Are Songs Poetry? - Yes

 Are songs poetry?

 That’s a broad question and something that my late friend and poet Christo Heyworth had an ongoing gentle debate with. It was concerning the songs of the Moody Blues, both Christo and I being ‘experts’ on their work. I was ‘yes’ because I find the lyrics to most of their songs poetic, depending on the writer, and all of their albums contain a poem by the late Graeme Edge, drummer and a founder member of the band. Graeme’s poems were performed or recorded as the spoken word set to music and often by Mike Pinder. Graeme’s poems which became actual songs include ‘I’ll Be Level With You’ from the Octave album. I showed Christo my prized copy of one of Graeme’s poetry books. As for songs being poetry, he was a definite ‘no’. I couldn’t persuade him otherwise, but we had some great conversations about it at poetry evenings. We discussed other things too, like the paintings of L.S.Lowry and Christo’s visits to poetry events in Much Wenlock, Shropshire. Christo was always excellent company with lots of interesting topics to share. I wonder what he might have thought of my other poetic song choices.

The lyrics of The Smiths, Morrissey, Oasis, Liam and Noel Gallagher, I can read as poetry. Their creative use of language appeals to me and really makes me listen. Liam’s ‘Paper Crown’ and Morrissey’s ‘Every Day is Like Sunday’ are just two examples of what would be a very long list. I was about sixteen when I first saw Raymond ‘Gilbert’ O’Sullivan on Top of the Pops singing ‘Nothing Rhymed’. There he was, an odd looking bloke with an over-sized cap, sounding a bit like George Formby. He captured my attention with the poetry of his words.

Not all songs can work as poems but poems can work as songs, and I don’t just mean The Song of Hiawatha by Longfellow – I can still recite the part I had to learn by heart in the first year of high school, but I’ll spare you that. I will complain that schools don’t include learning poetry by heart or even reading a whole book, from what I can gather. Anyway, that aside, Robert Burns wrote ballads and sang them, ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’ and ‘Auld Lang Syne’, two that come to mind.

Radio DJ and musician, Mike Read, wrote music to accompany some of John Betjeman’s poems. Quote from Wikipedia, “…Thirty of these songs were recorded by artists including Cliff Richard, David Essex, Gene Pitney and Marc Almond for the 2006 various artists’ album Words/Music, and subsequently re-released in 2008 as a double CD titled Sound of Poetry. Read’s production of the musical ‘Betjeman’ based on the above has occasionally been staged for charities, including the Royal Marsden Hospital and Children with Leukaemia.”  One of my favourites is David Essex singing Myfanwy.

With an apologetic nod to Christo, though I'm sure he wouldn't mind and would even expect it, I'll finish where I started with the Moody Blues. This time, John Lodge with 'my song', and to me, a poem.

  

One More Time to Live  -  John Lodge

Look out of my window
See the world passing by
See the look in her eye

One more time to live and I have made it mine
Leave the wise to write for they write worldly rhymes

And he who wants to fight begins the end of time...
For I have riches more than these
For I have riches more than these

Desolation
Creation
Tell me someone why there's only confusion
Evolution

Tell me someone that this is all an illusion
Pollution
Tell me someone
Saturation

Tell me someone
Population
Annihilation
Revolution

Tell me someone why this talk of revolution
Confusion
Tell me someone when we're changing evolution
Illusion

Tell me someone
Conclusion
Tell me someone
Starvation

Degradation
Humiliation
Contemplation
Changes in my life

Inspiration
Elation
Changes in my life
Salvation

Changes in my life
Communication
Compassion
Solution

Look out on the hedgerow
As the world rushes by
Hear the birds sign a sigh

One more tree will fall how strong the growing vine
Turn the earth to sand and still permit no crime
How one thought will live provide the others die
For I have riches more than these
For I have riches more than these

(From the album Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, 1971)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Most Boring Place - Sunday Afternoon, Age 6

I’ve always got something to do or something to think about.  I like to be alone with my thoughts but equally, I like to enjoy good company. There have been things I’ve had to endure that could be called boring, or made me feel extremely fed up. These would be events out of my control, not going according to plan and causing frustration.

