I’ve always stood in awe before the power of words.

With words, simple words, we can delve into the past and the future, and all the various time blends that scientists must use big words to explain, but which writers can explain simply by using one or two of the helping verbs Ol’ Miz Roberts made us memorize back in seventh grade.

Time machines in stories show the blending of times with numerals and fast-motion whipping past the window of the machine, or by numbers going backwards or forwards on a dial.

Writers just use a helping verb or two.

Scientists discuss the concept of time, past time, present time, future time, using diagrams and equations and big, big words.

Writers just stick a “have” or “had” or a “will” in front of a plain old verb to show the same thing.

Past and future are the easiest to measure. They are also the easiest to understand, or comprehend.
“Already happened” and “not happened yet” are no biggie.

It’s the present that’s the most difficult to comprehend and measure, because even with all of our scientific knowledge, inventions, devices, equations, whatever, the present is too fleeting to measure. The actual ‘present’ is so fleeting, we can’t even realize it ourselves. By the time we do, it’s already gone. Blink, and it’s past. Breathe, and it’s past. Sit still; each beat of your heart is in the past, because by the time you are aware,  it’s too late; it’s gone.

Look at your children. They’re in the present, sure, if you want to call it that. Watch them sleeping. Each rise and fall of the covers is already part of the past. History. It’s already happened.

And it will never happen again. Not that particular breathe. Not that particular heartbeat. Watch them play; they run, except, they ran.  They sing, except, they sang.  While they are running and singing, part of it has already happened.  They climb on you and you hug them.  Except, they climbed on you and you hugged them, because those moments are already gone, too.  Even if you are still together there on the chair, more and more of what you think is “this moment” is already past.  The moments are history. They’re gone before you gently ease your children off your lap and put them to bed, both of which are already history, too.  These moments are gone and will never come again.

So often we say that we can’t WAIT for a particular phase or week or school year, etc, to be over with. Be careful what you wish, my dears. . . . When it’s gone, it’s gone.  Try not to wish your lives away just because a little piece of it isn’t to your liking at a certain moment – which is already gone before you’re even aware.

The actual present can’t be measured, not by us, not yet. Use it carefully, for once you’re aware of it, it’s already part of your history.  And your history, and mine, are, of course, part of the history of mankind.

Ah, the power of words, that we can so clearly express the elements of time with just a few simple helping verbs.

I wondered about it. (simple past: one-shot deal, it’s over.)

For many years, I have wondered about it. (present perfect: I was wondering in the past and I’m STILL wondering. Two times are represented here, one in the past and one in the present.)

I had wondered about it before I said something. (past perfect: both actions are in the past, but one is more recent than the other. Two times are represented; both past.)

I have always enjoyed teaching this concept  (in the past and now!) and with adult students, it’s even more awesome. I’ve had students weep, during this lesson.

Words are powerful. A pen in the hand is power. Use words carefully, and properly. Choose them wisely.
Remember, there’s a big difference between a wise man and a wise guy. And which would you prefer: a day off or an off day?

“The difference between the right word and almost the right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”  — Mark Twain

Let me put it this way:

In March of 1973, E. B. White — the author responsible for such books as Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web — received a letter from a Mr. Nadeau, who sought his opinion on what he saw as a bleak future for the human race. White responded with the following, beautifully written letter.

(Source: Letters of E. B. White, edited by Dorothy Lobrano Guth; Image: E.B. White, courtesy of Wikimedia.)

North Brooklin, Maine

30 March 1973

Dear Mr. Nadeau:

As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.

Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man’s curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.

Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.

Sincerely,

(Signed, ‘E. B. White’)

Now, readers, if you would, please, run like bloody hell over to Letters of Note,  and feast on it.  While you’re there, get Shaun’s Twitter  and tell him you love him.  And that next Thursday, we’re having meatballs and brown rice.

The action or linking part of that sentence is the verb.

But just how important can a verb be? I mean, if it were so important to choose verbs carefully, why do most of them have a million synonyms, thank you very much Mr. Roget. Just find a verb that describes the action you need to describe and that’s it, right? One’s as good as another. They’re only verbs, after all. How could it be any kind of big deal which one you pick?

Well, kids, I’ll tell ya. And please remember that all words have a denotative meaning (dictionary definition) and a connotative meaning (what your mind does with the denotation, ie “fat” is somehow fatter than “plump,” etc.)

Let’s use a couple of common verbs for examples: STOP and BLOCK.

Denotatively speaking (see above) these two words are almost identical. In a thesaurus, their synonyms overlap.

