Brian, didn't Hardy say 'His shape smalled in the distance' using 'small' as a verb?

Hi Brian,

I see that Jerome has kindly mentioned an instance where a verb was used similarly (thanks Jerome); but I also note that you find the phrase a little baffling. Of course the statement in question must be viewed from the context of the piece as a whole, else it is akin to a fish out of water. So, in a nutshell: the 'nascent' AI was once a person, a person whose mindset was [immediately upon his death] transferred into a computer's substrate, thereby granting - to all intents and purposes - his essence immortality. Now a onceman, he ponders his new, 'formless state' and posits that his 'existence' seems diminished/devalued compared to when he was corporeal.


Go well.

Existence plains / before my formless state.

Meaning: "Existence now is (or seems to be) plain before my formless state." I think the reason it's hard to grasp at first is because "plain" can also mean "a large area of flat land with few trees." So "before my formless state" could mean there is a plain (flat land) in front of "my formless state." I think that's why the phrase can be a bit puzzling.

But it's common for poets to use nouns or adjectives as verbs.
John Beaton, for example, does it quite often.

Venus’s Mantraps

The flora flourishing on the boggy plains
of Venus snap their traps shut every day
on hapless astronauts too far away
from home. Such foliage normally abstains
from masticating men who’ve taken pains
to don a force field suit; although, in May,
they, too, will likely witness a display
of lethal teeth. This world no longer rains
sulfuric acid. Water drenches leaves
thriving on space-time tourists, while the sun’s
effulgence gives the atmospheric sheaves
the right amount of heat for human breath.
A fib? A prophecy? No — thought — which runs
as wild as weeds with chops that chomp on death.

It’s no fun, growing old; the frame complains;
It seems another bit wears out each day.
Another pair of trousers stored away
(Too small), another shirt with whisky stains,
A new addition to my aches and pains.
I’ll reach my three score years and ten in May.

Nothing is sure, according to the play,*
But death and taxes. (I would add, “It rains
Each bloody summer - sod the sodden leaves.”)
The taxman’s eye is sharper than the sun’s;
He sends ridiculous demands in sheaves,
But I ignore them - let him waste his breath.
And though the wretched sand of time still runs,
I’m hoping also to evade my death.

* Christopher Bullock: The Cobler of Preston [1716]

Martin, Brian: I like those two, above, in each of which the final couplet strikes me as masterful.

And Douglas: thank you very much! I submitted that one as seen.

Out on these vast Eratospheric plains
Horizons grow more distant every day,
Yet still, undaunted, poets type away
On keyboards soiled by febrile finger stains.
But are they never stopped by writer’s pains?
Will they keep going till the end of May?
The words they’ve spun would make a full-length play;
Initial showers have turned to heavy rains.
I blink, and yet another blighter leaves
A poem brighter than a thousand suns.
To print the lot would take uncounted sheaves;
To read them all aloud would stop my breath.
“Enough!” I cry, yet still it runs and runs;
Will no one put this blasted thread to death?

I rather think you just have, Brian! Very neat.

Hi Brian and Martin,

You've both to my mind penned some lovely, creative sonnets. it will be interesting to see who comes out on top in this one.


Go well.

It will indeed, Royston. I have two questions:

Is this the longest-ever D & A thread? And how many bouts rimés has Martin written?
(These are rhetorical questions - if anyone has nothing better to do than supply the answers they need to get out more! :D)

Jayne