Category Archives: Poems, prose & song

Beware the ides of March

 

The Death of Caesar (1798) by Vincenzo Camuccini / Wikimedia Commons

Ides: The “middle day of a Roman month,” early 14th century, from Old French ides (12c.), from Latin idus (plural) “the ides,” a word perhaps of Etruscan origin. In the Roman calendar the eighth day after the nones, corresponding to the 15th of March, May, July, and October; the 13th of other months. “Debts and interest were often payable on the ides” [Lewis]. (from Online Etymology Dictionary)

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Caesar:
Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue shriller than all the music
Cry “Caesar!” Speak, Caesar is turn’d to hear.

Soothsayer:
Beware the ides of March.

Caesar:
What man is that

Brutus:
A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

— from Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare

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In the news (Nov 26), including a list of best grammar blogs

Ellen Jovin / Facebook

In the news this past week: a grammar guru solves the world’s grammar problems on the streets of New York City; Jonathan Franzen gets Twitter’s knickers in a twist with his rules for aspiring writers; how Calvin Harris has managed to keep his accent; and Glosso is listed among 5 best blogs for language learning …  Continue reading

Killer Queen & Royal Jelly: What’s turpentine got to do with it?

 

Gelatin dessert / Wikimedia

With Bohemian Rhapsody becoming the second-highest grossing music biopic of all time, Freddie Mercury and Queen are back in the news and on the airwaves. There’s a word in the chorus of “Killer Queen” (“Mercury’s piano-led paean to a Moët-quaffing courtesan”*) that I’ve only just realized I’ve been hearing wrong all these years. And I had always assumed Freddie knew something I didn’t when he sang the French loan word. How could I have been so wrong? Continue reading

Futility

Wilfred Owen on Folkstone Beach; idea of Danny Boyle

 

Futility
By Wilfred Owen

Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds—
Woke once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?

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