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In the fall of 1972, I was trying to avoid getting killed. We were living near the heart of Belfast, Northern Ireland, in order to take care of my father-in-law, who would die of cancer the following spring. The Protestants and Catholics were murdering each other at the height of what they euphemistically called the "Troubles." I was employed teaching music in a middle school on the other side of town from where we lived. Since rumors abounded that each side was hiring American Viet-Nam veterans to teach the arts of guerilla warfare, and since I was of the correct age and look to be one of those, it was deemed too dangerous for me to take any kind of public transportation through the city where I might reveal myself. So I quietly walked (with an un-American slouch) an hour-and-a-half to and from work each day. It occurred to me, with a twist of humor, that the news reports every night bombarded us with the words "situation," "negotiation," "intimidation," and "retaliation." My mind, in need of a challenge, started playing with these and other words that ended with "-ation." The first, and I thought final, result of this word-game was this: In the early 1980’s, for a local church literary collection, I pulled out my little poem and expanded it: By 1992, I had become Associate Conductor for Ballet West, in Salt Lake City, and our music director, my good friend Terence Kern, went on an extended tour of guest conducting elsewhere. I very much enjoyed acting as the music director in his stead for several productions, and when he returned in 1993 I needed a way to channel my new-found energies. So in August 1994 I resorted to pulling out the old poem once again and sought some therapeutic catharsis through building upon it on a much larger scale than before. Writing it was a huge challenge but, over all, a great deal of fun. I worked on it almost exclusively while doing my "day job" as rehearsal pianist for Ballet West, and soon felt incapable of playing rehearsals without a dictionary at my side. This kind of multi-tasking, far from being a distraction, was mind-sharpening and helped me to focus on the moment. Now, in January 2004, after nine-and-a-half years and eighty-two different drafts, (I have every one of them in my possession, all numbered and in order), I’m taking my life back. The poem, linked throughout to a tongue-in-cheek glossary, (along with a handy supply of links within the glossary to an actual on-line dictionary, for those who are more serious about the meanings of words) is now as finished as I can make it. It’s more of a word game than serious poetry, and there is no need to read the whole thing in one sitting. The use of "big words," and the patterns of rhythm, rhyme and alliteration were my primary concerns, in that order. My rules of composition were that I couldn't repeat any "big words," they all had to be used correctly, and I had to use proper grammar and syntax. The rhythmic scheme dictates four beats per line, but the number of syllables per beat varies in a way that I hope will flow naturally. It should be read aloud to achieve the full effect. The poem ought to be a good source for the learning of more vocabulary than anyone would ever need, and hopefully a great source of useable phrases to those who, like me, love the sportive prolixity of sesquipedalian taradiddles filled with dillies of diddling fiddle-faddle and philosophical flapdoodle. |