The Poems I Have Carried (With a Translation of 'Du im voraus' by Rainer Maria Rilke)

In my late teens, I discovered T.S.Eliot's 'The Lovesong of J.Alfred Prufrock'' Perhaps it was less a discovery and more of an inevitable introduction. My mother was taking a first-year English course at the university. She had just moved out of the family house, finding an apartment on a street that shared her name, Elizabeth. 

It was really my mother who presented the poem to me and I read the poem over and over again, the afternoons I went to see her in the summer or in the autumn evenings after school. I recall the leaves from the oak outside her window falling against the pane in the early dusk. It was her great anthology of English literature with the Constable painting on the cover. It was the first poem that awakened me to poetry. In school, whatever we read before was a means to a passing grade. In this book, I had found the first true relic of myself, a kind of first key. 

Sure, there were other poems by Browning, Whitman, and Tennyson but for someone in his teens, I felt that Eliot's poem was like a calling or perhaps, a reflection. It seemed to take on a kind of burden, that the narrator was encumbered by his own missteps and hesitation and inability to fully express himself with others, whether with his loved one or those he sat down to tea with. Yet he could relate to the nameless reader. 

I seemed to live in this poem and felt the October described, the sawdust restaurants, the evenings, seeing the arms with shawls, the women coming and going, the quiet, sepia streets that billowed. 

And also in that volume, a year later, I found Lord Byron's 'When We Two Parted' I would come back to that poem time and time again as I would Eliot's. Instead of a grander epic, only a handful of stanzas and the Great Romantic had managed to tell a tragic tell through suggestion and supposition. Who were these two who had parted and why? Well, it somehow didn't matter because the parting and the seeing each other were just as painful.

I reread the poem after breaking up with a girlfriend. I hadn't loved her tragically and soulfully but I felt our separation had a solemn meaning to it. I didn't know what to expect from her at the beginning of our relationship and the ending itself was anti-climatic. And yet I felt in some way I had let her down or not given any of it a chance, that my mind had rushed past any possibility because there was not enough for me. Or was it really, I didn't allow the 'enough' to build? I turned to Byron's poem for sympathy.

Then, when I got into wine, I had to find my Arthur Rimbaud again. 'The Drunken Boat' is the only poem I know so far that can capture the sense and wonder of inebriation, to feel you have been farther than you have been sober, that whatever thoughts you've had, they are untethered, wilder and limitless while inebriated. There is a sense of the countless in the poem, that things go on, that the horizon is just a 'word' and a 'misrepresentation' of what is. It also suggests the melancholy associated with too much wine and too much of a night. The narrator seems to recognize by poem's end that the careless and easy, godlike curiosity of childhood is richer than the one of a drunk. I feel, after every reading that the poet peaked at nineteen years of age because he knew all poetry and the poets who wrote were just offshoots of ego, that nothing could quite compare with the focused and seemingly vast imagination of childhood, that growing old, to quote Rilke, "has served no purpose."

Yet still, poetry is the lost imagination of childhood in adult life. A philosophy professor once said you are not too old to have a second childhood. Of course, this professor had three Ph.Ds and three divorces. So either he reverted to the childlike because he couldn't grow-up or because he couldn't handle anything else. 

Still, I find myself quoting him now and then, believing every time I embark on another poem, I am somehow still a child, finger painting this time with words. 

Other poems I've loved include the little known ''Black Marigolds'. Like with all great works of literature, they find you, no matter how esoteric or different. I discovered this poem at the end of John Steinbeck's Cannery Row, a mere few stanzas.

The original was written in Sanskrit by the 11th century Kasmir poet, Bilhana Kavi. Caurapañcāśikā or The Love thief is an epic poem some fifty stanzas long, a loving tribute to the woman Bilhana had an affair with. Considering his love was a princess and the father a tyrannical man, the author was imprisoned and given a death sentence. Fortunately or perhaps not, there is no real certainty whether the execution was carried out.  One story goes the king was so moved by the poem, he lifted the sentence. Another, that was he infuriated still and sent the poet to his immanent death. Like with Schroeder's cat, both possibilities play out in the mind of the well-reader.

Yet, whereas Eliot, Byron and Rimbaud are household names in the households of people familiar with the greats, the author of 'Black Marigolds' shares his talent with perhaps his most tender of translators, E. Powys Mathers. I have read other renditions but Mathers wins me over. It is the repetition of the words 'even now', his version of the Sanskrit 'adyapi' which suggest memory or looking back.

The entire poem is worth a read and it always difficult to find one stanza to isolate, to suggest as the true pinnacle or quintessential moment. It is like life: beautiful moments that cannot be remembered without the others. So yes, cannot extract a single part of the work that doesn't move me. And yes, fifty stanzas, surprisingly there is not one weak link in the chain.  