Flying back to the UK from the USA should have been an exciting adventure. It was winter time in the early ‘80s and I was fortunate enough to be waiting in the Club Class departure lounge at New York’s JFK airport.  I was travelling alone and on a registered stand-by ticket, happy to wait, sitting on a comfy armchair by the window, watching the snow. Flights came and went. Hours passed. I had everything I needed and felt looked after, but I was tired, jet lag without the jet. I didn’t want to fall asleep and miss a flight I could have taken, though I’m sure someone would come to get me. O’Hare International, Chicago, had redirected their UK flights to JFK due to heavy snow, so planes became full. By the time I was called, I was dead on my feet, but happy to get a place anywhere, on any plane that could fly me home. I had a seat in the centre block of a 747, next to a pleasant German gent who kept trying to make conversation with me. No common language between us, so we occasionally smiled at each other instead. He was going to Heathrow, then on to Frankfurt. He went to sleep. I’d finished my book, couldn’t get into the in-flight movie and probably slept a little, but I remember sitting there, annoyed with the drone of the engines and willing myself home – there was a long train journey to come next. I think I was more fed up than bored. Boring is what I’d call some winter Sunday afternoons of my childhood.

I was an only child until age seven and a half when my sister arrived, so I was used to being doted on by both sets of grandparents and any number of aunts and uncles. Nothing changed, my family was her family and she just slotted in and got passed around for a cuddle. Being a baby, she didn’t spoil whatever I was playing with. I was a well-behaved little treasure, most of the time. Our family ran pubs and in those days licensing hours meant that they were closed in the afternoons and for longer on Sundays. This was family time when we’d all get together for a meal. This is when it got boring. It started well, lots of fun and me being made a fuss of. We would all get round the table to eat, which was always good. At one set of grandparents, I would eat jelly and fruit with a small, shell-shaped spoon, sitting up straight on a high stool. At my other grandparents, homemade rice pudding which was deliciously creamy. Once, as the roast dinner was being served, I rudely remarked, “Oh no, not peas again!” I was swiftly removed by my mother, taken out of the room for a wallop on my bottom, left to cry for a bit then brought back in to apologise. I must have been having an ‘off’ day from my usual sweet little princess self. After dinner, everyone sat in the lounge and eventually fell asleep. I hated it. This was the most boring place in my world. My nanna would sit down, smoke a Park Drive, pick her knitting up and go at it frantically until she nodded off. My dad might go outside to check something on someone’s car first, but soon I would be in a room full of sleeping relatives. It seemed like ages, but probably wasn’t. I’d have a colouring book to do and one of my grandmothers didn’t mind if I turned the contents of her sideboard upside down. Sing Something Simple would come on the wireless which made it even more boring. If I hear Sing Something Simple nowadays, it fills me with happy memories of my idyllic childhood.

My poem:

Sunday roast with Yorkshire pudding,
And why did we always have peas?
Apple pie or sometimes trifle,
Fond thoughts of childhood, fam’ly teas.

The nearly quiet afternoon
In the fading November light
Those all around me are sleeping
And they are such a boring sight.

Like book-ends, Nanna and Grandad,
Snooze cosily on the settee.
Grandad’s Brylcreem’d hair all messy,
Nan’s knitting slipped down on her knee.

Has my auntie just stopped breathing?
Uncle Bill has started snoring.
I’m looking for something to do.
Flipping Sundays are so boring!

Sing Something Simple has come on,
It’s time for us to go, hooray!
They’ll all wake up for opening time,
Running pubs is our family way.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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It seems I’m just another feckless ‘welfare’ scrounger……

We are all searching for things that make sense of our world, looking for reasons why things that happen in our lives happen and, increasingly, for someone to blame when things go wrong. In the public sphere we do not lack assistance in identifying the guilty parties, from government propaganda to the powerful, unaccountable media all too happy to dance to the establishment’s bidding. Unfortunately, those searching for the truth will be hard-pressed to sort out the wheat from the chaff, to separate out the inflammatory language used from the reality of the situation. Most people are conditioned not to probe too deeply, not to question the words used, but just to accept them at face value. And repetition is a valuable tool in bludgeoning the public into acceptance of the terminology and its associated narrative.

Take the word ’welfare’, for instance, with its connotations of getting something for nothing, of undeserved hand-outs to the feckless and workshy. Replacing the previous more anodyne, factually accurate and less emotive description of ‘social security benefits’, welfare has become a catch-all, shorthand for ‘that which scroungers receive.’  Therefore all benefit recipients are scroungers, no question about it.

