The Tawdry Apostrophe (Extended Metaphor) Part 1
Prologue
Alas not just the pure search, and procreative struggle of poetry
can a hood over psyche’s head put, and stumble out prison security
but attitudes to communication generally, particularly where it is difficult.
So let’s see, is my “Apostrophe” condescending self-indulgence
hiding behind an erudite popularism? (I have been told so.)
Something tawdry, base, inferior, unworthy of me and the world the poorer?
(I fear so.)
Or light verse ironic ephemera, gone tomorrow, raw rashly
attempting to self-justify, with cynical political expedience?
You are my referee and reviewer, for I fear indolence
and my political enemies’ public backlash, imperialist violence as prosody.
But a warning, I am serving no caviar and hors d’oeuvres; but cod, chips and vinegar
for this is no time for reflective trimeter, and lovingly chosen metaphor.
I have a story of ordure and a warning to give, the form I need is narrative
the boozy romp of bald description, the extra long line and hate inspired initiative.
Well then.
An English Grammar School
The single most common English grammar headache
don’t splutter, it’s no joke, keep your eyes open:
a punctuation mark in shape of a snake, posing as correct spelling
a vipers /s//ə z/ and worse, admitted, with split personality glaring.
It sounds like a hoax I know, but its bite swells /ziz/
so the best you can do is release the pressure with yelling
or risk ending up in English Lit, and in poetry truth discovering.
Inexcusable, syntax more like semaphore, this apostrophe.
How and who first conceived, such boastful misanthropy
and wanton waste of school child’s precious learning years.
A guarantee of miscommunication and learning alienation
subtle psychological scarring and language fear
for millions of fresh faced innocents new each tear.
Let us relive that first lesson in primer one, eyes wonder
it’s Mum and milk, and off-to-school, you’re nearly five.
Waiting no longer is lay priest, Jack of all, and local discretion
from national goals; but word builder, identity layer, English teacher!
This modern English teacher, the pride of political correctness
in whom impossible a sadistic tendency should reside unguessed
by deep criminal record checking, multi-panel personality vetting.
One of life’s little ironies then, in the hive of social progress
that the poison should be hidden in the lesson.
poem by Philip Housiaux
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Related quotes
The Language That The Poor Wants To Speak
do you speak good English?
do you take pride in it and then use it to impress others
and swindle them
into a belief that they are inferior?
they have feelings too
of humiliation
which even in such a sad state
wish that their humiliation
speak good English still
they always think that English will give them
a good job
a better standing in the society
a flare of fashionable tongue
you make them cry
but still they want to speak that cry in English too
foolish!
but can you blame them?
you who hold that power and might
you who have taken all what they once had
and made them
worse within
themselves
despite which,
they still want to be like you
to speak like you
a god
how sad!
you have never known the language of love
the grammar of generosity
the syntax of sympathy
that language that good English
sometimes has forgotten
to utter
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My English Teacher
At the grade three
A new teacher came
Around her table
A queue we were all in
Having exercise books on our hands
To get written our names on it
Twining with aroma of her perfume
Let the mind not go back to the bench
My English teacher
Not like other teachers
Wearing new dresses
Pleasant smile with snazzy
I bought a double rule book
To write proper English letters
Putting the alphabet of base
Following day had a message
No more with us
Principle's words
Teacher came to us
We cried a lot
"Why may teacher you go leaving us'
'Is our school not good'
While worshiping on her feet
Without an answer
Looking at us
Touched our heads
She got a transfer
Because of our remote dry school
Since then on
Until primary end
Without an English teacher
My texts books were new
She doesn't know me for sure
Placed an aroma still in my mind
You wrote that name of mine
I am writing today.
poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
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Where they belonged
When I was in metric
(now grade twelve)
in the agricultural science class
an English girl took a chair
next to me
who had a secret crush
without getting
any attention from me.
I just wasn’t taken with her
and she was a little brash
and they lived
on the other side
of the railway tracks
and she had a reputation
of sleeping around.