In Spanish, I love Lorca's "Horseman's Song" or 'Rider's Song' a quiet and tragic poem about a man doomed. We know nothing of his future or his past, we know what he knows and that he feels his death is coming soon. He is on his way to the Andalusian city of Córdoba but his arrival is uncertain. It is spare and perfect.

So too is Pablo Neruda's''Tonight I can write the saddest lines'. Without a doubt, one of the strongest poems about loss in that it doesn't attempt to be anything more than a simple testament. The poet remembers the bare things, his language is direct and gentle. It doesn't try to offer up allegories and metaphors, it doesn't try to challenge the reader with similes and strained references to other poems or works of literature. It is just one person saying that they have loved and that love is no longer there. 

And then perhaps my favourite poem, one I have rendered here is by the German Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke. To call him German, it would seem to limit him. He was born in what we would now be the Czech Republic. He lived throughout Europe and yes, he wrote in German but his ideas have the universal to them. Whereas Heine, Eichendorff, Morike and a host of other German authors embody their German and regional culture, Rilke transcends the local. He is not affixed to one place like Prague or Munich. In this he is like Hölderlin or Goethe, a poet that crosses borders and looks to the timeless and eternal. He shares with these two poets and humanity in general this affinity with the search for the divine. 

In one sense you could call him a metaphysical poem, in other, he is a Neo-Romantic like Stefan George but labels aside, there is yearning to the majority of his work and 'yearning' (sehnsucht) doesn't belong to one period in time or literature. One could attempt to analyze Rilke by looking at his life, donning the Freudian-cap. Perhaps there was no satisfaction in his life. Perhaps his marriage wasn't fulfilling but as Rilke once noted, one 'must live the question' and 'change one's life.' So all attempts to determine Rilke truly negate him.

Here is my translation, one I continue to work on, never quite feeling, just like the poem itself, it is complete.

Du im voraus

verlorne Geliebte, Nimmergekommene,
nicht weiß ich, welche Töne dir lieb sind.
Nicht mehr versuch ich, dich, wenn das Kommende wogt,
zu erkennen. Alle die großen
Bildern in mir, im Fernen erfahrene Landschaft,
Städte und Türme und Brücken und un-
vermutete Wendung der Wege
und das Gewaltige jener von Göttern
einst durchwachsenen Länder:
steigt zur Bedeutung in mir
deiner, Entgehende, an.

Ach, die Gärten bist du,
ach, ich sah sie mit solcher
Hoffnung. Ein offenes Fenster
im Landhaus—, und du tratest beinahe
mir nachdenklich heran. Gassen fand ich,—
du warst sie gerade gegangen,
und die spiegel manchmal der Läden der Händler
waren noch schwindlich von dir und gaben erschrocken
mein zu plötzliches Bild.—Wer weiß, ob derselbe
Vogel nicht hinklang durch uns
gestern, einzeln, im Abend?

You, just beyond,

lost beloved, never to arrive

I’m not even sure which songs will please you.

I’ve stopped looking for you in the coming

Wave of the next moment. Yet these great

Images in me - ever widening the landscape,

Cities, towers, bridges  

Unsuspecting turns in the path

And the lands forever trembling

With their intermingling gods -

All of it rising up against me and this meaning:

You, my eluding one.  

Ah, you are the gardens

I’ve seen with such

Longing. An open window

In the country house – and you nearly

Stepped out, pensively, just for me. Streets I found

You had seamlessly passed,

And sometimes the mirrors in the merchant shops,

Still joyously spinning from your reflection became startled

With mine, so unexpected. – Who knows whether the

Same bird sang through us

Yesterday, entirely alone, in the evening.

A Childhood of Names

Growing up, I assumed everyone's last name was something unique and yet cryptic. Whereas a first name was given, something our parents used to call us in at night, for our teachers to say to get our attention and our friends to differentiate us, I always assumed the name of our families were more mysterious. One simply couldn't understand them or decipher their meaning. Still, they were badges and honored. Sometimes they were the origins of nicknames. 

I think I was raised in a unique time, though I am certain everyone thinks that of their childhood. However, in my hometown of St.Catharines, there was an interesting mix and medley of Dutch, German, Italian, Polish and Italian families with the already established English-Irish-Scott variety. I liked that some of my neighbors could speak Italian or Polish to their children, that on Sunday, instead of going to church I went to visit my Dutch grandparents where my father and opa shared Dutch jokes and humor. Language floated and circulated around me, offering this cultural weave I only began to truly appreciate years later when I moved away. In a sense, I think I have always been searching for that world of European diversity and beauty. 

