Skip to main content

Very Rich and Dishevelled


 

‘Always rich and dishevelled, it (English) is fast becoming very rich and dishevelled.’
William Empson (Seven Types of Ambiguity p 236).

Dishevelled – what a wonderful word!  It’s one of those pleasant-sounding English words we all use from time to time, readily understood and unquestioned, which refers to an absence, disruption or diminution of a quality described by a never-, or hardly ever, heard adjective.  I mean, have you ever found something hevelled, appointing, traught or even ruptive?  And as for combobulated...

I was reminded of the richness of our language when reading an interview with the admirable Judith Kerr, who's just died.  I've admired her and her books for a long time, thanks yet again to my children for introducing me to someone I wouldn't otherwise have known.  Surely one of the most shevelled of people and fluent in three languages, she was comparing French and English, the former distinguished by its precision, the latter by its wealth of synonyms – well, its richness.  She also contrasted the brevity of French with ‘endless sentences in German.’

Our sentences – mine, to be sure – can go on a bit.  Or be very short.  But we can say something in so many different ways, sometimes clearer than others, which can mean different things, to different people, at different times.  Which brings me back to Empson’s ambiguities.

I found that book difficult, understanding parts for a while and then losing the plot, finding myself presently unable to recall all seven with any clarity.  In another interview, Judith Kerr told the story of Einstein, a family friend, explaining the theory of relativity to her mother, who said she totally understood it at the time, only couldn’t remember it afterwards.

Well, ambiguity is about more than one meaning, if not frank inexactness.
Oh yes, the First Ambiguity was the simple (do I mean that?) metaphor.  And I seem to remember that if you build a story on a metaphor, you create an allegory.  But I might have that wrong, as indeed might be the suggestion that the tiger who came to tea was actually Hitler.

No apologies then for such unkempt thoughts, if not ramblings, which might even be the richer for not being brushed neatly into place.  Dishevelled: from the old French deschevele, the hair being uncombed, it gives an untidy appearance.

Feeling ignorant and foolish, I’ve just googled those seven, and warm to the sixth, which is ‘when a statement says nothing and the readers are forced to invent a statement of their own, most likely in conflict with that of the author.’

Here’s a very short dishevelled poem playing with words – words that aren’t for the most part mine, words unsure of their own meaning and words which could do with a sound brushing.
I wish I could draw like Judith Kerr did, let alone speak three languages fluently.  But it’s good to be reminded of what we do have, in English.


Very rich and dishevelled
not poor at all
we’ve never been hevelled
rather rich as a dish-
evelled. Deliver
us from evell,
may we ever stay evel
I think I meant level
for ever and ever
Amen. Sorry
our men? We shall be rich
very rich and dishevelled
always English
not poor at all
and fast becoming…

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Signpost

Here’s a signpost – originally distinctive, being unique and handmade, and now even more so, with the evidence of ageing.   … numbers, distances, which way? While all signposts are interesting in their duty to inform, their presentation of choices and their simple declarative presence, I find this one special. It’s not just that it has much to say in terms of where you actually are, in which direction you might choose to go, how far your destination is (down to quarter mile accuracy) and even if your chosen method of transport is suitable. It’s also special in the simple elegance of its design, with the arms’ supports and the bevelled edges of the main post rising to that unexpected point. But the specialness goes further.  My friend James Ravilious took me there just at this time of year, over twenty years ago.  It was then upright and brilliant white, with crisp black letters. He certainly thought it was special, photographing it lovingly, in May 1988 ( Chawleigh Week Cross –

My blog this month isn't a poem – nor even several...

  My blog this month isn't a poem – nor even several. No, this time it's a set of little films of poems. After sharing them with several of you, I apologise straight away if you've already seen them, but you might be interested to hear some thoughts on the matter. And if you don't want to hear me thinking about making films of poems, just ignore what follows and go straight to the YouTube link.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qbwJYkDeGIs&list=PLbC1BOoALpN-xyuGJCIAqJjImAi1aAfrY   I hope you enjoy the films. And please tell me what you think! You may remember a couple of the poems appearing in past blogs, with me writing about the possible presentation of poetry in this way. Time was when poetry existed solely as the spoken or sung word – it took some time for it to be written down.  Now, for the most part, it exists and flourishes in both these forms. Recently, and refreshingly, it seems to have been recovering more of its original orality. Now we liv

A plague on all these houses

It's a great poem, Lowell's For the Union Dead. I only recently came across it - at least, that's what I thought - but it's been grunting (I choose the word advisedly) away in my head ever since, especially that fourth verse. Behind their cage, yellow dinosaur steam shovels were grunting as they cropped up tone of mush and grass to gouge their underworld garage. It took a little while for me to realise why. Before (I thought) I'd read it, I wrote a poem about the new housing estates springing up round our little town. I was thinking about the various creatures that had lived on the field that was to be covered with houses - sheep primarily - and then those that were to follow. The first were, well, a sort of dinosaur. Here's my second verse: At first it was the one-armed monsters, set free within their caged arena to trundle round, and gently paw the ground, then pile up mounds of earth accompanied by Lego men. I was pleased