In Which You Learn About Inform 7

My reading for this day's been feather-light,
As I begin to teach myself a new
Computer language. I have plans to write
Some games in it, in hopes that someday you
Will play them. There's still ought to be desired:
This seventh version of Inform still leans
Toward the second person - it's still mired,
The IF tribe, in dogma that the means
Toward player immersion's in address;
The player must be "you." The disconnect
This generates is unnoticed, I guess,
By those who've long been members of this sect,
Accustomed to its foibles. I, though, move
That Paul and have something, now, to prove.

In Which English Comes To Resemble A VUE Language

Not yet has Violent Unknown Event
Occurred, at least that I know of, so far.
Today, though, in my Twitstream, where I've spent
Quite too much time, I've come to see there are
At least two fine examples of just how
The English tongue resembles Betelguese
(The language, not the star), for I see now
That "nerd" no longer acts as just a terse
Description of an outcast or a strange
Or socially inept soul, witness two
New uses, showing great, dramatic change:
It's paired with "beauty" and with "fitness." "You
Keep saying that word," said one Inigo
Montoya, but that doesn't make it so.

In Which I Ponder A Strange Metaphor

This morning, as I rose ere dawn, we had
A temperature of Zero Degrees "Eff"
(With emphasis on "Eff"; I won't be bad
And spell out what that stands for). Some foul theft
Of all our warmth had happened in the night,
And sunrise did not bring us more. It's cold -
More so than a well-digger's butt, all right,
As my friend Bonnie eloquently told
Her Facebook friends, which prompted a profound
Discussion, how the baseline readings came
To be established? Did one ask around
And quote well-diggers' feelings name by name?
Or was data - empirical and real
Recorded. Just how cold did each butt feel?

Sonnet Dare: In Which The Accent Is The Thing

My daily life brings me against a lot
Of challenges that many find bizarre.
Time management, of course, as who has not,
For instance, but for me it's the Boomhauer
That really drives me round the bend when one
Addresses me (I've sev'ral in my care).
There is no accent spoken 'neath the sun
That I can't comprehend except that there.
Ascemic writing holds for me more sense,
And I find glossolalia a breeze,
But no, it's Bubba-speak that has me tense,
Uncomprehending, yes, and whimp'ring "Please,
Just speak some English I can understand.
Or send me an interpreter? How grand!"

SONNET DARE: A Chinese Language and Culture Coincidence!

My love affair with Mandarin is old
And slightly stale; no one to speak with here
In Wyoming, but it has not gone cold,
Not yet. I try to keep it, but I fear
I've lost too much. I still read like a child
(Traditional not simplified) and now
Some Chinese lit is bound for me - how wild -
A new friend's sending me some Xueqin Cao!
The Story of the Stone will soak my brain
In 18th century China. He knew not,
My friend, that Chinese language was a main
Field of my college studies. He just caught
The drift of how my mind works -- and I am
The more amused: his blog draws Chinese spam!

In Which I Break My Brain Trying To Bring Back Memories

This week in Saratoga, I got back
A pile of photographs I once had mailed
Home to my parents. From within this stack
Smiled all of my Brazilian friends I've failed
To keep in touch with. Once they taught me bits
Of Portuguese - that mostly over drinks
With the result that my command's the pits
When sober. Time passed faster than eyeblinks:
Years later I'm on Twitter and, for fun
I try to talk to guys from Portugal,
About books, stars and things in their own tongue.
They're kind, amused as I bust out my skull.
Fernando Fonseca and dear Jorge
Candeias, thanks seems not enough to say!