In the summer of 2012, I embarked on an European adventure and towards the close, landed up in Haarlem, the birthplace of my grandmother. While sitting in my hostess, Ellen's garden, sipping wine, I talked about my last name, how in university I met a German professor who suggested it was the Dutch diminutive of 'brothers'. For instance, in German, you have Haus for 'house' and then Häuschen for 'small house' or cottage. Similar, I had wrote about 'cookie' in a previous blog, it being the diminutive of  koek or cake in Dutch.

Ellen then went inside and returned with a heavy, hardbound book. She flipped a few pages and then handed me the burgundy volume of time stained, rice paper pages. I read and wrote down the following:

Broer   m         -s

Broertje; gewone, alledagse vorm voor broeder, bet.

1; ook: naam voor een jongen die zusters heeft: mijn _ is twee jaar ouder dan ik; (iron.) vergeet je grote _ niet gezegd tegen iem. Die dreigt, maar die men niet in staat acht tot optreden, voor wie men niet bang is; _tje o - s kleine broer: (zegsw.) een – ann iets dood hebben er een hekel aan hebben; als een – op iets likjen zeer gelijsoortig zijn

Ellen helped me with the translation and the main points are as follows:

"Broertje, someone who might live in a convent, a monk or a brother, a mason or a member of a community. Broertje' or 'Broers' could be a brother or someone you don't know in the street (I thought of the term, 'hey, buddy' we use in North American when addressing someone we haven't met yet). Also, a notary which I found fascinating."

I returned to Canada with a new found appreciation for last names, if not an insight. I thought of my family, the various aunts who had married and taken the last names of their husbands. My Aunt Connie, for instance. I knew Van Egmond referred to the town of Egmond, now Bergen in Noord Holland. But what about Van Wingerden, the surname of my Uncle Paul, married to my father's sister, Marleen? Well, I learned it was derived from the Dutch word for vineyard or wijngaard or 'wine garden'.

Dekker, though is a fairly common name. I have seen that name on bus benches and billboards all my life, specifically for real estate agents and repairman; and it's a name you'll typically find in telephone directories in both The Netherlands and Canada. While in Holland, however I learned that 'dek is a covering and the origin of our word 'deck'. So, it only made sense that a 'dekker' was actually a 'roofer' or 'thatcher' (which explains good ol' Margaret's name, the late and former PM of Great Britain.)

It amazes me how often last names which appear obtuse and relatively obscure, once seen through the lens of another language become common. In high school, for instance, there were Millers and Stones. I later learned that Müller and Stein are the German equivalents. There was a Steenhuis in a one of my brother's classes. Steen is stone in Dutch and huis, well, one doesn't need to guess is 'house'. So 'Stone House.'

If we continue with the German theme, I grew up alongside people with the name Neufeld (New Field), Bergthaler (Mountain Valley), Thallmann (Valley man) Zwanzig (Twenty), Braun (Brown), Schneider (tailor/dressmaker), Herzog (duke) and Herweg (way here).

And then were was Julie Giesbrecht, a pretty but quiet, blonde-haired girl in grade seven. She sat beside me and little did I know then that her last name was derived from Old High German: gisil or hostage/pledge and berht for bright/famous. 

As for the English names, there were the obvious ones likes Wilson, Elliotson and Johnson, Counsel and Smith. But then I knew a Stacy Colby. We used to call her 'Colberger' in Grade 4 as a tease. Then after my trip in 2012, I went online and researched her name. Her name is Germanic, Old Norse but from Norfolk and Cumbria. Colby or koli, a person who was swarthy as in 'kol' or charcoal may have originally worked in a forge or simply been of exotic origin. 

I think now also of a Sam Powell. Powell translates into the 'son of the servant St.Paul'. Then there was Matt Graham and his name could be taken to mean 'grey home' - ham being short for 'hamlet' or village or homestead (hamstead). Also, Graham could refer to someone of the Grantham, Lincolnshire-area of England.

In high school, I knew a Lindsay Peats. Many today know the American actress, Amanda Peet. The names are certainly related as 'peat' may refer to organic matter - so someone living on the land. But also 'peat' or peete, in contrast could pertain to a 'spoiled or pampered child.' 

Then there were the many Polish and Ukrainian names. I was friends with a Zaluski. Zalew is Slav for 'flooded area'. My mother, when she was young fell in love with a Sadowski ('from the orchard' or from Sadow, a town in Poland). I knew a Kowalsky (Kowal, 'blacksmith'), a Malinowski (malina, raspberries, so 'dweller by raspberries') and Woźniak (a 'driver' or 'chauffeur' as in carriages). 

And like 'son' in English/Scandinavian or 'sohn' German, -icz, -wicz, -owicz, -ewicz, and -ycz typically mean "son of" in Polish. And with a -k- as in czak, -czyk, -iak, -ak, -ik, and -yk, it is the diminutive. 

