A few of the endearments have inclined themselves toward being sonnets, or sonnetlike (if you like a sonnet with very short lines and lots of internal rhyme). One is my little love, which is just now up online. It’s part of the new issue of Spiral Orb, the journal of permaculture poetics edited by Eric Magrane—a fine and interesting experiment worth spending some time with.
My little love rhymes with another sonnet-endearment: turtle dove. If two endearment-sonnets’ last lines lap over each other in rhyme like this, are they twins? Sonsonnets? Twonets? Twinnets? Squarenets? Sonnet squares? That last phrase makes me think of petits-fours—at any rate, it seems like it should be some kind of dessert….
I have avoided including words in the endearments that give the final endearment away—so, no lovely in my little love. If such a word appears in an anagram, though, that seems fine. No surprise is lost.
tilt me lovely
Webster’s Collegiate has long been the dictionary of record for the endearments. But today I’ve decided to admit the OED, at least in some cases.
It was my honey that tipped me over into those honeyed waters: I wanted hy to be a word, because that would allow omen : omen hy y. Webster’s had no entry for it, but the dear old OED offers up the obsolete hie | hy. This seems to me legitimate. The OED has already suggested an obsolete endearment, cinnamon, which yielded a poem. (For contrast, see the Scrabble dictionary, which includes words only for the sake of having more of them, and which, as I’ve mentioned before, I will never use, much as I never order from Amazon. It’s a matter of principle.)
† hie | hy, n.
Haste, speed. Chiefly in phr. in hie, in haste, with haste, quickly, soon: often added merely for rhyme’s sake.
O, what I would do for rhyme’s sake, which is far from mere.
I also wanted ny to be a word, which would allow home. The best the OED offers is the proper N.Y., and I am far from abandoning all constraints, and the proper-noun one still feels useful. So, alas, no home for my honey.
Although there is talk in my household of investing in the full twenty-volume OED (plus the three-volume additions series), for now I use the online version. It’s one of the principle benefits of university affiliation, access to all those words.
Webster’s, lest you worry, I will always begin with you.
I anagrammed my dearest dear back in 2012; after nearly three years of incubation, it’s a poem as of today. It’s one of several endearments I’ve made that come from oldtime Appalachian tunes—in this case, unmistakably, from the Tommy Jarrell song “As Time Draws Near.”
Finishing the poem made me want to set down some of the other endearments that have their sources in oldtime music. I didn’t plan on drawing from those tunes for this project, exactly, and of course some endearments show up lots of places. But oldtime informs another series of poems I’ve been working on for years, and I love to play it, and all this probably caused certain endearments to tug on my memory more. A little list:
my dearest dear: “As Time Draws Near,” Tommy Jarrell (Clawhammer Banjo Vol. 3, County LP 757, 1978)
my darling: “Your Long Journey,” Doc Watson and Rosa Lee Watson (The Watson Family, Folkways FA 2366, 1963)
turtle dove: “My Pretty Crowing Chicken,” Frank Proffitt (High Atmosphere, Rounder 0028, 1974), the last stanza of which is:
My own true love, my sweet turtle dove,
When shall I see you again?
When the moon and the stars enter into yonders green
And the sky shall shed no more rain, rain, rain,
And the sky shall shed no more rain.
One thing about computers: They make it easy to come up with a plethora of options, and harder to take the time to think about a single option’s merit. I always begin writing an endearment by hand. Despite this, on typing up the initial draft, I often end up with several nearly identical electronic iterations, which begin to blend together on the screen. I print them out, but it can still be hard to tell what’s what.
Thus the trusty scissors, which I have just employed for cinnamon. The poem has started to shape itself into phrases, but their relation to one another has been eluding me. I printed the poem out and cut it into word- and phrase-sized slips of paper. A few rearrangings, a hand-written recording of the result, and suddenly a new option leapt out. Not a change to make the poem perfect, but one I hadn’t seen on the screen.
Was it the slips of paper? Was it the clean, blank page, with title at the top and final word at the bottom? Was it the writing of a slantwise draft in the margin, which is now the only draft on that page? Or was it just that essential ingredient of the endearments (and of most poems), time?
Speaking of time, cinnamon is from a very other one. I encountered it in a post by Katherine Connor Martin on the Oxford Dictionaries blog, about endearments that have fallen from use. Cinnamon is Chaucer-era, and it seems a fine one to bring back. Next in line: turtle (although I am taking the liberty of using the full phrase turtle dove).
And speaking of computers, and vexation, a project I’ve been working on for a while is just released. Forces of Attention, a series of objects designed to help people mediate their relationships with their computers, debuts with series 1: THE WORLD IS NOT IN HERE. You can get a copy at todointhenewyear.net. If you do, and if you have thoughts about it, I’d like very much to know.
It arrived, and I sat it up in a chair and took its picture. It’s not in bookcloth, like my tenth edition (outdated, but the dictionary of record for almost all of the endearments thus far). It has that shiny paper-over-boards binding. I’ll try not to hold that against it.
The plastic shrink wrap with its silver sticker showing a cloud of new words and saying “defining the 21st century” is definitely not the dictionary’s fault either. The volume keeps its integrity in the face of gloss, whether in binding or in marketing.
I unwrapped it and opened it up—the pages are all still white, and still fitted against each other perfectly, never been thumbed through. This won’t last, but it’s nice.
The page to which I opened is the one with Markov’s principle as one of the headings, and with the little drawing of a desk, which accompanies the entry for marquetry. (Which, incidentally, shares ancestry with marketing.) As with Scrabble, with the endearments, the chances of a q are small. M is not so common either. It’d be nice to have both sometime.