How Limerick ever acquired the nickname by which it is popularly known is of course a mystery to its law-abiding citizens. But there is another part of the city's (and in this case the surrounding county's) reputation that, while less controversial, is even more of a mystery. Namely: How did Limerick become synonymous with the most popular form of poetry in the English language? Frank McNallyinvestigates.
Used to describe a five-line verse with an AABBA rhyme scheme, the L-word first appears in writing in 1896. And yet, as soon as two years afterwards, scholars were already wondering why. Before then, the form had always been known simply as "nonsense verse", as in Edward Lear's Book of Nonsense, the reprinting of which in 1863 started a craze for it.
The usual explanations are that the name derived from the Irish custom of reciting in pubs; or, more particularly, that it arose from the tradition whereby place-names were used in the first line of the verse, and that "Limerick" was always an insurmountable challenge for rhymsters.
There was a competitive element to pub recitation, as in modern rap music. And the theory goes that the impossibility of rhyming anything with "There was an old woman from Limerick" meant that the speaker had to compensate by achieving greater than usual depths of vulgarity. Limerick's notoriety thus lent itself as a name for the form in general.
But it would have been far more logical to call it, say, the "Nantucket". The island off Massachusetts features in many limericks for two reasons: the less obvious of which is that as a former whaling centre, it had a high concentration of drinkers with a ribald sense of humour.
Its rhyme-friendly name is of course the other reason. The alleged sexual voracity of the young man from Nantucket has launched more limericks over the years than the queen of England has launched ships.
It is certainly true that the place called Limerick defies easy rhyming. So far as I know, not even the great Ogden Nash attempted it, although he went many places where others feared to tread. Here he is, for example, on the subject of Connecticut: "There was a brave girl of Connecticut/Who flagged the express with her pecticut/Which her elders defined/As presence of mind/But deplorable absence of ecticut." And here he is again, on the small Arizona city of Yuma (pop.54,923): "A jolly young fellow from Yuma/Told an elephant joke to a puma/Now his skeleton lies/Beneath hot western skies/The puma had no sense of huma." But I digress from my main point, which is this. The issue of Limerick's association with the limerick - if there is any - has taken on new relevance thanks to something called OEDILF, an internet phenomenon that promises to become the most epic project in the history of lexicography.
OEDILF began life accidentally in 2004 as the offshoot of an online discussion among language enthusiasts. Now its contributors are gathering momentum in their chosen task: which involves nothing less than writing a limerick to explain every word in the English language.
At first, their acronym stood for Oxford English Dictionary In Limerick Form. As such it was welcomed by the real-life OED, where staff are themselves engaged in an epic revision process, which is expected to take another 20 years and perhaps double the size of the existing multi-volume dictionary.
According to OEDILF's editor-in-chief, Chris Strolin, there was even a running joke between him and the OED director that whoever finished first would buy the other lunch. But their relationship fell foul of the OED's legal department which, as Ogden Nash would say, had no sense of huma: at least about the use of the OED's title. In order to keep its acronym, OEDILF had to be quickly renamed the Omnificent English Dictionary In Limerick Form(www.oedilf.com).
A side-effect of the change was that the already daunting task became more daunting. The rough estimate of OED words to be covered was a mere three million. But the OEDdoes not include, for example, proper nouns and place-names. Now freed from such restriction, OEDILF plans to cover even these, which could double or treble the workload.
Some 42,000 limericks have been processed to date and the editors, who are working alphabetically to prevent people jumping ahead and taking all the good words, are still on the letter A. But Strolin compares his ambition to the building of those medieval cathedrals that the founders knew they would not live to see finished. He also quotes his grandfather's axiom: "Aim high and you'll never shoot your foot off."
Despite the form's bawdy origins, OEDILF has strict rules banning obscene or abusive limericks. And although humour is important, the primary requirement is that each verse defines a word. He cites the example of "acicular", the approved entry for which goes: "One rule which deserves strict adherence:/From pointy things, keep a safe clearance/I dislike, in particular/Any object 'acicular'/Or 'resembling a needle in appearance'."
This is only in the outer suburbs of hilarity, he admits. But it achieves its main aim. Unlike another verse, which is funnier, while failing in its mission to define the word "Aback", viz: "If, during the course of love-making/Your paramour's heart you are breaking/And some other guy/Comes and catches her eye/Well, this is the seat you'll be taking."
With the rules in mind and staying on the letter A, as the editors ask, here is my proposed entry to OEDILF on an Irish place-name: that of a famously picturesque Munster village. You will note that, in passing, my verse includes an attempt to circumvent the challenge that has historically bedevilled writers of the form. Here goes: "There once was a minister, clerical/Whose sermons were high-flown and lyrical/His orator's flair/Was the pride of Adare/A town he described as 'Limerical'."