My Slavic grandfather's original name was Bulbuck which originally could have been 'Vulbuck'. Either way, his name could have meant 'son of a bull' or a 'farmer of cattle or oxen.' (Буйвол - buffalo or вол oxen).

As for the Italian names, I remember Pace (peace), Mantini (which could either be derived from Mantione, a maker of mantellos or 'capes' or someone from Mantua in Lombardy), and Fontana ('spring', 'well' or the obvious 'fountain').  

Then there was a Christina Prantera who lived down the street for me. I have looked up the name and have come up with no hits nor meanings. Though, I have wondered if the name is actually Latin-based. 'Pran' means dinner and 'terra' is earth. So could her name suggest a cook or someone who prepared feasts? It would only be fitting. Her father owned a restaurant and later, after working in hospitality, specifically in hotels, Christina started her own pizza joint. So one might be attempted to suggest, even occasionally believe that our names hold the meanings of who we are and sometimes who we become.

My Life Through the Lens of Classical Vocabulary

Despite not having taken Latin or having the luxury (or ill-luck) to not be born in a century where the school system taught Ancient Greek, I did find myself speaking a bit of Greek and Latin without truly recognizing it, that is until years later. 

For the longest time, whenever I said 'butter' I was also speaking a bit of Old English (butere) which was derived from the Latin butyrum which in turn came from the Greek boútȳron. Or that when I chewed gum, the word to describe my Hubba Bubba and Bazooka Joe originally came the Latin, cummi which derived from the Greek, commi.

In school, we had to spit out our gum. Sometimes we got a warning or in the worst case, a 'detention' (from the Latin stem dētentiō - to detain). But chewing gum wasn't my thing. I enjoyed the various 'topics' (Latin topica in the plural and topiká from Aristotle's work meaning literally 'things'). For instance, I have always been drawn to maps and perhaps this derives from my passionate study of 'geography' (geo - earth, graphy - lines, so 'earth description or writing'). In high school, Mr. P., a mustachioed Italian with a flare for hand gestures taught us about The Netherlands, my father's home country and about Russia, the birthplace of my mother's father. 

Though I didn't truly enjoy it, I was very adept at 'mathematics.'  In Ancient Greek, máthēma actually means 'that which is learned' and 'what one gets to know'. Yet in our modern usage it is applied to the study of numbers, space, structure and so forth. I have always found it fascinating that a word begins with one specific meaning and finds new or an additional meaning when it is borrowed.

For instance, when you walk the streets of Europe and see a 'cathedral', the original word, kathedra meant a 'chair' or 'seat'. In my mind, and I'm certain in the thoughts of others, we most likely see a grand, often opulent building with a steeple or two. We discover the beautiful architecture and within, typically wondrous works of art, whether sculpture or painting. Of course, when we get back to basics, the cathedral is the 'seat' of the Bishop, or epískopos which means overseer or guardian. 

Then there is the word 'Catholicism', katholikismos which is Greek for 'according to the whole'. For me, growing up, Catholics were the Italians and the Polish neighbors. I never thought of them as Christians until my father's friend pointed out that they all belonged to the same source group. Christians, up to the age of ten in my mind were Baptists, Lutherans and Evangelicals as well as Mennonites and Dutch Reformed. 

Yet Catholics represent the western part of the old Roman Empire. So while the Italians, Polish, Austrians, French, and Spanish worship Christianity 'according to the whole', the former Eastern part of the Empire or Byzantine section became Orthodox (orthos - correct, doxa - opinion). (A side-note, the word 'Byzantine', which describes the architecture, art and culture of Byzantium also means 'scheming and complex' when applied to politics and methods).

The older I became, though, the more words I spoke and many of them of Greek and Latin origin or Greek-Latin mixes. I talked on the 'telephone' with my friends and girlfriends (tēle - far, phōnē - voice). I watched 'television' (Latin, visio - sight). I played 'video' games (Latin, vidē- to see). When home video cassettes became available, my father did his painstaking research and bought a Betamax (Bḗta - the second letter of the Greek alphabet). Sadly, despite my father's effort to invest in a quality product, Sony lost to VHS in its sales war due to marketing (from Vulgar Latin, marcātus, for traffic, trading). The high resolution, however of our first VCR was superior hence the 'max' or 'maximum' (Latin superlative of magnus or great) of the Betamax applied. 

In high school, I found myself drawn to the 'arts' (Latin ars, skill or craft). I already had a certain 'talent' (Latin talenta, plural of talentum derived from Greek tálanton balance, weight, monetary unit) for the guitar but also for writing and drawing. I also enjoyed painting (Latin pingere to paint).

