The Obscurantist Reflects

I find it amusing and ironic (not to mention perversely hypocritical) that the label that is applied to anyone who uses big words or references that require more than a grade school education, in literature, is tarred with a label that is in and of itself, a three-dollar word: obscurantist.

I ran across the word itself not so long ago when an ezine editor, whose publication in the past has featured my works prominently and glowingly (of course, that was when I was sleeping with the publisher, so maybe I am better in bed than on paper?) referred to me as such. I had to look the word up.

Her gripe was with the use of two words in "Villanelle: The Poisoned Pen": troubadour and novice. She said that these words placed the work outside of the understanding of readers and made it "obscure" in meaning. WTF? Troubadour? A poetry editor having issue with the use of that word?

I was delighted. Really! In a world where there are high schools that ban Shakespeare for being over the heads of their students, there are few things you can accuse me of more delightful of than being well-read and knowing how to spell (typing? that's another matter, altogether). So I wrote this tribute to the mentality. No insult to "Star Trek", please...I adore both the original and The Next Generation, with occasional fondness for later incarnations...they are just a good cultural reference point.

The Obscurantist Reflects

I do not hide
what is inside
my tv set
from you.

My cable's gone
and so I yawn
and write these words
for you.

I'm sorry you
would not see through
words I choose
(polysyllabic).

So I'll keep it short
and with a grunt and a snort,
select metaphors
from Star Trek.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.


And here's the original piece that got her so riled:

Villanelle: The Poisoned Pen

The troubador, he knows the truth, unsuspected and unspoken,
that tears the soul of every man whose heart and mind lay broken:
Dreamers die, for a poet's lie, at peace with their transgressions.

The miller and the blacksmith are at peace with their professions,
the priest will carry on his trade and take the strange confessions.
The troubador, he knows the truth, unsuspected and unspoken.

The sentry knows to challenge foes when in the night he's woken
from the disturbing thought born from what is in the barrels oaken:
Dreamers die, for a poet's lie, at peace with their transgressions.

The mistress and the novice seek each her own perfections.
The baker fires his ovens to be lost in his confections.
The troubador, he knows the truth, unsuspected and unspoken.

Warriors die for causes both obscured and held as the slogan
of their leaders, prayers in the shadows of Holy vows now broken.
Dreamers die, for a poet's lie, at peace with their transgressions.

Take these words as a sign of faith and as my memory's token,
the realization stands apart, against all false impressions.
The troubador, he knows the truth, unsuspected and unspoken:
Dreamers die, for a poet's lie, at peace with their transgressions.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Not my best villanelle...but obscure? To quote the great Joe Gideon "riiiiiiiight..."