Grammar Schooling

grammar

Grammar Schooling

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.

Sonnet for the Goats

selective focus photography of white goat
Photo by Djordje Petrovic on Pexels.com

Sonnet for the Goats

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.

Gillingas

milepost
Milepost by Simon Harriyott

Gillingas

“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.

Mate in One

grayscale photography of two chess pieces
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Mate in One

Lay out your pieces, comrade:
With the tzar in the centre, his back to the wall –
Now just a figurehead, limping-scared, out-weighed
By his regent tzarina, striding bully-tall.
Propped-up by the church, with its zigging-zagging raid,
And crooked-jumping noblemen heralding the call,
As barons in their fortresses sidle and invade –
Headlong-forward charging through this no-man’s-land-in-brawl.

But out there in the frontline are the workers all arrayed –
Surging from their trenches, then trudging through the sprawl.
And even if they reach the end, they’re tossed-aside in trade –
And if they don’t, they’re sacrificed to spare the tzar his fall.
Enough !  Let them strike at those behind of them who stayed
Cowering astern as the fodder feeds the maul.
For even such a lowly piece can put the tzar to blade
Game over, comrade.  We both win, after all.

Spectacles

spectacles
The Glasses Apostle by Conrad von Soest

Spectacles

Strange to think,
How we used to blink and grope our way
Through the blurry day,
Our vision out-of-sync.

Ever since the needle was invented,
How the squinters were tormented
Without sharpness to apply
The thread into the eye.

But then, and just in time for printing,
Came the perfect cure for squinting –
All was focused once again,
From furthest hills to finest grain.

Of all our labour-saving friends,
I say the lens is friendliest of all –
It works so simple, cheap and small –
Such humble, perfect skill !

And yet so mighty, how it bends
All light unto its will !
To let us see, when genes and wear
Would waste our rods and blank our stare –

Anon. Smith, Esq.

decalcomania
Decalcomania by René Magritte

Anon. Smith, Esq.

Have you heard about Christian Jewson ?
Lived and died most ordinary
In his flat not far from Euston,
’Cept for his obituary.
Seems that none who knew him, knew:
Was he a Christian or was he a Jew ?

Now our Chris was blond by nature,
Yet his eyes were very dark.
No pork, said his legislature,
Cos he lived that vegan lark.
Was he church or temple sworn ?
Was he of Hebrews or Gentiles born ?

Couldn’t be from both descended,
Thoroughbred, he said, his folk:
Shem or Japheth, never blended –
No mulatto, him, he’d joke.
But beneath these joshing jibes,
Was he the Goyim or was he the Tribes ?

Why keep such parental myst’ry ?
Was shame undersigning doubt ?
Did he even know of his hist’ry ?
Was he scared of finding out ?
Was it glamour, cheap mystique –
Second-hand exotic with a tuppenny chic ?

Chris, I think, was far less caring,
Never much the man of faith.
When he died, his prayers were sparing –
So which heaven holds his wraith ?
Can God even not define
Was he of Semite or Aryan line ?

Now these questions may seem suspect,
Matter none save Chris alone –
Smacks of fear and disrespect
When he has nothing to atone.
Yet still I ask, a son’s remorse:
I’d take either gladly, just give me a source.

The Elephant in the Time Machine

animal eye
Photo by Flickr on Pexels.com

The Elephant in the Time Machine

Suppose I were to travel back a day
To when you tossed a dime,
And watch in secret as you flip the coin
To see if you and helpless fate should join.
I, of course, already know the way
It came to land that time –
If I don’t tell, and you don’t know,
Then is your will still free, or just for show ?

And if I travel back a thousand-fold
To watch, and watch, and watch.
I would, I bet, observe the constant threads,
The endless runs of heads, heads, ever heads.
So does your ignorance then not withhold
Your destiny one notch ?
You are a puppet on a script –
And so, I think, must I be likewise gripped.

But no !  For we’re all Tempus Domini aboard
The Tachyon Express –
Speeding sixty-secs-per-minute forth,
And always quad-dimensional due-north.
For time is just our name for this vast hoard
Of causes and effects.
Through seas of future we must plough,
Just surfing on the ever-later Now.