After a lifetime of not being, I suddenly find myself a scrounger! The State Retirement Pension, which I foolishly thought I’d earned through my payment of National Insurance contributions throughout my working life, is actually a hand-out. And I’m a scrounger, just like all the other benefit recipients, for our benefits, received for whatever reason, including Retirement Pension, are all crudely lumped together under the umbrella and disparaging term of ‘welfare’. It’s a useful device for an unscrupulous government to use, for it means that the overall figure of the cost of ‘welfare’ is hugely inflated by millions of contributions-based Retirement Pensions. This in turn fuels the resentment of those struggling on poverty wages that they are subsidising a vast pool of layabouts. Still, it’s better that they focus their ire on hapless disabled, sick, unemployed, retired people rather than questioning a system that produces scandalously low wages, exorbitant rents and unaffordable fuel prices, isn’t it?

In its tireless efforts to educate us, the government is about to issue all taxpayers with a breakdown of how their personal tax is spent. Guess what – by far the largest portion of this is our old friend, ‘welfare’. £168 billion of it. All those scroungers, living off my taxes! Oh wait, what it doesn’t tell you is that this huge amount includes social care for the sick, the disabled and the elderly. And the costs associated with children in care. And millions of retired public servants’ occupational pensions – nurses, fire-fighters, soldiers etc., etc. Once again, I find myself on ‘welfare’ - a scrounger! The hapless taxpayer will search their statement in vain for this contextual information. Most will not question the basis of the information given, will tut contemptuously at the scroungers and nod approvingly at the next round of benefit cuts. Mission accomplished – again!

Here’s a poem By Anna Travers that gives a flavour of what is going on.

Thank you for reading,

Sheilagh

Divide and Rule

Dirty Government
Rotten Scoundrels
Taking away from the poor people
And giving it all to the rich
Twisted morals
Pure Lies
Dirty Tactics

Bedroom tax
Smaller house
Breaking up of the family unit
No more room for the grandchildren
Empty Purse
Empty Heart
Empty Space

Redtop Papers
Real Propaganda
No ways of discovering the truth
Can you see the bigger picture
To Divide
To Rule
To Conquer

To Unite
To fight
Time to stand side by side
Help each other , time to thrive
in solidarity
In Unity

Anna Travers

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When you put Britain First...

Good evening readers. This week on the blog, we're looking at the theme of Britain.
Britain, that geographically similar bundle of island parts that has, for several centuries now, escaped all attempts to break it apart. Sure, we could all be better off with some crazy devolution-maxi-plus option where a layer of government on every street corner allows all of us all to manage our own affairs but, whatever your recent persuasions on the Scottish referendum may be, it is hard to deny that every extra level of such bureaucracy will bring with it enough red tape to make the bunting for a jubilee.

We are, as we've been all our lives, united. In fact, we're not only united but proud. Proud to be British. The best of British. Good old fashioned British values. But what are these ideals, these values,  for which so many people are prepared to fight.

Last month, former Prime Minister and failed public speaking champion Gordon Brown was roused enough by these ideas to give what many have called a barnstorming performance of a speech in favour of the union. A plea to all of those still not convinced by the notion of togetherness that we are, in fact, greater as a sum of our parts, better together.

Why then, in the month since our estranged partner decided not to divorce the rest of us, are we now seeing a rise in the popularity of the Britain First movement?

I must confess that, I've only just come on to this one- given to my avoiding the internet and the turmoil facebook brings, but, as my news feed is steadily being filled by these Britain First pages, I, like many people, have finally noticed it.
A quick look at the website feels like a second coming of the BNP and their fascist rhetoric. The homepage runs a piece about the absence of a white history month and the abhorrence of having a Black History Month. It then demeans any point it may have been making by talking about a Gypsy History Month.
These people, as far as I can see, have been dropped on their heads. Either that or the severe bashing of rhetoric and fascist literature they have been subjected to has left them dazed and concussed. What other reason can there possibly be for someone to claim they are putting Britain First whilst at the same time demanding that the repressed, those forced to flee, those put through the most inhumane and unthinkable injustices known to man, that seek refuge on our island in the long held knowledge that they will be accepted and taken in- where they can live a free and happy life and where they can contribute to society in a way impossible in the lands of their past must look elsewhere? Who are these people that believe their birth right is to look down on difference?
For anyone in doubt, I can confirm that these are the people who believe it is their right to be before anyone else in the dole queue. They want their imported A&E service before any foreign cleaner, doctor or nurse- despite the fact that they've been there all day and that the service only runs because of their input. And yet they're happy to share their own powerful mother tongue with the rest of the world, nay, take offence when it isn't used at all times.
Well, I say let these people have it.  Let them have the language they've half learnt yet feel so strongly about and let them keep it just as the day they were born. Not for them will be the new mongrel terms being coined everyday. Not for them are any of the words required to order takeaway food. Not for them are the words of technology or the language of the internet they will need to survive.

