Nov 172002


Give over seeking bastard joy
Nor cast for fortune’s side-long look.
Indifference can be your toy;
The bitter heart can be your book.
(Its lesson torment never shook.)

In the cold heart, as on a page,
Spell out the gentle syllable
That puts short limit to your rage
And curdles the straight fire of hell,
Compassing all, so all is well.

Read how, though passion sets in storm
And grief’s a comfort, and the young
Touch at the flint when it is warm,
It is the dead we live among,
The dead given motion, and a tongue.

The dead, long trained to cruel sport
And the crude gossip of the grave;
The dead, who pass in motley sort,
Whom sun nor sufferance can save.
Face them. They sneer. Do not be brave.

Know once for all: their snare is set
Even now; be sure their trap is laid;
And you will see your lifetime yet
Come to their terms, your plans unmade,
And be belied, and be betrayed.

–Louise Bogan

 Leave a Reply

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>



Nov 022002

Samizdata posts a fine though by no means complete list of Brit and Americanisms, and the Britishisms are nearly always shorter. Which reminds me* of a poem by Chesterton on the subject:

A Ballad of Abbreviations

The American’s a hustler, for he says so,
  And surely the American must know.
He will prove to you with figures why it pays so,
  Beginning with his boyhood long ago.
When the slow-maturing anecdote is ripest,
  He’ll dictate it like a Board of Trade Report,
And because he has no time to call a typist,
  He calls her a Stenographer for short.

He is never known to loiter or malinger,
  He rushes, for he knows he has ‘a date’;
He is always on the spot and full of ginger,
  Which is why he is invariably late.
When he guesses that it’s getting even later,
  His vocabulary’s vehement and swift,
And he yells for what he calls the Elevator,
  A slang abbreviation for a lift.

Then nothing can be nattier or nicer
  For those who like a light and rapid style,
Than to trifle with the work of Mr. Dreiser
  As it comes along in waggons by the mile.
He had taught us what a swift selective art meant
  By description of his dinners and all that,
And his dwelling, which he says is an Apartment,
  Because he cannot stop to say a flat.

We may whisper of his wild precipitation,
  That its speed is rather longer than a span,
But there really is a definite occasion
  When he does not use the longest word he can.
When he substitutes, I freely make admission,
  One shorter and much easier to spell;
If you ask him what he thinks of Prohibition,
  He may tell you quite succinctly it is Hell.

*Because I was a prissy little pedantic English major who got picked on in high school. Deservedly.

  2 Responses to “Poetry Corner”

  1. *sigh* Why don’t they teach poems like this one in high school? *goes back to dull Lycidas*

  2. You can at least speculate on what the "two-handed engine" could be.

 Leave a Reply

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>