “I,” said a man, “I did it for fame. I am proud to be the arsonist, Forcing the world to know my name ! Whistle me in nervous breathiness, Whisper me between your cheeks. You’ll all remember Limpfart of Ephesus ! Carry my name on the wind where it sneaks ! Limp…fart… Limp……… fart……… Toot my horn till my name reeks !”
So, two ohs, and an umlaut to boot – Or is it four ohs, of differing size ? Who knows ? Is the e long, or is short, or mute ? You might as well pray to the skies ! How many syllables ? Which one to stress ? Your answer’s a guess – Claims to an ancient authority, false and unwise – That way, pedantry lies.
So is he a guard for a bear (a big bear) As says his main star ? Or a plough ? The Greeks said it’s really the cart of a cow. Well, I see a plough, or dipper, or cart, But how in all of this heavenly art Is that a bear ? (And black, or white, or brown ?) Enough ! I swear, I’ve had it with this clown ! I just want to say his noun !
If we take a telescope to the second O, And focus in on its second moon, The one at five-past noon – Will it show us satellites of its own ? And could we keep on zooming-in To find another fractal clone ? Like double stars, like Gemini, There’s more than meets the naked eye – Unpronounceable, but not alone.
The Ocean Sunfish, Mola mola – Why the adjective at all ? Why the need for double mola ? Is it cos they’re so un-small ? Just a puffed-up pufferfish, And over-named to double-check – It moons around encumbered By this millstone round its neck. And yet, it turns out, other sunfish Share the genus and the name – And even unrelated fish Are rashly called the same. So fair enough, the ocean kind Is thusly dubbed to be precise. And as for mola-of-the-Mola – It’s so good, they named it twice.
To my mind, at least, For all their charms, A starfish only has five arms – Or fewer, I guess – the occasional fours – Those species (or mutants ?) from stranger shores. And then there are those that have been in the wars, And still clearly lack what they’ve yet to grow back. But more than five, at least to me, Must clearly be a sea-star, see ? Now, I have no idea how far or near they are, The -fish and -star – If species with x-number limbs displayed Are brothers-in-arms within a clade ?- Or whether an extra arm or three Is all within the family ? But since the urchins are based on fives, And brittles and dollars and cucumbers too, It does seem like the higher numbers are the lives with something new.
But when you tell me not to call them (Any of them) as starfish, I’m sorry, I cannot grant your wish. You claim that they ain’t fish in fact, They broke off from the stem before The backbone got I on the act. But what the hell ? There’s plenty more, Like jelly-, silver- and shell-fish by the score, Which are even further from the core ! The word is Anglo-Saxon And it simply meant a creature from the sea, But now you claim the taxon Is whatever you decide that it must be. And then you say that we are fish as well, It’s in our genes, you tell – Well yes, but then the fishy way you preach Is stinking up your speech. I know that I’m a vertebrate – That I am closer to a lungfish Than a lungfish is to any trout. But that’s not what I’m on about – It’s not the science that I hate, But how you cannot separate The mathematic from the ev’ryday. So would you really try to ban the lot ? The sea-horse is no horse, you say. (The hippopotamus is not A real river-horse, of course – But that’s in Greek, so seemingly okay.)
You want me to favour the sea-star for starfish, So even the fives will henceforth be Now sea-stars in perpetuity. But that still makes no sense to me – They may not be strictly fishes like we are, But stranger by far to name them after a star !
Skyla McLeod, her parents named her, Hoped to shoot her to the top – Alas, the ev’ryday has claimed her, Clipped her wings and let her drop. She’s just a loser in the sky, Although she knows it’s all a mock – For now she only reaches high By living in a tower block.
Skyla McLeod in her fairy-tower, Watching the tiny people go, Pretending that she has the power To interrupt their to-and-fro. But still, her life is not so grim, When comes her prince, at the end of his shift – Then she’ll let down her hair for him, And he’ll ascend (though in the lift).
Once there was a time when a man was his surname – The only name they ever used at school, or in the Guards. A gentleman at club would be hailed as little better Than the sappers in the trenches or the inmates in the yards. Forenames were for sissies and for ladies – or your relatives, And only then because they else would all be called the same. Soon as breeched and blazered, they were down to the initial – All that mattered was the fam’ly silver and the fam’ly name, But one or two more wily gents had first-names not to be ignored – Jerome K Jerome and Ford Madox Ford…
This poem is dedicated to William Carlos Williams.
Cry out your name to the wind, As it gathers and flies, Let it carry your name on its wing To the edge of the skies. Cry out your name to the wind, And the wind replies – “I am Aneurin, I am Belinda, The unseen and wise. Now I am Cormac, blowing, blowing, Davina rising, Ezra free – Soon to be Fortune, waiting, growing – Filling the sails at mill and sea. I am the storm and the maelstrom twinned, The harbinger-bringer, the hurricane eyes !” So cry out your name to the wind, And your name shall rise.
Rhyming Couplets 