This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a glosa, which is a form that bases itself on a quote from an existing poem. I’m basing this one on a snippet from “Language Is a Virus,” by Laurie Anderson.
Paradise
is exactly like
where you are right now
only much, much better.
—“Language Is a Virus,” Laurie Anderson
This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a ghazal of sorts.
Thigmotropism, which has the stress on the second syllable, names the property of moving in response to touch: turning towards or away from a thing upon coming into contact with it. It’s often described in plants, but of course happens in more mobile entities as well. Continue reading
This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a roundel.
A tregetour is a trickster, a conjurer, a juggler; the word comes by way of French from Latin trans ‘across’ plus jactare ‘throw’, the same source as trajectory. And gnidge is a rare word from Scottish meaning ‘rub, squeeze, press’. Continue reading
This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a rondeau redoubled.
An ultracrepidarian, by the way, is someone who offers opinions on matters beyond their expertise. Literally, it’s someone who goes beyond matters of shoemaking. It’s a reference to an anecdote about the Greek painter Apelles: a shoemaker corrected him on details of a shoe, and Apelles fixed the painting; the shoemaker, emboldened, offered opinions on the leg, and Apelles advised him not to go beyond the shoes. Continue reading
For the past three years I’ve devoted November to a serialized work of fiction. I’ve decided this year to write poetry instead. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a rondeau. I’m picking up the theme I somehow started yesterday. Continue reading
For the past three years I’ve devoted November to a serialized work of fiction. I’ve decided this year to write poetry instead. I guess I’ll call it Povember. I start with an early triolet for Hallowe’en.
It lashes rain. I dress: my masquerade.
Mais, elle aussi, elle a sa mascarade.
We meet. I drip. She asks no task or aid.
I dress it. Lashes rain. My mask arrayed,
Mascaraed lashes, fishnets, musk: parade.
Elle ne rien dit, cette Marquise de Sade.
My lashes rain. Dress it: I masquerade,
Mais elle, o! si elle a sa mascarade…
When the summer is here, it’s time to chill some beer (or lemonade, or other drink). But as the days grow dimmer, the time is just… chillsome.
I suppose a word like this would be likely to kill (or make ill) some who have no chill about the language. Others would receive it with a surreptitious sniff as when you pass them a book they suspect to be old and basement-scented. But which is it, lately invented or long aged? Continue reading
Coworker is a funny word. It’s often misread, sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose. And while I love a good double entendre, in my editorial role as a professional clarifier I feel it is worthwhile inserting a hyphen to make it clear what it really is: cow-orker. Continue reading
Posted in fun, new old words, word tasting notes
Tagged co-worker, cow-orker, coworker, new old words, word tasting notes
Yes, I am vetust. I am the vetustest. I am wallowing in vetusty. I am vested in fully as many years as a deck of cards has, well, cards (not including jokers). I am perhaps a veteran of years, but only arguably venerable. Jag vet det. Continue reading
When is it sensible to censure – or censor – something incendiary? Can we not be candid without someone getting burned? At what point does inflammatory speech and the smoke of burning crosses make a more offensive incense than the scent of burning books? For that matter, what is and is not censorship? Continue reading
Posted in language and linguistics, word tasting notes
Tagged censer, censor, censure, free speech, word tasting notes
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