When we studied
animal copulation
she acted as if
she didn’t really understand
and asked me some questions
which made me blush
and it was clear
that she had other plans instead.
Ignoring her didn’t help much
and heart broken she went to cry
on her sister’s shoulder
who was my class teacher
and taught me English
at the time.
We did an IQ test
(the first in my years at school)
and I scored only too well
and without really knowing
my personal circumstances
the teacher told the class
that I was lazy,
but much more than that
she marked my English grades down.
I didn’t know what had got into her
and in the second quarter
like a angel from heaven
a female inspector
(specializing in English)
visited the school.
She couldn’t understand
why my marks had slipped so much
and we had a very nice chat
where she demanded
all my English books and tests.
She graded everything again,
my grades took a hike,
the teacher was called in
and almost did the same
and after that
my grades were where
they belonged.
poem by Gert Strydom
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You are afraid
To write in English is your burden
You fear the grammar of the white man
You are afraid of its intricacies
why?
because your heart is not?
don't mind it, you simply want to share with full respect
to use their language
you could have used your own and be smooth with its facilities
but you also want to be a part of this world
to think american to speak english
who know if
He finds your poem good
Enough if
He feels the beating in your heart that
There is a flow
Of gladness
In your own way of being a part of this humanity that
There is joy
In your outlook that
You have a certain projection
About love sickness death redemption life
who knows?
Honestly
Now go
Write the language where you are
At home
Write the meaning of your riddles
At your convenience
Do not be afraid of English or Indian
Strictures
do not be afraid to commit mistakes
do not be afraid to go to prison
You will speak your language
You will sing your own song
you have been in this prison
for how long?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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English Eyes
What youre sayin it never really crossed my mind
I hear playin and everybodys keepin time
Im recallin that girl I met in london town
She was strange, young and tender and narrowed all my choices down
Chorus:
We ran away into the night hypnotized
You carved your name right next to mine, english eyes
I was tryin to read her lips and knew the time was drawing near
I forgot what she said but I remember how she whispered in my ear
I can hear laughter coming from the places we once knew
There were stories from a stranger out of nowhere but they seemed so true
Chorus
English eyes, english eyes
(instrumental break)
English eyes
Red sky warning, girl you really put a spell on me
Never told me bout the daddy you refused to please
You took the bishop when the king was standing right in front of you
Theres nothing in it if I cant have a girl with eyes like you
Chorus repeats 2x
English eyes, yeah, english eyes, english eyes
song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Happened to Billy Ray?
As a matter of stature, this man is not very tall.
The stories he tells could fill a shopping mall.
Bill is a word technician in a local high school.
As an English teacher, he is nobody's fool.
Generations of students have learned at his feet.
They will not face the future being incomplete.
How many of us wished we'd had a teacher like Bill?
Thinking of my English teacher still gives me a chill.
Now Bill the Great also likes to fish from time to time.
According to him, his fishing ability is simply sublime.
He worked the worm like strumming a fine instrument.
The poor bass ending up on his hook was his testament.
I write this poem to honor a simple English teacher.
Oh by the way, he once was a country preacher.
Unappreciated by others, he left his current position.
Making more money became his new mission.
In 2006, he had a motorcycle accident that was very grim.
Thereafter, another in his life began to assimilate him.
Resistance proved futile as he had finally become the 'Borg.'
As a result, you'll find our relationship residing in the morgue.
poem by Manager Poet
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Being bilingual
There is something
in being bilingual
and when I grew up
we were forced
to take both
official languages at school
being English and Afrikaans.
It was another thing
to be taught maths in English,
when your home language is Afrikaans
and where I was taught in Afrikaans
up till then,
at a school that was
supposed to be
double medium
and to really struggle
with unknown terms
and not being able to comprehend
and to this day
I despise Mrs. Ritchie
who thought that I was stupid
and without the teacher caring
or being able
to teach in Afrikaans
I struggled along
but at university
a professor teaching
Algebra and Calculus
really did care
and taught me well.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Who's To Blame
Oh Mother Ghana; Mother Ghana
What has happened to you?