For fun, I also enrolled in drama class (Greek for 'action' - derived from drâ (n) to do + -ma noun suffix). We learned about the history of the 'theatre', even the origin of the name, théatron, Greek meaning "a place for viewing". Interesting enough, 'tragedy' or tragōidia translates into 'goat' trág (os) 'song' ōidḗ (this latter word also finding its way into English as 'ode'). It is believed that a goat was the prize of the playwrights in Ancient Greece or that a goat may have been sacrificed during or after the piece was performed. 

Tragedies were performed for purposes pertaining to 'catharsis' (katharsis) wherein the audience felt 'cleansed' and 'purified' by viewing the sorrows and misfortunes of others. While the characters (so too, a Greek word, charaktḗr meaning a graving tool, its mark, equivalent to charak- base of charáttein to engrave) bemoaned their fates, the audience members felt 'pathos' for them. In other words, they 'suffered' along with them.

I asked our drama teacher if 'apathy' and 'pathos' were related. They were as apatheia means the 'lack of emotion'. Then, when I took Ancient History, my grade 11 teacher further explained it was actually a philosophical concept before it came to its modern use in English. For the Stoics, for instance, thinkers like Zeno of Citium and later, Seneca and Epitctus in the time of the Roman Empire regarded 'apathetia' to be the pinnacle of their thought. Then, it was preferable to exist in a mindset emotionally unmoved, to be distant and untouched by the passions. Whereas Aristotle, writer of Topika (or 'Things'), wrote in his Ethics about finding a balance, the Stoics said a laconic (Greek Lákōn a Laconian, people known for their verbal austerity)  'no' to feeling completely.

(And, before I get to the end here, as for 'comedy', it is derived  the Greek - kômo (s) - merry-making  and aoidós -singer.)

From high school to university (Latin ūniversitās or totality, equivalent to ūnivers), I went on to study 'psychology' and 'philosophy.' Many of us know the former word means 'study of the soul or mind' and the latter 'as love of wisdom'. I also joined a 'photography' (phōtos - light, and graphé meaning lines or drawing) club and when I was sick, I learned about different 'therapies' (therapeía - healing) on my journey to wholeness. 'Psychotherapy' being one of them and yes, one could translate it as the 'healing of the soul'.

Of course, wine has played a large and beneficial part in my life. I have always believed in its healing as well as 'social' (Latin socius - or companion, comrade, partner) properties. I considered getting into 'oenology' (oinos - wine) and becoming a winemaker but I think I would rather become a teacher of English and sip the Dionysian drink after a long day.

 

To Mince or 'Mint' Words: Vocabulary Coined by Authors, Poets and Thinkers

In a first year English class, my quasi feminist-Marxist professor told a rather quaint and adorable story about two nuns who attended a Shakespeare festival. In turns out, scholars had discovered this duo hadn't heard of Shakespeare let alone attended a single one of his plays. After sitting through several hours of performances, the nuns were then told to give their impression of the bard and his works. Being religious, they hemmed and hawed about the violence, the sex and the ribald humor but one of the ladies said something telling, if not humorous. 

"He's not very original, is he?"

With a raised eyebrow the scholar leading the project further questioned the nun. Shrugging, she simply stated that he borrowed a lot of cliches. "You know," she said clapping her hands, "all's well that end's well, and to be or not to be. The show must go on. All those phrases."

I suppose for someone who's never heard of William Shakespeare, the idea that he was the originator of such phrases would seem perhaps outlandish if not remarkable as they have permeated our lives, our lexicon and our lay speech. The other day I found myself saying "there's something rotten in Denmark,"let alone "there's method in my madness" and "there's the rub" - all from Hamlet. Or on oft occasions, that I've murmured "neither here nor there", "mum's the word" and "for goodness sake" (Othello, Henry IV and Henry VIII).

Yet it is not only the phrases but the 'monumental' words the poet has minted that we should be thankful. The two nuns and the 'countless' numbers of English speakers don't realize we all quote Shakespeare every single, 'excellent' day of our lives. When we hurry, when we are fretful and lonely, when we are obscene or majestic, critical or frugal, when we hint at something or tell a barefaced lie, when we are submerged in responsibilities, we are heavily borrowing from a bard who may well have been borrowing from the Elizabethan London of the late 1500s, a time of innovation in language and culture.

Shakespeare's originality has been questioned as much as his identity yet the plainspoken beauty of the plays and the enriched vocabulary of our English tongue cannot helped but be noticed. He is said to have invented 1700 words (I highly recommend the website Shakespeare-online.com to further explore the list.)

So, in their college years, when students are puking after a night of trying to be fashionable, they may struggle with their papers in the bleak hours of the morning, deconstructing As You Like It or comparing Troilus and Cressida to Chaucer's version, nonetheless, they really should be thanking the poet from Avon.  

