written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label Scales. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scales. Show all posts

Friday, 4 March 2022

Scales

When I was thinking about writing about Scales I had a vague idea of checking on the two or three meanings of the word I could think of from the top of my head and then zeroing in on one of them to concentrate on. Maybe as in fish scales.

It was a bit of a surprise, therefore, when I discovered that there are loads of different meanings such as the aforementioned fish, then balances, music, marks to determine length, magnitude, mathematics etc. But the more interesting aspect of the word, to me, is the differing roots of the same word. I would have thought that Latin and French would have featured predominately. But how about these:

Scales as in a weighing instrument derives from Old Norse skal ‘bowl, drinking cup,’ in plural, ‘weighing scale'.


Scales as in marks laid down at determinate distances along a line, for purposes of measurement or computation comes from the Middle English noun scale, skale, ‘ladder, rung of a ladder,’ from Latin scālae ‘ladder, stairs’.

As for scales on fish or snakes, the derivation is from Old French escale ‘cup, scale, shell pod, husk’ which is from Proto-Germanic.

And this is where I go off piste... because I started to wonder about all the other languages such as Mandarin Chinese, Hindi, Swahili etc that might have roots in other older forms. Which then took me to thinking about whether all languages could be traced back to some original sounds.

This seems to be a highly controversial subject which goes something like this:

Around 50,000 years ago, something happened to our ancestors in Africa. Anatomically modern humans, who had existed for at least 150,000 years prior, suddenly began behaving differently. Until then, their conduct scarcely differed from that of their hominid cousins, the Neanderthals. Both buried their dead; both used stone tools; and as social apes, both had some form of communication, which some think was gestural.

Then something changed as humans began making much better stone tools. They started burying their dead with accoutrements that suggested religion. And perhaps most telling, Homo Sapiens began creating art. Some scientists think that fully modern human language enabled this great leap forward. It enabled abstract thought, the deciding factor in archaic humans becoming me and you. And because some scientists surmise that language arose only once, they believe that before leaving Africa to colonize the world, all humankind spoke one language.

They think that language arose only once because human genetic evidence appears to support some basic assumptions. The human genome indicates that all humanity traces its ancestry to as few as 1,000 individuals who lived between 50,000 and 60,000 years ago. This small founding population may explain how the capacity for language spread so quickly.

One example of this theory which I’ve heard of before is a word roughly corresponding to ‘water,’ which could be rendered in proto-sapiens as ‘AQWA’ which appears in many languages. In Latin it's ‘aqua’, in Japanese ‘aka’ means ‘bilge water’, in Chechen ‘aq’ means ‘to suck, in an African Kung dialect ‘kau’ means "to rain" and in Central American Yucatec, ‘uk’ means ‘to be thirsty’.

The trouble is that all this can’t be proved. But it is fascinating isn’t it?

Belvoir Bay
Scales are balances, so:

On Balance

a half moon bay
mid summer
midday

on the horizon
islands were perfectly matched

that’s when I asked her the question
the perfect spot
at the perfect time
minds and bodies meeting

ten years later
she’s still not replied
my best friend
how good is that

               (First published in Purple Patch)

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Tuesday, 1 March 2022

Scales - Tweak That Metronome


 No amount of practising simplified Mozart pieces or running up and down major and minor scales would impress the piano teacher. I stopped trying.

In the pubs I grew up in, there was always a piano, sometimes more than one, and before the juke-box ruled the roost, there was always someone to play it. As a young child it was a skill I longed to learn. I listened to my mother’s Russ Conway records and loved him. I plonked about, wishing a proper tune would come out. It never did. I was enthralled by Sparky’s Magic Piano which we had as a set of 78 rpm records, so badly scratched that they hissed and crackled.  I was about seven and a half when my hands could just about stretch an octave, the required size for piano lessons. A teacher was found.

At first, it was okay. I suppose it was the novelty of actually learning to play the piano properly and it wasn’t all nursery rhyme tunes. It was harder than I had imagined but I soon moved on to simplified versions of the classic composers works which I enjoyed. As I got a bit older, my problem was the teacher and I would dread Saturday mornings so much I would keep a low profile, hoping my dad might forget to take me. He never did. The lessons took place in a small upstairs room at the teacher’s house. The house is close to where I live now and still makes me shudder, though he is long dead and I’m sure his house is a lovely home to someone else. I used to wait in a dim sitting room full of dark furniture with the deep tick-tock of a huge grandfather clock and the piano sounds of the person finishing off their lesson. Then it would be my turn. A whole hour in the little room, foggy and stinking with his cigar smoke that gave me a headache and I would feel tense if he left his desk by the window to stand behind me, always too close. The lesson would begin with a run through the scales and broken chords to warm up then he’d find me a piece of sight-reading that he would complain about. Nothing was good enough. I didn’t play to the correct speed, so he fiddled with the metronome and made me keep time with it over and over until I had it to his satisfaction or I’d given up, fighting tears.

My pleas to stop the lessons fell on deaf ears at home. I was at secondary school with homework and all manner of other things. I’d passed some grades, it must be time for a break. I tried to explain what made me feel uncomfortable and wary of the teacher, a hand on my shoulder, a hand on my thigh, just standing too close to me. I couldn’t say it.  Eventually, the teacher sent my father a letter to say that he was discontinuing my lessons in favour of more promising pupils. Good. I hope they push his podgy hands away.

I’m glad I learnt to play the piano. I’m glad of the enjoyment I get from having the occasional blast, satisfied that I can still do it.  I’m not in any way a talented musician – in the family that title belongs to my son and one of my nephews.

My Haiku poem, inspired by the scales:

“Play me C Major
Now with both hands together
No! No! Start again.

“Just play the right hand
Keep up with the metronome!
No! No! Start again!

“What are you doing?
Did I say play G Major?
No! Don’t touch F sharp!”

On my own piano,
Happy and loving music
Without him shouting.

Running through the scales,
Smooth and shiny piano keys
And my eyes closed, tight.

He made me wary,
He was a scary monster.
He made me silent.

When I found my voice,
There was no one to listen.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Monday, 16 February 2015

Skin



Skin
 
Skin is motes of dust.
Once knew life. Falls, like snow.
 
Skin turned to dry rind.
Stiff scales, no give. Cracked hard hide.
 
Skin met the sun’s stroke
And glowed red then oozed and peeled.
 
Skin was warm and soft,
A shield of flesh wrapped round form.
 
Skin was blushed with blood
At the hot whip of a glance.
 
Skin was formed deep in
Layers, to shift, float, find the light.
 
Skin is the thin film
Stream, not to be stepped in twice.
 
 
Heather Taylor