Wow

It seems I was not the only one confused: a search for 'uncial' turned up a lot of interesting responses. As did one for 'capital I'.

What 'uncial' represents, even in the true script hand of various ancient languages, appears to be a crap shoot. Usually a mix of what we customarily consider capital and minuscule letters, 'uncial' may not be the term I need.

Upper case, lower case ... middle case? 'Case', in case (!) you were confused, is a typesetter's term from the days of manual letterpress (that's setting all the letters by hand, rubbing ink on them and pressing them against a piece of paper or a card). Once upon a time, 'moveable' type was just that, moving from press to press in a giant rack that held 'cases' of letters.

I recall seeing, but never using, an old letterpress in this retail store where I worked as a teen. It fascinated me. It was used in the store to print cards (I think 10" by 20") to advertise certain 'specials' offered from time to time that were to be displayed point-of-purchase (yeah, 'purchase' and 'pay for' are different. Another post.).

And this old letterpress had three sets (or 'cases') of its one and only alphabet (or 'font'). It was kept around because the guy who printed up the signs with the newer letterpress (that had only two sets of alphabets) occasionally needed an extra letter or two from the old one. Made of soft metal, many letters had been worn down by use over time and, frankly, this old deal was way too heavy to move -- so there it sat, collecting dust.

Something this guy pointed out to me one day was the difference in the 'i' letters for the old one, the difference being the one I described in the last post.

As I searched various Google fonts since I last posted, it seems this 'third' distinction is not even in the specs for digital fonts. It also seems that few, if any, digital san serif fonts exist with the proper form of capital 'I' -- the lineal 'caps' on that and the capital 'J' not being serifs, but actually parts of that size letter, just as the dot in the lower case or minuscule versions of those letters is not decorative, but essential.

In the offhand (I know, ouch) type (yeah) of script hand I'd used for 20 years or more, I did not bother dotting a single 'i'. But now -- using the more formally recognized script hand with dotted 'i' and 'j' -- the re-copied results look clearer. Poems just snap into focus (or further out, depending on how well they were written). Odd.

It seems my offhand hand was not so much "off", as merely my own kind of misapplied uncial. Hmmmm.

We are at the beginning of a revolution in typesetting. Isn't it high time we drop the old typewriter "two-case" alphabets and start doing it right, before the situation gets any more 'wrong'?

___

By the way, 'wow' is probably close to how the Greeks once pronounced a letter their alphabet actually lost -- the digamma.

It happens.

Done ... (in script).

The search is over. The search for my 'hand'. Script hand, that is.

In working on my 'fair copy' thing (see Fair Deal, my post on July 18, 2010), I found that my old, informal script hand (handblock, print hand, whatever), which I've used for decades and worked just fine for notes and garden-variety jottings, just looked like sh*& on page after page of My Collected Works (first typed 'Words' -- which fits.)

So, I started trying to remember how I was taught script hand (we called it 'hand-printing' instead of 'handwriting', which was cursive) back in grade school. It looks pretty much like the "Normal" font for this Blogger account, though without serifs. But, when I got to writing titles for the poems, as well as a title page for the collection with its own title, it still looked wrong. 

I didn't know what to do with 'I' -- the capital letter, that is. If I made it like a straight line, it looked like a little 'l', and that was confusing because I had one title with the word "Ill" in it.

But if I added little 'caps' on the I, it still looked wrong.  And if I put a tiny 'serif' on the little 'l', it looked pretentious and even more wrong.

Then, like a bolt from the blue yesterday, it hit me. There are three kinds of letters in script hand. No typewriter I know can reproduce them, so it seems to me we've forgotten about that third kind.

Back in the days of Greek parchment manuscripts, there were three kinds of script. One was capital, one was uncial, and one was minuscule. Because both capital and uncial are large letters ("majuscule", in script-speak), they were combined in typesetting and then in personal typewriters.

But capital letters and uncial letters have different functions when all you've got is paper and pen. I can't reproduce it here, and I know of no custom type fonts that have them in a personal-computer form (the keyboards we use are mostly the same as typewriters -- with a number pad, a function pad and some command keys added).