But during Shakespeare's time, before and after, words still came into being as a result of poets and authors. Sir Thomas More, famous for his book, Utopia, coined 'absurdity' (which might explain his own tale of a perfect society), that the work of fiction itself exaggerates, rather than explains how human beings could live in exact harmony, one might say, acceptance of such a possibility is quite difficult. 

Ben Johnson, a contemporary of Shakespeare is not a defunct poet, nor a clumsy one, but when we are wet, we can say we are damp due to him. 

Then there are the 19th century authors many of us should really thank. Where would advertising slogans and marketers be without Samuel Coleridge, the opium intoxicated author of 'Kubla Khan' who gave us 'intensify'? If we didn't have Jeremy Bentham, how would we describe flights other than domestic, having provided airlines with the word 'international' (let alone committees, businesses and organizations that cross borders). Then there's Thomas Carlyle who without him, Green Peace and a host of other earth-friendly companies and activists wouldn't know that they were fighting for the 'environment'.

In the Pickwick Papers, Dickens described our first encounter with a 'butterfingers'. Meanwhile George Eliot, in a letter first used 'chintzy': back then chintz was a calico print from India said to be basic and cheap, hence anything we now refer to as pure crap or rudimentary in design (maybe one day Ikea will replace 'chintzy'). 

In the twentieth century, we saw a few selectively cynical words enter our lexicon. Norman Mailer's 'factoid' is a great example of how entertainment co-ops information. The ornery author, most famous for his World War II novel, The Naked and the Dead, defines his manufactured term as "facts which have no existence before appearing in a magazine or newspaper, creations which are not so much lies as a product to manipulate emotion in the Silent Majority." When we learn about the latest Justin Bieber antic or reflect back on Paris Hilton's shenanigans and Britney Spear's bald head, what ever tidbits we glean and somehow cannot forget, they have no real relevance on our lives or world history. Like junk food, they sit unsettled in our mind's intestinal unconscious, half-digested and difficult to move. 

The word 'meme' too reflects on our self-indulgent and mind numbingly oblivious culture. Richard Dawkins coined it in the 1970s to describe ideas, trends, behaviors and styles that spread from person to person, almost plague-like before dying. This past summer we had the ever-charitably-profitable and annoying ALS-Ice Bucket Challenge that turned everyone into viral fools of self-back slapping. The author of The Selfish Gene was most likely shaking his head as hordes of people stood in front of digital cameras for their fifteen seconds of Facebook fame. 

In the world of technology, 'cyberspace' is another word which may have come from several authors, yet it was William Gibson who made it famous. Then's there 'Microcomputer' from Isaac Asimov, another sci-fi guru, author of I-Robot. Fondly enough without Karel Čapek Asimov wouldn't have had a title for his famous novel. In 1920 the Czech author published his most famous play, R.U.R. - Rossums' Universal Robots. 'Robot' is derived from the Russian работать (rabotat' - to work), a reference in some ways to the Soviet slave labour of the early 20th century. 

Yet, without Dr.Seus (Theodore Geisl) we would have no idea how to describe the very people who love and follow fantasy and science fiction. In his book, If I Ran the Zoo, we find the first appearance of 'nerd' in our language. 

There are a host of other words and this blog could continue on but it is safe to say, let alone even conclude that poetry and innovation have contributed largely to our expanding vocabulary. That from the Grand Willy himself to a self-titled doctor of children's fiction, language is heavily reliant upon and grateful for those artists and thinkers who bend and play with words. To quote Shakespeare, it appears English is quite dauntless in its ability to keep building and expanding.

 

Going Dutch: The Low Countries and their Curious Influence on the English Language

In the late 1600s, the Dutch participated in the 'Glorious Revolution', a quasi invasion-slash-change of the constitution in England. Without tripping and stubbing our toes on various political and historical facts let us say that it was initially fairly bloodless: William III of Orange Nassau overthrew King James II and with his wife, Mary II, took the reins of the mighty British Empire. Perhaps one might call the events of 1688 a bit of a hostile takeover or someone simply getting kicked out of the royal sandbox. Jimmy, you're out, Willy, your time to play. 

Unfortunately, the sun successively set on the seductive and lavish Dutch Golden Age of Culture. William III funded several exhausting wars, those against the Jacobites in Scotland, another in Ireland and of course, one had to get France somehow involved and riled up as well. And, as a result, within two decades, back in the king's home country of the Netherlands, the Dutch Republic was financially out of pocket despite being in a place of military security. Instead of money for art, funds were invariably funneled towards arms and this is why we don't have a succession of Dutch masters like Rembrandt, Vermeer, Frans Hals and Steen in the 18th century. 