What has happened to your culture?
They say we've fold arms against 'Vernacular' language
Instead opened arms wide to 'English' language
Oh Mother Ghana Mother Ghana
Why?
At school, we are taught the things we do not know
By the 'English' language
Why not 'Vernacular' language?
Oh Mother Ghana, Oh Mother Ghana
Where is your true identity as pure African?
Where is your pride as true Ghanaian?
Oh Mother Ghana, Oh Mother Ghana,
Day after day
When we put on the uniform as students
We are forbidden to speak 'Vernacular' language
Instead the 'English' language
Why Mother Ghana, why Mother Ghana?
When we speak 'Vernacular' language; your culture,
They say: 'Speak English' someone's culture!
When we speak 'English' that someone's culture
They say: 'Abrofosem; speak vernacular language' your culture!
Oh Mother Ghana, Oh Mother Ghana
Who's to blame?
'English or Vernacular language'
Oh Mother Ghana; Oh Mother Ghana.
poem by Francis Julian Zewu
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Finglish
I am from Finland and i speak 'Finglish'!
Because i am learning the English language and,
It always infuses with my Finnish.
I am learning to keep me going but,
I do speak my English like 'Finglish'! !
And i always try to enforce the truth of my peace like,
The subconscious act from my mind to muse up things:
But i am unaware of your love.
Try to keep me informed on this love and,
Try to teach me the English language so that i cam be with you;
For the heavens and the earth do know how i do speak.
Keep me on the tracks of your love and teach me more!
For one day i will learn the English language very well;
And i will be ready to teach you my Finnish language as well.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I Don’t Like School
I don’t like school,
No-sir-ree.
School is no fun,
Not to me.
Oh, how I don’t like school.
Not history,
Not English,
Not science or biology,
Not reading or grammar,
Not even computer discovery.
The only thing I like is math,
Yes-sir-ree.
That’s all I like.
Other than math,
I don’t like school.
poem by Angela M. Maynard
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yes, what if God does not speak english at all?
you were not born yesterday
and probably heard it before
that if your God does not speak english
then he must not be God
of course, something arrogant
hangs in the air
of this effortless superiority that
'englishers'
'english-plongplangs'
clai m, which, of course, we
always oppose and dub
as prettry dumb silly
but anyhow, yes, we are asked again
what if?
what if, this God, does not really speak English?
well, of course, he is still God
and he must not have considered the english language
that important
and i agree, even if i speak it,
i still have this language
of my soul,
albeit, in english, for you,
who does not speak my own language,
yes, of course, for you to perhaps
understand,
but i like it though, this thought
that God does not speak
the english language, lest, he may sound
so englishly, oh well,
arrogant.....
dear God
do you really...not speak english?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Gross stupidity
It was at a time
where you had
to wear a uniform to school,
had to cut your hair
to a predetermined length
and got caned
if you were naughty,
failed a test,
or sometimes
to let the teacher
enforce his will.
If you complained at home
about getting a hiding at school,
you would probably
get another there too
if you deserved it,
but if you were right,
were punished unfairly
or without a real cause
it was seen in a different light
and a teacher
or whoever the punisher was
would have to face
your father in a fight
and could easily
be hit into hospital.
School regulations stipulated
that you couldn’t receive
more than six whippings on a day,
but at Estcourt high school
on my first day
at the new school
in standard nine (now grade eleven)
I received twelve.
We were lining up
to go to the hall
and a prefect told me
to cut my hair
which were just a bit
longer than how
they wanted it.
I said that I would
and while we were walking
to the entrance of the hall
I was told the same thing
over and over again.
On the eighth time
I told the English prefect
in Afrikaans
not to catch the pip
which was a Afrikaans adage
for do not catch a fit.
