There are words that seem to go beyond their mandate, conjuring a surreal experience, as if in their very articulation, in the momentary intimacy of sound and meaning, you let them claim a part of your life that you never knew existed. When I first learnt the word epiphany, I would say it to myself aloud and wait for my world to explode and realign itself to new constellations.
Perhaps like a new word in a foreign language, you add to its bland monotone, all the anticipation and trepidation within yourself, anything that will draw it closer, coat its alien skin in familiar texture and tones.
Come on Marcus, what about ‘ambrosia’? Say it softly and feel the heady glow of a forever, expanding slowly into the arms of the starlit void.
So there is a word waiting under an umbrella in an unseasonal downpour, for a poet to come by and fit with angel wings, so it can shimmer and fly away, the cynosure of every wide-eyed book in the library.
Cynosure… that’s one, drenched and shivering.
You know it means ‘dog’s tail’?
the canal writes its story
in broken blue lines