Vernacular - a poem from a sermon. Sort of.

The opening two lines of this poem appeared unbidden in my mind as I was listening to the sermon in Holy Trinity last Sunday. Hugh, this is for you!

Vernacular

Abraham, Abraham - gonnae no?

Gonnae no dae that?

Is that how you might hear the God

these days, the moment that you’re poised 

to do whatever horrid thing seems suddenly 

a pressing need - the familiar

cadence of a homely voice? No

thundering winds, no wildfire roar

but unmistakably addressing you

with some urgency - no chance of

misunderstanding that.

You drop the knife right there, son,

and your boy lives.

How was it in the dark of night

when the Temple slept and the voice 

whispered through the echoing space

where the lamps flickered 

and the boy woke and heard

his name - Hey, Sam, Sam, 

gonnae waken up? 

And Elijah under his solitary bush?

Son, ye cannae sleep - Elijah 

eat your tea and get your strength and

get tae where ye’re gaun.

Are we bereft because we listen 

for the voice in perfect prose

preferably with a touch of

sixteen hundreds charm

and then we miss the total

urgency of what we need 

to hear, to heed, to know?

And so the cosmic words go on

in Babel tones among the crowd:

Écoute-moi - escucha -

 hören - ascoltare! The voice persists, 

the voice of  friend, of stranger

in a bar, a chance 

meeting by the way. So, all of yous

gonnae listen the noo?

©C.M.M. 06/13

Brainless twats, anyone?

I'm indebted to Neil for this wonderful link today. Imagine the joy of reading the news in the vernacular! Imagine the relief of no longer having to teach kids that formal prose was the biz (unless you were indulging in a bit of judiciously-rationed dialogue). Next we'll have regional newsreaders with their own special way of reporting, and visiting foreigners will remain totally in the dark. And the only place where current standards will apply will be London - unless of course it's Walford's day.

But then I realise that it would be even easier to slip into the horrors of slack writing while readers were diverted by vernacular expression. If you read, for example, the fourth paragraph of the story linked to, you'll find that a bus started its engine and released the handbrake - an engaging vision, but not, I think, meant. Cops and brainless twats I can take, but not misrelated participial phrases. Oh no.

Back to the Guardian ...

Update: someone has removed the piece from the site. Commiserations if you missed it - it was a joy.
Latest : You can still read it here, thanks to the Google cache.