Let them instead own the word bigot. These people, these 'Britons' don't deserve even the term used to describe them. They show nothing of the values of inclusion, of compassion, of growth, togetherness or industry. They wouldn't be opening up their hospitals for those in need and they won't be giving anyone a leg up in the world when they need it the most. No, these people look out for themselves and nobody else. They'd have poets, writers and radical thinkers against the wall quicker than you could say fascist and so, this week when your facebook wall is peppered with the Britain First posts, I'd ask you to please take a moment to think about what exactly Britain is and what exactly their message is. Don't repost, don't share or like. Simply give them a little Anglo Saxon reminder of your own- in the roughest, most primitive words they understand.

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Leaving Timmy down the well

Something Refreshing

Sitting sassy, make mine a lassi
Pass it fast, let it splash
Alabaster flash
Cat laps, getting fat
She's a terrible waitress



Inspired by Abdul's storytelling rhymes, I thought I'd write a little ditty and take the week's theme ever so literally.  It's all square windows from here on in (with grubby fingerprints on the glass). 

This week I have been taking my drinks cold, particularly tea.  As it hots up, I distract myself at work by finding new ways to quency my thirst.  So green tea, peppermint tea and licorice tea have all been made with a very small amount of hot water then topped up with ice cold water from the dispenser.  I think I find them more palatable that way.  The flavour seems more delicate when the tea is cold.

Yesterday, I inadvertently discovered lassi.  While ordering online from the takeaway, I clicked on the lassi to find out what it was.  I know I'm a lassi but didn't realise there was an edible version of the gentler (the greatest misnomer ever coined) sex.  Lassi is, I discovered, yoghurt and milk mixed together with optional flavouring.  So it's a smoothie.  Sort of.  I know this because I ordered it by accident while trying to find out what it was.  I found it delicious, Raven said it was disgusting, and I bought yoghurt today with the intention of drinking more of the stuff.  I expect to gain about 2 stone per month. 

This makes me realise that I had always focused on the 'fresh' part of 'refreshment' - as if refreshments were something light and airy, like dew or a gentle breeze.  Refreshment does, in fact include everything from caramel latte to deep fried Mars Bars. 

To recap:

Fresh: something new, different or recently created
Refresh: to reinvigorate, to renew or update
Refreshment: a light snack or drink, or to give fresh energy

I assume everyone else has these muddled definitions in their heads and it's not a(nother) sign of senility.  Someone tell me it's an integral part of poetics and not early onset Alzheimer's.  No, really.  I've drunk a lot of lassi.  And I'm not sure whether to call the RSPCA. 

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Not in the now

Here are some more wonderful insights from the fantastic David Riley.

We're the only creatures in the universe with a real humdinger of a sense of the future. That and the past are the places we live in the most, rarely in the here and now. Also, isn't living in the  future always seen as the best? Think of the everyday phrases that have praise for living in the future built in. from forward thinker, planner to "ahead of the curve" and the almost business-speak, "I'm on it." Whole industries are predicated on it, advertising for example, not to mention the multi-trillions in the stock exchanges betting lives on what will happen from the next few seconds to few months. In fact, think of the way time infiltrates language dragging along its simple praise and blame classifications with it. From "he lives in the past" to "old school," there's a whole subtle set of implications as to how labels are placed to sum up others, it's the essence of spin doctoring, sound bites and a modernity based on planning for whatever colour of future your lords and masters think is good for you. They'll indoctrinate you about it on Twitter if that's not out of date yet.

The future is a very egalitarian tyranny, gripping most of us. There's the obnoxious middle class idea of the "gap year" (gap between what exactly - and how come they know there'll be a thing for there to be a gap in?) and the ludicrous notion of youthful hedonism - apparently living for the moment but actually built on ideas about the future (the ant and the grasshopper were both creatures tied to the hands of a clock in someone's head). Or if that nonsense doesn't appeal you could be nostalgic (aww bless), or, "yes nice Christmas, quiet but OK thanks." What do you think of them, eh?

We're also the only creatures we know of with a sophisticated language, tied to time. That's not to say that language changes over time, even though it obviously does but to suggest that in all our thinking, time is there allowing us to make judgements about people based on attitude to time.

