This poem first entered my mind after reading some of the many observations made by leading linguists and those grammarians interested in lexical arrangements, with regards to Chomsky’s now famous statement “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously. “

The almost unanimous or universal decision arrived at although such a statement, being grammatically correct that it is apparently considered lexical or syntactical nonsense.

Something, which Chomsky is said to agree that it was his intention that it be so observed.

However, it seemed strange to me at the time that these many highly trained and learned observers failed to note the poetic content and metric pattern inherent in the quoted line.

Their problem appears to arise from the use of “green” and “furiously” in the literal sense.

However, if one views those words in a metaphoric or poetic sense, green does not necessarily need to signify its relative short wave spectrum in one set condition.

Note how the colour of sea water changes due to the refraction of light, from clear to dark green or blue the deeper one goes.

Further, green could be said to encompass many scenarios, green petrol for example is quite often clear.

Clearly, a green idea according to the environmentalists.

Perhaps colours too can signify emotion.

Green is said to be a calming colour synonymous with sleep, yet possible to change its intensity considerably.

Sleep, as we all know can take many forms. Is not a bad dream or dream of some activity, a possible passage of time where one may be said, “to sleep furiously”?

Of course, it is possible to scan the stated line several ways.

My initial reaction was that it appeared Pyrrhic. Others may read it as Dactylic and Anapaestic, or have their own idea.

Whatever way it has a distinct metric pattern similar to that found in some forms of poetry, which, is rarely ever found in prose...

 An Exercise in the Pyrrhic Paradox...

If all poetry’s said to be the noble lie.
What then be its truth, word seek deny.
As from truths own need lay it a claim
that truthfulness hides all its true lies in shame.

Of course, there’s those who would so say!
No more! No more! besoin of such display.
We poets have no need to stick with rhyme
less keep our pleonasm’s to arranger’s line.
Detract prolix from wilderment of ways,
in its oh so ingenious ultra-modern clime.

In fact, there’s those whose speciousness would
by strange grammaticalness, insist
enunciation’s their staid delivered grace:
a subtle twist. For those whose style
would seek to exhale a metric beat awhile:
whilst, they at best, would never fulminate a step.

And yet choose to declare pes planus jest
a pyrrhic victory; summary’s account behest
that suffers from more than a tad of feet.
A happening set on artificial stress

in order that the pseudo thespian can
by convolutedness’s varied style impress.

By many forms, his chosen word essays
connation’s tortured tonic vowel;
and so wreak its havoc on consonant's own
an often beleaguered; self-embodied voice.

Who on this polemic earth but the pyrrhic maker
would choose flat vowels by arrant choice.
When poets in their achromic coalescent mood:
sees their sotto voce sleeping furiously.

Jist as a Parthian Shot ah thought a wee bit o’ an epilogue might be in order…

Some readers might understand the analogy, if not “aw weil!”

Grammarian’s that wid berate us sair.
Gie nae comforts tae a poet’s care.
When frae yon cosy academic chair.
They’ve worn their wee bit carpet bare.

They tie our minds wi strangest things.
It’s nae fer them a joy oor poetry brings
Fit reasons seek thae tae interfere
in polloi wirds oor poet’s sel endear.

‘Til we’re but aw’ bereft aye thought.
Oor lang deliberations sel hae brought.
An left us standin like Tamson’s cheil.
A muckle thought nae written weil.

Ach! whit fine wirds we apt gan tae see
O thae whit dinnae ken aboot sich poetry.
Thae may's weil stuff their gobs wi kailkenny
An gie us aw’ a rest frae their ‘frontery .

It matters nae a tweet whit thae say tae me.
Ah merely write thae wirds, an let thae ithers be.

Mor.