Hamlet: Words, words, words.
Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2
I love the English language. I like the sounds of all languages, but I love English especially. Perhaps that's why I'm overly sensitive to bad language. I don't mean foul language, necessarily. Though I believe foul language should be mostly avoided, it can be effective in its proper time and place.
The bad language I'm talking about is lazy, dumb or essentially meaningless language. One example in the United States is the use of the word 'like': And I was like, wuz up? And he's like, nothing, just chill'n. So I'm like, well, ain't you gonna, like, clean the bathroom or something? I've like, so had it with his lazy butt, like, you know!
The same goes with the word 'go.' She goes, 'I'm pregnant.' And I go, 'What?' And she's like, 'For real.'
And there are the overused or vague expressions like Think outside the box, A game changer, I need closure / to move on, A win-win situation, Emotional intelligence, I need to find myself, A woman's right to choose, etc.
Regarding the lines from Hamlet above, Polonius is a wind bag who spouts inane clichés end to end and he's one of the characters in the play trying to manipulate Hamlet. Hamlet knows what they're up to and throws it back in their faces, though they in turn don't catch on to what he's up to. Instead, they simply think he's mad (as in insane).
The longer I live in Poland and the more I understand the language, I can hear that Polish speakers also have their irritating verbal tics. I estimate that with some Polish speakers, over half of their words are meaningless filler. I'm sure it's the same the world over.
Gifts and responsibilities
I have a gift for writing. Before I go further I want to clarify what I mean. If writing were baseball and the likes of William Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Mark Twain, William Faulkner and John Steinbeck were in the big leagues (they'd be the 1927 Yankees, Murderers' Row), I'd be in the lower minor leagues. We're talking on a rookie league team in Nowhere, Idaho (and those players are at least paid).
But I've been told by enough people over the years that I have a talent, or gift, for writing.
Now such gifts come from God and we each possess some gift or other. We are responsible to God to use these gifts for his greater glory. In that regard I'm rather like the wicked and slothful servant in Jesus' Parable of the Talents who buries the money his master entrusted him with rather than work to increase it. I am obligated to improve my writing ability so that I can use if more effectively. God have mercy on my soul.
I've discovered over the years that I've written my best poetry while living in Poland. Maybe it's because my ears are not awash in English daily. Maybe it's because as an English teacher I focus on the language more carefully. Whatever the reason, nearly all my best poetry (such as it is) has been written over here.
Muse or swarm of gnats?
I think most writers will tell you that writing is often more of an affliction than anything. An idea or a line will come into my head and won't leave me alone. Then I'm distracted for hours or even over a period of days while I work out the poem, story or blog posting. I miss half of what people around me say or worse I have to get away and be alone. Many a poem has been worked out during long walks in the forest near here.
An example of this happened on Sunday, June 16th. The Gospel reading for mass that day was Luke 7:36-8:3, where Jesus is visiting a Pharisee and a woman with a sinful reputation enters and washes Jesus' feet with tears and kisses, dries them with her hair and then anoints them with ointment from an alabaster jar. Jesus tells her that her sins are forgiven, though this is mainly for the benefit of the Pharisee and his other guests. The woman had clearly encountered Jesus previously and he had forgiven her on that occasion. Now, free of her sins her heart is full of joy. Glory to God! I love this story and it suggested a poem that wouldn't give me peace all afternoon of that day.
Here is the result.
The Woman with the Alabaster Jar
Thou gavest me no kiss: but this woman since the time
I came in hath not ceased to kiss my feet. Luke 7:45
Her dirty reputation was no concern
To her, nor the scandal she created
For the Pharisee and all his guests.
She once was good as dead. Now elated,
Light as a feather, free as one reprieved,
With the pure obsession of a lover,
With costly oil and tears of adoration
Kissed the precious feet of her Savior.
A note on the new photo behind the blog title - it shows the steeple of the Holy Trinity Church in Jędrzejów, Poland, about 10 miles from where I live.
Jędrzejów - pronounced yend-JAY-oof
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