And in poetry? Time has been there, implicitly and explicitly, the future doing its job as assistant seducer in time's winged chariot or a place for reminiscence where the clocks have been stopped. Not surprisingly poetry too changes over time - but how much are its attitudes to time itself altered, especially the time as aide to implicit judgement mentioned above? It has the possibility to do so, with its inventive approach to meaning it could stretch the tired metaphors of spin, past and future, give us a new language and new attitudes to each other.

Perhaps we could make new year resolutions to see if we could remake language and thought for the future. Don't put it off for another time.

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The pen is mightier...

It really does sounds quite dull; a word, just a single little word. A combination of letters which are just squiggly lines really. It’s just ink on a page. A dictionary may have been the most boring thing I remember from high school. My tutor would make us pick up the dictionary, and find words we’d never heard of and learn it every single lesson. But my gods I’m so glad she did. In my opinion words are EXTREMELY powerful. You can look at a word, ponder its sound and origin and curves yet there is so much more than that. The physicality of words, the meaning, how it’s evolved through time through tongue and paper, how many have been lost and the ones we’ve invented have influenced our actions since we learnt to talk.

The written word has influenced for centuries. Words are used to express opinion, which often over time become fact in society’s mentality. The most influential example of the written word must be religion. None in particular, they’re all pretty fierce, but religion is a good example of how the written word stirs action whether those actions are negative or positive. Words create emotion, words start action, words mean consequence, words can mean change; quite simply words are what we live by. So binding them in a book with one little definition doesn’t nearly do language justice. You can whack an individual over the head with a book will bloody hurt, but publishing the contents of a book featuring strong opinions could cause far more damage.

Words are bloody lethal. This is why I’m a writer. I hold so much respect for language and the power it holds. I’m finish with a mini-saga I wrote that was put into my creative writing portfolio. I think it’s an example of how powerful words can be in only 50 words.

“Delicate but with fiery beauty the forest nymph dances spreading life across the land, only to be praised by gnashing machines, her blood seeping and staining the earth in silent protest. Her song haunts in the wind, mingling with the soft cry of a solitary wolf roaming the dusky twilight”.

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Armitage, Dyson and French Lesbian Poetry

Earlier this month, as I’m sure some of you will have read, the inventor of the bagless vacuum cleaner, Sir James Dyson, claimed that the UK had become “decadent” and had forgotten what had made it wealthy in the first place. He went on to suggest that there was a need for more discussion on technology so “little Angelina wanting to go off  to study French lesbian poetry will suddenly realise that things like keeping an aircraft industry, developing nuclear power, high-speed trains, are important”.

In response I’d argue that perhaps there needs to be more discussion regarding poetry so little James wanting to go off to study engineering will suddenly realise that things like language and art are important – not merely self-indulgent – and that contentment isn’t necessarily a by-product of wealth.

Last week, Simon Armitage (poetry’s knight in shining armour) defended poetry from the comments of Sir James by saying that, far from being self-indulgent, poetry could hone skills useful to any society or economy. “The more control that you’ve got over language and the more you appreciate how much other people have controlled it, the better place you put yourself in,” he said. “I imagine that, in some way, that even applies to making vacuum cleaners. Language is the most powerful force in the world. It’s certainly a more powerful force than suction.”

I’m proud to live in a society where individuals champion the merits of poetry; where it is taught, not just in the public schools, but in our state schools; where those who care about more than wealth can study it at university, and where we have the freedom to write, read and publish.

About eight years ago in a second-hand London bookshop – awash with sepia, dust and stacks of musty books – I found a translated copy of No, I’m Not Afraid by the Russian poet Irina Ratushinskaya.

For those of you that don’t know, in 1983 Ratushinskaya was sentenced – aged just twenty-eight – to serve seven years in a Soviet hard labour camp (to be followed by five years internal exile) after being accused of anti-Soviet agitation and propaganda. Her crime: writing poetry.

As I stood in the safe and comfortable surroundings of the bookshop, I remember feeling humbled and slightly guilty – in my own darkness I had neglected to appreciate how fortunate I was to have the unrestricted freedom to write poetry. Ratushinskaya’s story, her determination and her poems reminded me about the value of something I’d previously taken for granted.