What we casually call script hand is merely a combination of capital and minuscule ('little') letters. But if you add modern uncial English hand, and if you combine the three properly, there is no confusion.

Here is my short hand (ouch) guide:

Most uncials look just like short capital letters in modern script hand. There are two exceptions: the capital "I" and capital "J" have the caps, which are wider than serifs though not as wide as the cap on the capital "T". However, the uncials of those letters have no caps and are the same height as the other uncial letters. If you were writing capital letters in script hand that filled almost the entire space between the lines of standard pre-lineated paper, the uncials would be about three- or four-fifths that high.

The minuscule "i" and "j" are dotted, the dots reaching about the same height as the capital letters.

Capital letters are used to start sentences, identify proper names, etc. in both uncial and minuscule script hand. All-capital hand is for book titles (magazine names, etc.). A mix of capitals and uncials would be for chapter names (and perhaps the author's name, etc.), while capitals plus minuscules are for plain text. The all-uncial hand would be like bold text (citations for book titles, signage in text, etc.), with underscoring reserved throughout for emphasis, including subchapter names and so forth. Italics -- well, that's another matter. (Afternote {5/11/13}: You could just use cursive in those instances, though true italic script hand is where we get into calligraphy.)

I know all this is confusing, when a scan of my script hand formula would show what I mean in a second. I just don't have that capability here. Sorry.

Nobody I know does this anymore, and you'd only see it probably on fair copies nowadays. For the hand(ouch-ouch)ful of us who even want to do that.

But figuring it out made me happy. Thought I'd share.

___
BTW, 'lettering' in word balloons for comic books is usually different: it uses what I'm calling 'uncial' hand in all but the letter 'I'. It seems most comic-book letterers by convention use the uncial 'I' in all but one instance -- first-person singular, when they use a capital 'I' with its 'caps'.

Afternote (4/18/13): Forgot all about the numeral 'one'. Had used a single " | " stroke (but shorter) for decades, much like old manual typewriters that used a lowercase " l " for a numeral one (Google's Times typeface still does!). But the traditional little curved leader with a standard base (leader and left-side of base the same length) now works for me. Needed to deepen the curves on numerals two and three, give the open numeral four a little curve of its own, and put an extra tiny downstroke on the top of the numeral seven for full effect. A lot clearer now. 

Done ... (Three)

MY MANDOLIN SINGS

Like a thrush on the heather,
My mandolin sings --
Dancing like a tiny feather,
The joy that it brings!
If times be weighed by weather,
I'm lonely or sad --
Wherever my heart's tether,
My mandolin sings.

Her strings beneath my fingers,
How happy our days!
Her high note chirping lingers
In air as she plays.
Deeply as a kitten purrs,
Her low notes uncurl.
Whatever part she prefers,
How happy our days.

Brooks babblin', pine limbs swirlin',
The mandolin sings.
Tails twitchin', wings unfurlin',
As nature, it springs!
Whenever mercy's fallin',
By day or by night,
I grant my heart her callin' --
The mandolin sings.

Creative Commons License 2012 William Mark Gabriel. (Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License)

Done ... (Two)

MORE CAME

If, in this web of copper, glass, concrete
And carbon, we could join our yielding souls
Any other way, I'd find this, our wholes
Inside these cubes of labor's being, sweet.
A blown kiss, or a gentle waving treat
Tenders memory's store more than touch foals
Taste or sense of soft-urging pressure's goals:
Greater longing, sooner flown down the street!
Still, our love for love owns nothing we see,
Though nothing replaces skin on skin impressed --
Our nows' deny us, even when framed art.
Electrons current our sharp need -- the heart,
Despite its pumping pleasure's seed, finds rest.
As ever, we bring what we send, thus free.

Copyright (C) 2012 William Mark Gabriel. All Rights Reserved.

Done ... (One)

WROTE UNDER A WILLOW OAK (TO ONE TIRED OF THE TIRING)

"Mannered and obsolete", I hear them moan,

 Wincing over words forming ocean's rove,

 In smartly correct theories that reprove

Any effort past bland themes they condone.

Have we words with secret lives of their own,

 Huddled, shrinking from our meek dread of love,

 In cold and dripping caves, who cannot move

Beyond the clapping hand of cliched koan?