Yet even before William III was even conceived, the Dutch had already invaded English Culture. In the 17th century, the language of the rising empire was already inundated with Middle Dutch words and this was due to previous invasions.

During the Norman conquest, 1/3 of William the Conqueror's army was from Flanders. And it didn't stop there. Between the 11th and up to the 17th century, a majority of Flemish refugees, many of them weavers and others skilled in textiles peacefully crossed the channel to make their home in England, Scotland and Wales. 

So this is why we have 'boss' from Middle Dutch baas. Of course times were always tough in the Medieval period and before we had 'Dutch courage', we had büsen which became our pejorative term for alcohol, hence 'booze'. (The word slurp, from slorpen, to sip, should also be mentioned as well as 'brandy', derived from brandewijn or 'burnt wine' and 'gin', from genever.)

From tubbe came 'tub', from bicken (to slash, attack), 'bicker' and bundel, obviously 'bundle' whereas Duffel is actually a town in Belgium and the original source for the cloth of the eponymous bags. My two favourite ones are boele (lover, brother) which eventually became 'bully' (not a lover nor brother) and blinken (to glitter) which became our 'blink'. It is quite lovely to think that when you are gazing at the eyes of your better half, when she quickly closes and opens her lids, that one is seeing her face 'glitter'.

Due to both England and The Netherlands maritime position, nautical terms, too, found their way into our language. 'Deck' from dec (covering), 'dock' (docke), 'freight' (vrecht or 'load'), 'skipper' (schipper or 'shipper'), 'sloop' (sloep), and so forth. To such a list one could also add 'yacht' (jaght or jaghtship, jagen, the Dutch and German word for hunt), 'buoy' (boei, 'to shackle') and 'cruise' (kruisen, to cross).

'Aloof' is bearing mention as lof is of a 'windward direction' and 'avast' is actually 'hold fast' (hou'vast). 'Aardvark', interestingly enough means earth (aard) pig (vark). Who knew?

We also get a few military terms from the Low Countries. 'Beleaguer' (16th cent. belegeren,'besiege') and 'bulwark' (bulwerk) and when you're on leave in the army, as an enlisted man you're on 'furlough' (verlof or 'to be off'). Most recently, the American 'bazooka' is Dutch for 'trumpet', bazuin which one could also connect to bassoon of Italian (bassone), French (basson) origin meaning 'deep'. So when firing a rocket or chewing the gum, we have the Dutch to thank for the word. 

The arts of Holland too influenced our English tongue. There is the Dutch painting term landskip derived from landscap (region) which, without really having to hazard a guess we know to be 'landscape'. Schets become our 'sketch' and ezel, Dutch for donkey became 'easel'. So when you visit the Rembrandhuis in Amsterdam, the structure holding the canvas in the artist's studio was once referred to as a domestic animal.

Bill Bryson, noted traveler author once wrote that he found the Dutch language to be 'a peculiar version of English.' It really isn't far from the truth when we consider all the words we've gained from the Low Countries. Even today, if you visit the northern climes of the Netherlands, the Frisians are said to speak a language similar to our early English. Maybe the reason we remember William the Conqueror and see William III's bloodless invasion as a portion of minor history is because the Dutch had already infiltrated the English language. The latter William was just taking over the reigns from his ancestors, no more, no less, the Dutch having already made their home in the English vocabulary to the point the so-called British of the late 17th century were already eating coleslaw (kolsla, cabbage salad), cookies (koekje, diminutive of koek, cake) and frolicking (vrolijk, to be joyful) when the news of his take-over had reached them.

All this knowledge. One can't help now but feel like a bit of a 'geek' (gek, fool). 

Words and Text

Recently I read an article in the CBC about a family who decided to live for a year as if it was 1986. The father and his two sons donned mullets and the mother got an 80s style perm. They listened to cassettes, they watched VHS, they even dressed up in the fashion of the time. 

By living in 1986, additionally they couldn't have cell phones, nor computers, nor tablets and of course, no popular video games.

CBC interviewed the father on the last day of his year and asked him what he would miss. The hair was one thing but also the sense of togetherness he experienced with his family. Instead of each family separated by their gadgets, they lived a year without the digital distractions. "I think it would just be sad going back to everything" he told CBC, "because we had a lot of positive experiences. But obviously the way the world is in 2014, it's impossible to live your life like that because eventually you won't have any friends left because you're such a nuisance communicating with everybody else."

By 'nuisance communicating' he meant not using texting or email or Facebook to contact people. 

I felt close to this article and after reading it, an emotion of sadness and sympathy for this family. I only just now heard of their experiment and wished I could have participated in it. Though in 1986, my father bought Beta instead of VHS. And I didn't have a mullet but I remember the jeans and the shoes and the sweaters.

