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Tuesday, 11 December 2012

New Poem by Todd Swift

Another Poem Making Important Claims About Language, Sort Of
  

Frankly, tedious
how this becomes that
with a twist of tongue;
drop of the hat; lingua
spat out; nowt
here for us, they say
up North.  Aboot
becomes about

if you go South;
house is unhomed
in what a word does.
And every poem claims
as much – the splendour
in the hiss, the Sibyl
of sibilance; the affront
of click or grunt.

The lyric is linguistic;
how oeuvre is work;
a quirk makes cheval
hoarse in a new throat.
Don’t go out much,
old words.  They’re ancien
regime.  It all seems
spoken more than heard.

I’d make a point,
then point at a sign,
then use my fingers
but that would be Helen
Keller’s sort of thing;
and I’m too dumb already
to sing absurd.
No speak Anglesea.
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