John Keating was all about the words in ‘Dead Poets Society’. All about enjoying the art of writing. He and his band of merry men met in dark caves and read poetry to each other, letting it ‘drip from their tongues like honey’.
Here are some of my favourite words, all of which lend themselves nicely to honey dripping.
These two I have loved for years, and heard them both for the first time when watching ‘Anne of Green Gables’. I knew how to spell chrysanthemum from a young age, thanks to Anne and Gilbert. And a zephyr, being a gentle mild breeze, is the perfect word for Anne to use whenever she makes one of her long, ‘romantic’ speeches. Morgan whats-his-face also promises to name a ship ‘The Zephyr’ in Anne’s honour, but because he’s just a fancy pants eejit, and because he’s not Gilbert, we don’t care.
Triskaidekaphobia: 13 is (unusually I guess) my lucky number, so no phobia for me. This one is all about the rhythm.
Sycophant: Though is has a less than flattering meaning (unless you aspire to be a ‘fawning parasite’) I love the sound of this word.
And my favourites.
And for good measure, a poem that I rediscovered the other day. It’s the way the words work together that makes me love this. ‘Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you’.
Hate Poem (Julie Sheehan)
I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.
Look out! Fore! I hate you.
The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m digging
from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you explain relational databases
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.
A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious
symbol of how I hate you.
My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.
My pleasant “good morning”: hate.
You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my head
under your arm? Hate.
The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning
to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one
individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity
of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.
Did I leave out your favourite honey dripper? Leave a comment and let me know!