Pure faith in the sweet pull of dendric ache

 Reveals such lore each limbed hard holds within

  Her sweet cascade of lissome Summer's chime.

There, we'll give more than they could dream to take

 In soft dalliance with firmer rules' ken.

  Pulsing Nature's touch pours out rhyme and time.

Copyright (C) 2012 William Mark Gabriel. All Rights Reserved.

Afternote Three: Wade in the Water, Children

There's this thing you see in every group -- subgroups. At group meetings, they usually sit together (which is why, if I'm new to a group, I deliberately sit in the back, away from the main body. This allows me to see all the subgroups.)

At poetry readings/meetings I've been to, there is the main group -- the core, the nucleus. They sit front-and-center, usually.

Then, there is usually a pair of support groups -- the wings, the banks, the estates. Yes, they often group politically and in the proper side relation, at least in view of the aforementioned subgroup watcher in the back of the room in that little table by himself.

Then, there are little nests of secondaries. Some carp, some kibbitz, some sit politely while wishing they were sitting further front. An interesting subgroup flits here and there among them -- the semi-outsiders. In poetry groups I've been in, the last are primarily musicians. (They want to play.)

Then, there are those around the bar. The rebels, outliers and mad scientists of the group, they form a nucleus of their own. The barista front-to-side, the barkeep/owner in the rear are referees, umpires, enforcers. The emcee/chair/etc. sits at the bar, keeping an eye on the rebels and an ear toward the barkeep/owner.

My seat is next to the swinging door where the cafe/caterer staff exit to dump garbage and wash dishes. Right where I belong.

What has always bugged me is this -- the subtext to these subgroups seems to be sustaining the attitude that such groups are all about being poets, want-to-be being poets, wish-to-be being poets or having-given-up-wanting-or-wishing-to-be-being poets.

Assuming all in the group-at-large have a gift for writing, this just seems to be a waste of valuable resources. Where are the critics? Where are the promoters? Where are -- most importantly -- the editors?

Are there critics at elbow with the rebels at the bar? Are there promoters sitting in the wings? Are there editors among the nests?

Critics, as I have tried to point out here, do not necessarily carp and tear down. They can, and should, serve a positive function in setting canons of taste (for which there is no "accounting" -- Victorian English for "quantifying"). This function has both a general aspect and a local aspect. ("A good poem is a good poem, but what's best for here?")

Promoters get the general audience to come to events. They make sure the events are run well, publicized and set in good places, and also feature the best and most exciting talent for that particular event (a New Talent Night would feature different poets than an Old Guard Night.).

I've saved the biggest waste for last: editors. They are often the poets who count themselves lucky to get (1) an honorable mention in contests, (2) more than a smattering of applause at open mic nights, or (3) anyone at the front table to remember their names.

But do they write well? Have they considered prose poetry, for instance? Writing essays about poetry of any kind? Starting or taking up or working on a journal?  While I agree with most that you need to be a poet yourself to properly edit a journal, review or chapbook series, I don't see why you have to be a Dante or a Milton to do it. (I don't recall reading anywhere that either great ever edited anything other than his own work.)

To me, a great editor is a good poet with the broad taste of the best critics, an abiding concern with promoting other good poets, and a searing passion to make sure the best poems in every category see the widest possible circulation.

We need more of this water. Such growth happens around the country, but it occurs in diffusely localized situations. Hundreds of tiny puddles instead of a few big new waves.

If you're in a poetry group, you might use what I have written above (or what others you respect have written elsewhere) to re-assess the potential of your contribution. Critics, promoters and editors alike form the aqua vitae (in its literal sense) for great poetry movements.

And consider this: T.S. Eliot would have had to leave his masterpieces to the care of relatives (as Emily Dickinson had to do) without people like Harriet Monroe and Conrad Aiken. Without people like Joyce Glassman Johnson and Mark Van Doren, Jack Kerouac would have been the writer of one or two failed novels and a desk full of semi-coherent scribbles. And without Eliot or Kerouac or their like, who would remember the critics, promoters or editors who supported them? There is mutual benefit available to those ready and willing to grasp it.

My message is this: You, O poetry club member, can do more.

Just what is up to you.