Whilst imprisoned Ratushinskaya refused to be silenced: scratching verses onto bars of soap with the burnt end of a matchstick, then memorising, before finally washing away the evidence. If her crime was writing poetry, then she proved that even imprisonment, beatings and force-feeding would not – and could not – prevent her from committing this ‘crime’ further. That language could prevail above it all – because, after all, it is the most powerful force in the world.

Thank you for reading,

Lara           

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Neonsense

There's a piece of music which, when it comes on the radio, often makes me pause in what I am doing and listen. It's Karl Jenkins' Adiemus which is the first track on the album Songs of Sanctuary. This album is part of a series of albums which go under the collective title of Adiemus. It's a vocal piece but doesn't contain words which you can find in a dictionary. The words were created by Jenkins to frame the voice. The words tend to end in vowels, much like the Japanese or Italian language, to allow the sound to carry rather than being cut off by the hard stop of a consonant. As there is no written conceptual framework for his language, it cannot be tied down to specific definitions. It does, however, evoke a response in the listener. Before I was aware that the language was created I believed it was in an African dialect and I imagined that the words had a joyful meaning to them. This perception is in part down to the music which accompanies the words but also in the sounds of the words themselves. The phonic qualities come with pre-loaded associations, specific to each individual hearing them and based on their cultural knowledge and understanding.

There's a poem by Charles Bernstein, A Defense of Poetry which is composed almost entirely of words which are spelt, and pronounced, incorrectly. In the poem, if I interpret it correctly, Bernstein is drawing attention to the shades of grey which exist in our interpretation of language and meaning. He says:

We have preshpas a blurrig of sense, whih
means not relying on convnetionally
methods of conveying sense but whih may
aloow for dar greater sense-smakihn

There is a differentiation, a dualistic perception of language, which creates a hierarchy of understanding. Any poet knows the power that words contain within their culture. This is why we edit. We remove words which lack sufficient value, replace them with alternatives which have greater impact or a more precise definition. The more complex and 'expensive' our language, however, the smaller the audience which will comprehend its meaning. Simplification creates a clearer picture, but might lack clarity or spectacle.

The metaphor is deemed one of the most precious commodities which a poet possesses. They are jealously guarded and, as Steve Stroud pointed out last week, collected. Metaphors are what made Shakespeare one of the most sublime writers the English language has known. In terms of lucrative words, he was a trillionaire. Metaphors are also one of the reasons many newcomers to his work find it inaccessible.

Asperger Syndrome is a condition on the Autism spectrum. One of the symptoms of Aspergers is the inability to understand metaphor which stems from the tendency to take comments literally, being unable to derive a second layer of meaning. A lack of ability with language leads to the diagnosis of a behavioural disorder. For this group, language is costly indeed. It is estimated that between 1 and 4% of people have Asperger Syndrome.

Language, like our culture, is split into the 'have's and the 'have not's. Much like the material commodities which line the pockets of the wealthy, language can be said to enrich the lives of those who enjoy it in abundance. Owning the right words, the proper accent can open doors, can raise prospects. However, that is not to say that a lack of wealth, a lack of linguistic understanding, is a signifier of poverty per se. Just as the majority of us, in this culture, get by from day to day with enough to get by and perhaps a little besides, so those with a narrow vocabulary are perfectly able to express themselves and glean value from their language. Where there is a danger is when the financial situation becomes depressed, when those who are getting by find that suddently they are failing to pay the rent. When public services which are utilised by the poorest are removed, then the hierarchy becomes a trap. When education becomes unaffordable and schools become academies which are run as businesses, able to sift out the brightest students for profit, then language and understanding become the reserve of a few rather than the pleasure of the majority.

On behalf of our children who are threatened with linguistic poverty I want to make it clear. This shall not be.

Nonsense and neologisms, slang and dialect form the base of some of the best writing. These features come from the roots. They are born from adversity and resistance.

Language is a commodity and like any commodity, its value is affected by demand. Shakespeare is valuable but it is specialised language. Some knowledge is required to open it up, to make it enjoyable. Metaphor is exquisite but it is not accessible to everyone. Nonsense is designed to be misunderstood, and so allows a variety of interpretations. New language, created for the purpose of expressing the voice is accessible by everyone.

Let's not partition our language, knowing its value and selfishly guarding it. Let's make it available to any who would own it. Leave it hanging from the lowest branches, painted on a wall, posted on a blog. Passing on the wealth of words is easy because it never diminishes the store, it only increases it. And remember, there are hidden troves of riches to be found in nonsense for those who care to dig.

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