He told me to repeat
what I had said,
which I did
and thought
that I was cursing him
and took me
to the Headboy
who was English.
Where I had to repeat
myself again
and I did
as believed in telling
the truth.
The head boy took me
to the principal,
(Mister Robert Smith) ,
who thought
that I was saying
something like
go and play
with your member.
He called in the
vice-principal
(another Englishman) ,
a man with a red beard,
who was convinced
that I was cursing,
who shoved my head
under a table
and whipped me six times.
When I explained what it meant
they didn’t believe me
and called in a teacher
who taught Afrikaans
and the principal gave me
another six whippings
for being insubordinate
and wanted to expel me
if I didn’t have my hair cut
on by the next day.
I didn’t tell my stepfather
(who wasn’t a dad to me) ,
but even he
would have sorted
the headmaster
and vice-principal out
and it would have been
the Anglo-Boer war
all over again.
At the time I thought
that I was grossly stupid,
but thinking back
the headmaster and vice-principal
was probably more so.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Beginnings
It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.
They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.
Their voices were even and low,
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.
It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud,
When the English began to hate.
It was not suddenly bred,
It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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English Class
English Class
Is supposed to be fun.
But when teachers make you
Listen to them while they talk about
Nothing
You don't really pay attention.
You drift off instead,
Floating around in your head,
Thinking about things that don't make sense
And about sense that don't make things.
You doodle on a page,
Or stare at the walls,
Or read under your desk,
Or stare at the teacher
And wonder how she managed to qualify
To be a teacher when she doesn't even use
Grammar.
I think it's stupid
To waste an hour of my day
Sitting doing nothing.
It's pointless to sit here
When I could do something
More.
I could:
Volunteer,
Or be in Drama class,
Or could be making a movie,
Or helping my mom,
Or hanging out with my friends,
Or helping my brother and sister learn to ski,
Or doing SOMETHING, ANYTHING ELSE.
This class isn't doing
Anything.
I can feel my love for English
Dissapearing.
It's sad that one teacher
Can ruin an
Art form.
poem by Kelsey Tennant
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The Beginning
1914-18
It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.
They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.
Their voices were even and low,
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.
It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud,
When the English began to hate.
It was not suddenly bred,
It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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This African American Vernacular English shares most of its grammar and vocabulary with other dialects of English. But it is distinct in many ways, and it is more different from standard English than any other dialect spoken in continental North America.
quote by William Labov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Collocation and intonation (popular poetry)
Imperialist hangover…
Father says
Who knows English
Is the best
I am fluent in English
But intonation is rubbish
So I leave the job
Of awkward commentary
I start to write
Though grammar is correct
Collocation comes in my way
I stop altogether composing
Awful documentary
Collocation and intonation
I send them both
To the burning station
When I become a poet
Coining of new epithets
Overused epithets
The wrinkle face
Cliché phrases
Wife of an old age
Coinage of new verbiage
The kiss of a teen age
Overflowing climax
Decorating the body
People say, wow! What poetry!
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Everything has changed. When I was at school and was told I had better learn English, I said: What for? The English are a hell of a long way away!
quote by Juan Manuel Fangio
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So I went to English school, secondary English school, so forget going to Mecca for my religious education.
quote by Abdullah Ahmad Badawi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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English Dream
I once had a dream
A feeling inside
A yearning so bad you have to shout it out
Hey kid look at me
You can make it real
You can get it if you want
When I first started out
They shut all the doors
But I laughed at all the doors
And I kicked them down
Heres my energy for you
Step into the light while you still feel young
I look in your eyes
And I reach for your hands
Well Ill do anything
To make you understand
That Im still the seeker
For your english dream
Dont you give up trying
And dont you let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
I look in your eyes
And I reach for your hands
Well Ill do anything
To help you understand
That Im still the seeker
For your english dream
Dont you
Dont you give up trying
And dont you let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
The english dream - dont let me down
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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