Inside, the tap-ad-slap of falling raindrops soothes.
Outside it drenches to the bone.
All adventure set aside,
all such plans they dissipate…
along the fear inflected path…
“Enough,” I say “Enough of that!”
And yet the pen in fruit-continual
Bears Hope in words residual.
The easing of the ex-hibitions
Perhaps to failing my contrition
At every corner subterfuge
The ego does the man delude.
© The Hairy Teacher, 2019
Today I’m only concerned about English (perhaps more immediately about my swipe text functioning) and the awkwardness therein. Explaining the nuanced differences between awkward, inconvenient, and uncomfortable when they all can be found translated as Kényelmetlen presented a significant difficulty this week. My rendering of an explanation could fall into Awkward as I realised I had taken the differences for granted, Inconvenient because I could see my Lesson Plan Timing slipping away, and even Uncomfortable as I witnessed the contortions to confusion on my students’ faces. Even now I’m pressed to feel confident about these and not possible alternative usages. Use or usage? Don’t get me started: it always takes that sample of phrases to get me back on track. I rarely use use so its use is rare, but the usage of usage demands confidence from the user, especially the teacher, in case its usage is incorrect. Phew! And well then there’s “its” which the swipe text just can’t handle. It’s easy but… Why? Or why not? “Dan’s dog lifts its leg”. In as much as I know it’s not “Dan is Dog…” I’m sure I could figure out that it wouldn’t be “ … it is leg.” if it happened to be written “… it’s leg.” Ah well. And have I mentioned that I don’t like to distinguish or fall into cyclical explanation when it comes to how words are used specially especially in given contexts. Am I back to the beginning? Honestly I don’t even know if I’ve begun yet. Afterall, this was to be nothing about what it has become to be about. All I wanted to ponder on is why days of the week are capitalised, e.g. Monday , months of the year, e.g. January, but not the seasons, except when personified!?!?! Watafuh?!? Anyway, in my role as sole protector of decency in English I will commit to the opinion that the non-capitalisation of the seasons is complete bollocks and I shall forever more remain a staunch supporter of said capitalisation. If you happen to be a student of mine, it might be worth noting my preferred usage, especially on those less optimistic Winters’ Days.
© The Hairy Teacher, April, 2018
Seeing then that words are oft times mispronounced, misheard, misunderstood, or mistaken for other words, even among natives of the mother tongue, is it any wonder then that foreigners to the tongue arrive at unforeseeable difficulties and, more appropriately, adapt to its nuances, perhaps even adopting some of the idiosyncrasies associated with other learners of the language. There’s safety in numbers so they say.
Has this ever been truly hammered out in diplomacy? Have studies been undertaken to the degree that there is no possibility that some trade deals have collapsed not because of stubbornness or foolhardiness but rather because of mere misinterpretation? Not just that old claptrappery of lost in translation but rather just lost, full stop. For want of a word the kingdom was lost.
But now that’s another thing: where we see the division is not always where it should be, even if it makes sense. King-dom is clear even if in these nomenclatural times the UQ would be more appropriate , or is that already so 20th century! The United Gender-non-specific-dom? Too much even in these effervescent times? Yet it’s the words that can be broken up differently and still contain meaning; these are the ones that can lead to new perspectives the point of view of the native speakers. Others hold the same sound in the target language but often with quite different definitions.
© The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018
The scaffolding still stands across the way
And under it other parties now do pass
In the shadow of that tunnel hidden memories
Some borne of repetition some of joy.
Each step a step closer to one’s abode
But- now- the turning wheel dictates the road
Will it be in hindsight our adventure or
In leaving it the spelling of our certain Doom.
The passing faces the road much trodden
The life the thoughts the everything
And in so passing us we too were passing
And are still from this side of the road.
© The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018
So if you’re to look at words with the foreign eye you might be tempted to see some familiarity, even order. As a child learning to spell, the word together was always broken up into the sum of its parts, to-get-her, and though I never did find out if anyone ever did get her, or for that matter why she needed to be got, it helped me to remember. But in the world of foreign languages sometimes the familiar can have unforeseen, dare I say, deadly consequences. Now if you get to feeling a tad sheepish because you said you’re pregnant instead of embarrassed (the Spanish word embarazada means pregnant), it mightn’t amount to anything more than a knowing giggle, but perhaps you’re trying to flex your health food savvy in France and think that asking if the relevant food contains preservatives is a good idea, just remember that the French word Préservatif means something ever so slightly different.
As for together, I later learnt that the root is more to do with to gather, which makes perfect sense if you consider the full meaning of both words. That still doesn’t help me with spelling and therefore she will forever more be bound to the pursuit, inextricably linked to the getter in the equation.
My soul intoxicated by the vestiges of emptiness,
I let my breath, my fear, evolve into the detriment –
that well-defined entanglement of love
And desperate, all-embracing, drunkeness.
I felt the pang of guilt, my memory,
the thirst for lust, my psychology,
and my harboured sense of what was once a duty, now a chore.
For I had once assumed authority,
the one who’d travelled far and wide,
But now I felt myself inadequate:
The memory fades but not the pride.
And so in empty quarters of my soul
I chose to redefine myself as whole
And in attempt I felt my sanity,
though ironically yet not my vanity
Till finally I lost not Just my mind…
But Everything
What DO they think of us
Our parenting books
Our observational comedy
Our moaning about fatigue
Expecting sympathy
Perhaps even pity.
What do they think
Raised hard and poor
No TV, no distractions.
Electronic nannies!?!
No nannies, no babysitters at all
Except the eldest
Who kept the youngest along
And the other in line.
What do they think of us
With our worries and our fears
Those who witnessed glass smashed,
Fingers broken and much more.
What will we think when we’re like them?
© TheHairyTeacher 2017
My mother’ grip weaker but tighter too
A desperate plea to me and to mortality
The love abounding but unstable
The conditions placed upon herself weigh badly.
“Was I a good mother?” the plaintive quest to understand
The fear of an Unforgiven.
Yet what her memories paint and what of them remain
I cannot judge
But what I can induce is blame
That reassurances will never penetrate.
A child robbed of youth;
Or the joy therein,
Robbed of a father through the maraudings of a mean mother
And when his death arrived
Though grown
She was left alone against the politics of the justifiably estranged
Strained through years of conflict and contradiction.
So what then of my future in this mess?
A hand that will grip tight long after death
Is made of love and not the need for love
To reciprocate is joy
But to give without expectation is strength
And to never look for reassurances is brave –
Especially at the end.
© TheHairyTeacher 2017
I once dreamt of something else
Not realizing it was somebody
And even when it became clear
I could never have said it was you!
It was only when I laid eyes upon you
That I realized in you my dream
All the darkness
Greyness
Light
Defined themselves in you.
© TheHairyTeacher2016
I have no news, she sighed
And the other side went dead.
An audible silence seeping through
Conveying the weight of optimism.
A baby’s babbling could be heard there –
While here the morning sun dabbed corners
Expressing beauty from a clouded mind.
Soon the journey would begin
Not my calvary just my worry
Burdened, moving, questioning…
A bus door opened hissss
And closing beep beeped.
And onwards sailing,
Nearly there.
© TheHairyTeacher2016