Thesaurus entry for “stop” and for “block:”

Main Entry: stop

Part of Speech: verb

Synonyms: arrest, avoid, bar, block, bottle up, break, can, check, choke, choke off, clog, close, congest, cut off, disrupt, fill, fix, forestall, frustrate, gag, hinder, hold back, hush hush, ice, impede, intercept, interrupt, muzzle, obstruct, occlude, plug, rein in, repress, restrain, seal, shut down, shut off, shut out, silence, stall, staunch, stay, stem, still, stopper, suspend, throw over, turn off, ward off

Main Entry: block

Part of Speech: verb

Synonyms: arrest, bar, barricade, block out, blockade, brake, bung up, catch, charge, check, choke, clog, close, close off, close out, congest, cut off, dam, deter, fill, halt, hang up*, hinder, hold up, impede, intercept, interfere, occlude, plug, prevent, shut off*, shut out, stall, stonewall, stop, stop up*, stopper, stymie, tackle, thwart

And these two fraternal twins differ. . . . how?

Like this:

Back in the day, when I wore shorts and began my descent from the car in a public place, I could stop traffic.

Now, that same action would block traffic.

Any questions?

Well pootie-doo, they removed all the videos! When they put them back in again, I’ll show you my favorite one.

Add to it the fact that I met several old friends and made several new ones, and I’d call it a perfect day.

Just perfect.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charge with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

==

Mamacita says:  This is one of many poems Mrs. Chandler made us memorize in Junior English.  I am still amazed at the number of students who simply refused to do it and took a zero and didn’t give a tinker’s dam about it.

I know that many people do not believe in memorizing poetry or anything else because we can always look something up if we want or need to know it.  I am sorry for these people.

I love memorizing things and can sit back in my airplane seat, close my eyes, and read entire books in my head.  When we memorize something, we have it with us always.  We can entertain ourselves from within.  We are never bored.  We don’t need batteries.

Even cooler than those things:  we have tons of “stuff” to make connections with.  Remember, education is all about the connections.  The more we know, the more connections we can make.

I pity the little kids whose parents don’t help them learn nursery rhymes, poems, stories, and cool trivia before they begin kindergarten.  I don’t think a child can ever make up for all that lost and wasted time, and parents who don’t do this are selfish dysfunctional assholes lazy know-nothings.

Then again, we can’t miss Days or Oprah or the big game; sheesh.

I still despise the father who refused to drive his spelling Bee winning son to the radio station to compete against the winners from the other schools because he was tired and didn’t want to miss the big game on TV.  Whenever I see this man, I think of this.  Whenever I picture this man in my mind, I see a fat dirty guy in a wifebeater shirt, belching, stinking, and demanding beer after beer to be brought to him because he’s too worthless to get up off his ugly ass to get it himself.  This man is a prominent citizen (hahahahahaha), but I know what he really is.

He’s a selfish jerk who puts himself and his own wishes before the welfare of his children.

I hate this man, to be quite honest.

And this was over ten years ago.  Yes, I tend to hold a grudge against people who don’t do right by a child.

I frankly don’t care WHAT this man says or does now.  He may have changed his ways and become a nice guy, a model citizen, but I will never believe it.  He put himself before his son, and that is all I will ever think of when I see him.

Don’t piss me off.

I fear that my personality type goes against the grain of the poems I love best.  Wishful thinking on my part, maybe.

Edgar Allan Poe

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

==

Mamacita says:  So much of Poe’s works are gruesome without the saving romantic touch, but Annabel Lee is both gruesome AND romantic, and I’ve liked it since I was a very little girl.

Sure, sure, we could parse it within an inch of its life, but poetry is never the same once it’s been dissected, labeled, and sewn together again.

Savor this one.  Picture it.  Sense it.

Poe’s Annabel Lee is a page of emotional macabre.  Dig it.

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands,
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle bed
He dreamed of his pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue.
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true.

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
And the smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.

====

Mamacita says:  This one still makes me cry.

I remember when I first understood that this poem was about a little boy whose heartbroken toys were faithfully waiting for him to come back, not understanding that the child was dead.  I think perhaps this poem is the main reason why the Toy Story films make me apprehensive.

This poem is also why angels scared me for many years. I was so afraid that an angel would try to wake me, too.

Again, we could talk about rhyme scheme and symbolism and nicknames and references and first person narratives and quotations and the tragic fact that an awful lot of toddlers died for no apparent reason back in Victorian times.

But I think this poem is best appreciated for its very personal, very sweet, very sad, and very vivid description of a deserted toyroom full of rusting, dusty, once-beloved toys that are waiting for a little boy who will never enter that room again.

