Monday, 23 July 2012

A New Poem by Todd Swift for a Hot London

The Language Of The Fan

Twirled one way, or pushed to the lips,
It means am engaged or a flirt.
Frail coloured ribbed expanding toys
Feel good in the hand as they grow
Or close across the face, to cool,
Convey, so one’s status displays
By the fluttered discipline of a wrist;
Otherwise, a dauphin might stoop to kiss
A lady-in-waiting not a baroness;
Mother-of-pearl; tusk; celluloid:
The sticks upon which paper furls
Are precious, even flammable –
The whole fan might go up in one’s face –
How you tap your cheek spreads disgrace.

new poem by Todd Swift July 2012
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