In the days of the week, And the months of the year, We’re clinging on yet to our Paganite past – In the gods we don’t seek And yet still keep so near: Forgotten the stories, remembered the cast.
In holly and ivy, And heather for luck, They still work their magic on God-fearing hosts. In gargoyles so lively, In faerie and Puck: Heretical heroes now villains and ghosts.
In the names of the planets, And shapes in the stars, They still rule the heavens, till night-time is done They never will ban it, Too deep are their scars – We praise our new God on the Day of the Sun.
Swedish name day list for February 1712 – incidentally, notice how the month runs to February 30th.
Appellation Celebration
Name days – we don’t really do them in Britain, They just feel too Cath’lic and rather mediaeval. There’s no formal ban – the restraint is unwritten – It just isn’t done, it would cause an upheaval.
And anyway, what about Kylie and Kevin And Tracey and Daisy and Scarlett and such ? They haven’t a saint all between them in Heaven, So no second birthdays for Dylan or Dutch.
Though don’t give ideas to Clintons and Hallmark ! They’ll bunch us together and round up each stray – So Sepp bunks with Joe cos they’re in the same ballpark, And Dawn and Aurora must share the new day.
But Jack is no Jacob, nor Denholm no Dennis – Their origins differ, they don’t mean the same. But who cares in Athens or Moscow or Venice, Where Simon Says sharing’s the name of the game.
And actually, even within the whole region, They cannot agree on which dates should apply – So Emma is honoured in April in Dijon, But over in Stockholm, she’s praised in July.
Name days – we don’t really do them in Britain, It’s one of those rituals it’s best to ignore. And somehow, I doubt we will ever be smitten – Except, of course, Wodan and Frigga and Thor.
As far as I can tell, name days have not been a feature in Britain, even before the Reformation.
Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome, all – We’ll shortly be commencing: I promise we shall soon enthral Those senses we’re suspensing. So let me introduce, my friends, This ev’ning’s main recital – Where joy and anguish each contends, And lovers crave requital. An epic true, a ballad grand As stanza follows stanza, Heroic does this potent hand Bring forth extravaganza: The finest Truth on life and death That verse has ever captured. So hush the lights and stop the breath, And brace up to be raptured.
Snowdrops, pale and shy and still, As if they’re afraid to face the bracing breeze. Downcast propellers, silent in the chill, So loathe to disturb the hush beneath the trees. Always huddled together in their crowds With the neck of a swan and the wimple of a nun; Tensed to bare the worst from the clouds, And wilting away in the first warmth of the sun.
When news is bad, then no-one thanks the messenger – But rest assures, there follows much renown. To make ones names can prove a fickle blessing: Why, just ask Dr Parkinson or Dr Down. Perhaps Dr Tourette has got off lightly, In only causing ridicule and jokes, Whereas for Dr Alzheimer or Dr Weil There’s no-one ever pleased to hear those folks.
As if they’re gothic surgeons in a castle or a lair, Meddling in such knowledge as should best remain unknown: With Dr Hodgkin’s evil laugh and Dr Creutzfeldt’s crazy hair, All nations tremble at the wrath of Drs Asperger and Crohn.
It’s sure no way to treat such heroes, To have their good name turned to bad As patients spit their syllables, And lose whatever little hope they had. These doctors, whose labours we ought to hail, Have found themselves as harbingers of doom. Do nurses fear to yet invoke these names That always seem to summon up the tomb ?
As if they’re puffed-up prettyboys all posing in their lab, All engineering new diseases, socket-wrenching genes apart, Chasing fame at any price, copywriting ev’ry scab – Until we gawp at Dr Bell’s and Dr Turner’s works of art.
When news is bad, there’s no-one thanks the messenger – But better, surely, that we know than not ? And largely thanks to these unwitting fathers, These conditions shan’t soon be forgot. And yet, for each new syndrome that they spawn, Their children must carry their touch – There’s few whose work can reach so many lives, And few whose name is cursed so much.
As if they’re ancient tragic heroes, fighting with the gods, To bite the apple, steal the fire, always seek the new – Can we catch their genius, to bear their brand against the odds ? Though maybe less of Dr Frankenstein, and more of Dr Who.
Speckled is your Öyster and freckled is your Crüe, Spıñal is your Motör and Hüsker is your Dü. The diacritic critics may de-tittle in their punditry – But I say, let umlauts roll with wänton-döt fecündïtÿ.
The ‘n’ in Spinal should of course have an umlaut, not a tilde, but the WordPress font just isn’t up to such awesomeness.
But of course, when it comes to the real stars of heavy metal, nobody is higher than Boötes !
Don’t be a grammar poser, That’s my advice, Don’t be the prig who is overly-precise. If it ain’t confusing, Or clumsy in its choosing, Then best to keep your counsel, and to keep your comments nice. We hardly need a mentor Who’s sticking in his snout – You really ain’t the centre That our language spins about.
You know, there’s words I cannot stand: Like ethics-speak and business-bland, Or phrases strained until they break… But here’s the thing: that’s just my take ! There’s words I cannot stand to use, There’s words that gag and words that bruise, And words I hoped were dead and gone… But here’s the thing: I don’t let on !
But I suppose If language is the topic of the day, Then gentle comments on our prose May help in what we wish to say. But here’s the crux: They should be just suggestions, never rules – For language is a lively flux That shouldn’t be our master, but our tools.
And as for double negatives, Those twice-as-minus negatives, We don’t need regs to balance negs, Ain’t never not no-way misunderstood. Do we need to cite some Austen And the double-no’s she tossed in, Just to make them seem legit ? I bet you glean their meaning good – And so you should, if only you’d admit.
Language is adaptive and pragmatic, Always looking for the new. Language is a melting-pot schematic, Always stirring up the stew. And yes, it’s often needlessly erratic And ambiguous, it’s true – But also it’s the one thing democratic That we each of us can do.
Its beauty, you see, Is in its redundancy – Multiple ways of saying the same. It may not be logical, Or pedagogical – Boy, though, it’s prodigal – always aflame !
Language is free to use, Language is hard to lose, Language is yours and is mine and is theirs. Conflicting, resolving, Mutating, evolving – We each are its authors, its subjects, its heirs.
So don’t be a grammar poser, That’s my advice, Don’t be the prig who will always tell us twice. These rules you keep imploring Are rules we keep ignoring – And if we’re fine without them, well, they’re hardly worth the price. These errors you detect Are as dry as they are long – You may be quite correct, But you’re so so wrong.
Upon the rapture, all believers fly In rising waves of bodies Heaven-bound, Abandoning their carnal life on ground As pious aeronauts come fill the sky – And leave behind our world of how and why Which seeks to question that which is profound, While churches fill too late, and prayer resound With desp’rate, plaintive pleas, to no reply. “Oh Lord, we wanted to believe. No use ! We tried so hard, why must we stay behind With only hell or void beyond the scythe ?” But God is done with us, and cut us loose To face the here and now. Be not resigned: Let’s brave the future, godless but alive.
This cannot drown me, nor chill me, nor dampen my mien – For I have seen something like nothing of all things I’ve seen. Not from a far world, nor next world, nor somewhere between – It came from within me, from ev’ry damn neuron and gene.
“First recorded as such c.698. Origin: (settlement of) Gilla’s people, from Old English -ingas ˋpeople of’.”
– How England Was Named
Eight miles west of Charing Cross And just to south of Hanger Hill, Lived farming folk whose Saxon Boss Is with us yet, through his old ville – Now while our names are doomed for loss, Gilla’s people linger still.
Rhyming Couplets 