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.