Born in the late 1970s, the 80s is only half-a-blur for me and yet I still remember the two phones we had in our house, one with a long blue cord that barely reached the floor and a tanned phone in the rec room, there on a wooden shelf beneath the breaker box.

My mother was on the phone more than the three of us only because she had relatives and friends further away. All my dad's family congregated at their parents on Sundays so communication was easy and more communal amongst relatives.

But the idea of being a 'nuisance'. I shake my head. Memories rise up in me. When I was living in North Vancouver in British Columbia, I took a German class at the Goethe Centre at Simon Fraser's University Harbour Centre campus. There I met a girl from San Francisco taking the course to compliment her semester of language studies at SFU. It seemed the only time we could actually talk was online and I wasn't the only one. Sometimes there was long pauses in our discussions or 'chats' (the technological age has made me despise the word now) and when I asked her what she was doing in the time I waited for her responses, she merely said she was talking to another friend. 

When we did share each other's company it was in a movie theatre and no heavy make-out or anything like that. No. We sat side by side and stared at the screen. When the film was over, she went her way and I went mine. We saw each other at Harbour Centre for class but again, the majority of our discussions took place MSN-style. The screen was always there. 

For the longest time I have put off buying a cell phone. When I was living in both Victoria and North Vancovuer, I had a land line. Old fashioned and naive, I figured anyone of worth would call me. I also didn't like the idea that people could track me. I also didn't like being that asshole on the bus whose one-sided conversation imposed itself on others.

I also didn't like the idea of being a cliche. I've noticed this twenty-first century trend of holding a coffee cup in one hand and a cell phone in the other while walking. In the restaurant industry, people used to go out back for a smoke with co-workers. They still do but now you see that ubiquitous device. 

Perhaps I am truly a luddite. I did eventually buy a cell phone only because it didn't make sense having a landline when I moved back to Ontario. I lived with a brother a year and then found my own place. The cell phone seemed to be a natural solution but I had to have my number changed because the girl who had it before was fairly popular and a lot of guys were texting her to come over. I got tired of deleting their pathetic messages. 

The word 'text' itself has become a verb in our culture. Before, in universities, English and literature professors referred to the novel or story you read as the 'text' the same way a doctor might discuss a patient with his colleagues. 'Text' actually comes from the Latin texere - weave. I would say that is fairly appropriate considering the way 'texting' has created the new social 'mesh' of our modern, progressive lives. Instead of speaking, people using their thumbs and busy themselves like spiders, web after web of words on the screen. 

But they aren't words really. Certainly, on the surface they are words - texts are often short, often grammatically incorrect sentences made up entirely of words. But it's not the same somehow. For me, when I think of words, I think of things that have weight and meaning. Words make up conversations, animated ones, serious ones, quiet one, light ones, etc.. Words are in debates, they move arguments back and forth. Words belong in novels and poems and in foreign languages, they are part of librettos in operas and when we're watching a French film, the subtitles are made up of words. 

When you break up with someone, they said it is better to do it person. To see the person, to hear their voice, to get the bad news, all those words belong to that moment. 

And the word 'word', etymologically goes back to the Indo-European root wer- - 'speak, say'.  Word and verb are also related in this sense. Words and speaking are intertwined. The act of speaking itself is a verb.

'My word is my bond'. 'You have my word'. 'Words fell right out of mouth'. 'Word on the street'. 'Can I have a word with you?'  All these expressions point to another time, one that is appearing faint in the rear view mirror of our indifferent and apathetic society. 

Now the 'text' is everything. And the text exists in a nowhere, a digitized space. Social media is our coveted oxymoron and the cell phone connects us without actually creating a place of intimacy. Words losing their meaning, a means to an end and for most people, a way of alleviating boredom and loneliness.

Text is vacuous at best. Of course some might argue I am being overdramatic but when was the last time many of us had a conversation with someone where the other person or you didn't look at your phone. The phone is there and people correspond to it with anticipation. A text coming through gives most people the same thrill as having many people hit the 'Like' button on something they said or a link they posted on their Facebook page. These little social-security orgasms... But always, they are being take out of the moment, existing in a world where the currency is at best pathetic and worth as much as Monopoly money. But then if you don't play the game of 'texting' you miss out on the fun.

But to get back to the cellular-interuptis...

Back in the 80s, even the 90s, when the phone rang at dinner, no one was allowed to get up and answer. Even before answering machines, if it was important, the person would call back and even if it wasn't important, they'd still probably try later. But then again, most kids I knew, their parents had a no-phone rule for dinner time so it was likely the person calling was a salesperson or telemarketer.

And yet the few times I've gone out for dinner or lunch I see people with other people and always looking at their phones.

Words are present, the text isn't.