Tag Archives: poetry

Artistic License

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I was on the way to my accountant’s office (tax time, don’t you love it?) when this sign stopped me cold:

Is the building bragging or warning? I didn’t know and had no way to find out. So too with this sign, which I spotted in Madrid:

Translated, this sign proclaims “GROUP ZERO” in pink and “POETRY AND PSYCHOANALYSIS” in smaller, black lettering. The illustration seems to promise a Freudian experience, but where does poetry come in?

I bet whoever created this sign would answer, “Everywhere!”

Somehow Poetry Alouders, with or without an exclamation point, sounds more joyous than “Open Mic.” Plus, if you read the pink letters aloud, you hear the homonym allowed, which makes a better statement than this ad does:

Perhaps this landlord should have a chat with the ARTIST RESIDING IN BUILDING. Fear of art, as well as fear of nearly anything, tends to dissipate with human connection. And just for the record — artists, shrinks, alouders, and poets are all welcome in my home.

Grammarian in Dublin, Part 2

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I don’t know whether everyone in Dublin has kissed the legendary Blarney Stone (“legendary” as in “imaginary or invented”), thereby picking up facility with language along with whatever microbes the previous kisser left behind. I do know that words seemed, to this tourist, more intriguing in Ireland than in many other spots I’ve visited, such as West 34th Street or Brooklyn Heights. Take this sign:

Alouders unite.

“Alouders” isn’t in the dictionary, but who cares? It’s easy to recognize “alouder” as “reciter.” Easy for everyone and everything except for autocorrect, that is, which keeps trying to change “alouder” to “alder.” I may never see “a poem as lovely as a tree,” to quote Joyce Kilmer, but I’d hate to trade the spoken word for a forest. 

Then there’s this sign, cemented into an outer wall of the Museum of Decorative Arts, which is located in a former military installation called the Collins Barracks:

I have two theories about this sign. It may mark the location of a last-ditch line of defense. I mean, what else are you supposed to use if you run out of bullets and your saber’s edge is dull? Or it may be an art project, a cryptic reference to what can break bones. (I couldn’t find a similar panel labeled “Words That Can Never Hurt Me.”) 

 Perhaps my favorite Dublin sign is this one:

Grammar School

The school building has undoubtedly been modified since its founding more than four centuries ago. But St. Patrick’s Grammar School is still there, and still in session! Across the street in the Marsh Library (established in the 16th century also), a grammar book used by some of St. Patrick’s original students is on display. 

That’s not blarney. That’s education.

It Takes Two . . . to Confuse

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How much can you communicate in just two words? And how much confusion can you create with two words? The answer to both questions: quite a bit. Check out this sign, which my friend Catherine found in a subway station:

“Rescue Assistance”? Is this where EMTs, firefighters, and other first responders go for help? Or does the NYCTA  envision rescues that need a little extra oomph? NYCTA, by the way, is the agency that runs the subways, “run” being applicable only when the trains are actually moving, which, as riders know, isn’t all that often these days. And what’s with the wheelchair icon? Do subway officials think only wheelchair users need “rescue assistance”? If so, they’re not paying attention. First of all, plenty of riders walking around on two feet need “rescue” or “assistance.” (I can’t be sure that they need “rescue assistance” because I don’t know what that phrase means.) Second, in a subway system more than a century old, elevators and other sorts of accommodations for wheelchair users are few and far between. I can count on the fingers of half a hand how many wheelchairs I’ve seen in a subway. Maybe a quarter of a hand. A fifth? Okay, never.

Moving on:

 

 

 

 

 

 

This sign reminds me of a scene in a Simpsons episode when Bart is working on his science project. He stares at a spud and writes something like: “Four o’clock. Still a potato.” I did “watch ice” at this spot for about fifteen minutes. It stayed there, being ice. I got cold and moved on.

And then there’s this one, which I spotted in Madrid. It’s in Spanish, but I think the meaning — the literal one, anyway — is easy to grasp:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I admit that poetry and psychoanalysis are related. I’m just wondering about logistics. Does the therapist have the patient recite poetry and interpret it? Then there’s insurance coverage. How does one file a claim for a sonnet?

These two-word dilemmas may drive me to buy something at this store, depicted in a photo snapped by my friend Kelly:

Whoever sent the text to the sign manufacturer had clearly imbibed some “sprits” first. Memo to owner: Proofread before you hang an awning. Memo to self: Stay away from the liquor cabinet before blogging.