You’ve Got To Be Taught

You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught from year to year,
It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught to be afraid
Of People whose eyes are oddly made
And people whose skin is a different shade
You’ve got to be carefully taught,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late.
Before you are six or seven or eight
To hate all the people your relatives hate.
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

—–from South Pacific

==

Mamacita says:  South Pacific was a landmark show for many reasons, the main one of which (in my opinion) is the attitude it took regarding race.  Imagine the looks on the prunes-and-prisms bigots when Lt. Joe Cable fell in love with the beautiful Tonkinese girl, Liat, whose mother turns out to be Bloody Mary.  Just think of the shock when prejudiced America discovered that the two little half-breed children were the offspring of the Frenchman, Emile De Becque and his native islander wife, who is deceased.  Nellie Forbush, the naive little nurse from Little Rock, can’t deal with it; it’s too far removed from what she knows.

Characters we are supposed to love turn out to harbor horrendous racial prejudices that threaten their futures.  I suppose there are still people who think this way; it’s hard for me to comprehend.

The point, I think, is that nobody is born with these, or any other kind, of prejudices.  Prejudices are taught to us from an early age by prejudiced people.

Let me repeat:  NOBODY IS BORN WITH PREJUDICES.  Ever.  Carved in stone.  Fact.

We fear and hate what we are taught by others to fear and hate, and people who feel it is their duty to teach children to fear and hate are among the worst of humankind.  I hope there is a specially horrible circle of hell for parents who deliberately teach their children to hate, fear, and suspect people who are in any way different from themselves.

I had a conversation once, several years ago, with an older lady I loved very much, but any respect I might have had for her convictions was absolutely and 100% negated when she told me that it was possible to be prejudiced AND Christian, for she was both.

I could not, and still can not, sanction that combination.  No. I would love this lady always, but nothing she said to me about her religion meant anything after that revelation.

These lyrics are, of course, song lyrics, but my students MIGHT be able to remind you that all songs are also poems, and that anyone who likes even one song likes one poem, too.  Each song you like equals another poem you like.  I’d wager money, if I had any, that a lot of people who swear they hate poetry would also state that they loved music.

Hypocrites.    You can’t have one without the other.

I love South Pacific.  I love most Broadway musicals, in fact.   But these particular lyrics have always hit me in a sensitive spot, and helped me to understand that no, nobody is born prejudiced, and all of those who ARE prejudiced were taught to be so and have actively chosen to remain so.

In other words:  no viable excuse, whatsoever.

Sonnet

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow !

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
to the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

=====

Mamacita says:  I remember the day I discovered this poem.  The first thought that crossed my mind was “How in the world has this poem escaped my notice all these years?”  I was actually angry!

Then again, I might not have fully appreciated this poem if I had found it earlier.  It takes more than a love of music and a playlist of thousands of songs to understand music.

I am assuming that you all do realize that a good poem is simply a good song, minus the melody. . . .

Those of you out there who claim to dislike poetry?  To be consistent, you will have to claim to dislike music, too; otherwise, your ignorance will be exposed to the universe at large, and the universe at large has great big hands and long scary fingers, and important inconsistencies are pointed and laughed at by a far larger, mightier, and more important audience that inconsistent people will ever know.  And even if they DID know, they probably wouldn’t understand.

You know, like the people who fear Harry Potter yet adore Disney.   In other words, stupid people.

Oh, dear, is that politically incorrect?  The truth often is.

Now let us all point and laugh at such.  We won’t hurt their sensitive fragile delicate feelings, as inconsistent people have been avoiding this blog for years.  Nobody misses them.  Except for, you know, entertainment purposes.

This poem is about a song, about a melody.  This poem is itself a song.  This poem also makes us long for more songs, and remember beloved songs.  Dumbledore says it thus: “Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic far beyond all we do here!

Take the melody away (if you can!) from any song and what have you got?  The lyrics.  And what are lyrics?  Poems.

So, in keeping with her poem’s theme, I chose another picture.

The Builders

I told them a thousand times if I told them once:
Stop fooling around, I said, with straw and sticks.
They won’t hold up; you’re taking an awful chance.
Brick is the stuff to build with, solid bricks.
You want to be impractical, go ahead.
But just remember, I told them, wait and see.
You’re making a big mistake. Alright, I said,
But when the wolf comes, don’t come running to me.

The funny thing is, they didn’t; there they sat,
One in his crummy yellow shack, and one
Under his room of twigs, and the wolf ate
Them, hair and hide. Well, what is done is done.
But I’d been willing to help them, all along,
If only they’d once admitted they were wrong.

===

As usual, we could discuss rhyme scheme and symbolism, a little hyperbole, some alliteration, and first person narration, but isn’t this poem really about giving unasked-for advice that would have made a positive difference, and wishing we could say “I told you so” when someone disregards us, thus screwing up royally?

Not that any of us would gloat or anything.  Other people, maybe, but not any of us.

Smirk.