the word for the inability to find the right word,
leads me to self-diagnose: onomatomaniac. Itís not
the 20 volume OED, I need,
nor Dr. Rogetís book, which offers
equals only, never discovery.
I accept the fallibility of language,
its spastic elasticity,
its jake-leg, as well as prima ballerina, dances.
I accept that language
can be manipulated towards deceit
(ex.: The Mahatmapropaganda, i.e., Goebbels);
I accept, and mourn, though not a lot,
the loss of the dash/semi-colon pair.
Itís the sound of a pause unlike no other pause.
And when the words are tedious
and tedious also their orderósew me up
in a rug and toss me in the sea!
Language is dying, the novel is dying, poetry
is a corpse colder than the Ice Man,
theyíve all been dying for thousands of years,
yet people still write, people still read,
and everyone knows that nothing is really real
until it is written.
Until it is written!
Even those who cannot read
|About this poem:|
"The poem began with the title. Then I was annoyed by one of the occasional poetry-is-dead articles. Then I refute that notion."