The language barrier

Warning: explicit language used throughout which may offend some viewers... 
Which is kinda my point...

I swear like a truckie. I won't touch the 'c-word' with gloves on and my gutter language is more of a sprinkle than a flood in my every day chatter, but I have been known to come out with statements like 'For fuck's sake, it's all just mutha fucking fucked'* during a work meeting.

You wouldn't know this about me because I don't like to swear when I'm writing. I struggle to even write 'oh my god' or 'dear lord' in case someone finds it offensive, even though I use those two expressions pretty much daily. Of course this makes me question my lacksidaisical approach to swearing in the first place, but one thing I know for certain:

It just seems to mean more when it's written down.

Take that Cee Loo Green song. You have the 'Forget You' version and then you have the 'Fuck You' version and frankly I prefer the former. Is it really necessary to have the latter? I don't think saying 'fuck' rather than 'forget' adds a single thing to the song.

I'm kind of with the censors on that one.

I get that it's 'just a word'. But I just think that whether we're dribbling f-bombs in everyday conversation or not, we really don't need to have it gilded forevermore in written expression. I think swearing is best left for chit chat (and I totally understand why some people would like it erased even there). It's just not as effective (or, on occasion, as funny) in writing. Surely when we're writing we have more time to craft a heartfelt statement that doesn't require offensive language? Surely?

Where do you stand on blue language? Does it bother you in its written form more than when it's uttered?

* Just so you know, it is actually physically paining me to write the word fuck, but I'm not hypocritical enough to say 'f-word' or 'fark' during this post as I usually might in a post... 


[Image by Gloria Rivera]

An absolutely ordinary rainbow

I've been inspired by MultipleMum's Tuesday John Donne moment to share one of my favourite ever poets.

I've chosen a contemporary poet, mainly because while most of us love many of the old school poets, many of us forget to keep finding new ones to cherish. I've chosen Les Murray because if you love the secret hiding places of language, as I do, then you will love art of Les Murray.

An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

The word goes round Repins,
the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
There's a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.

The man we surround, the man no one approaches
simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly—yet the dignity of his weeping

holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him
in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
longing for tears as children for a rainbow.

Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
or force stood around him. There is no such thing.
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
but they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,
the toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us

trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream
who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children
and such as look out of Paradise come near him
and sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.

Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops
his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit—
and I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand
and shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
as many as follow her also receive it

and many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
but the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
the man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
of his writhen face and ordinary body

not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow,
hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea—
and when he stops, he simply walks between us
mopping his face with the dignity of one
man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.

Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.


from
The Weatherboard Cathedral, 1969

 

Performance

I starred that night, I shone:
I was footwork and firework in one,

a rocket that wriggled up and shot
darkness with a parasol of brilliants
and a peewee descant on a flung bit;
I was busters of glitter-bombs expanding
to mantle and aurora from a crown,
I was fouéttes, falls of blazing paint,
para-flares spot-welding cloudy heaven,
loose gold off fierce toeholds of white,
a finale red-tongued as a haka leap:
that too was a butt of all right!

As usual after any triumph, I was
of course, inconsolable.

from
Subhuman Redneck Poems, 1996

 

Sharing a treasured piece or two is a great way to share a bit more of myself, I think.  I would love to know your own favourite poem or poet.

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