Logopedia
Let the tea draw till it recalls who we love.
Some nook in a corner of your mouth
must hold the essence of bergamot.
We’re forever being done in
tripping over our tongues
(that ‘s’ of his that feeds
my need to sop him up).
And you’re so palatal, so on the edge…
a likeness buried under your wisdom teeth.
The god of phonology would never have grown
had the meaning not sprayed its sperm
over the howls.
My vocal cords are become straps
for this endless wreckage.
The ‘g’ will ring the little bell of my glottis
like a runaway train we hoped would stop.
And your name
cleaved to my palate,
like communion.
It’s not easy to say earl grey
Bonjour monsieur, I would like an earl grey.
But what I’m after
now that just can’t be said.
Listen and Repeat: un paxaro, unha barba
Talking a foreign language
is like wearing borrowed clothes.
Helga confuses the words for land and landscape
(who would you be in another language?)
You show me
my vocal chord
is at times
off key.
In the back garden of language
It’s the prosody that snags
my dress.
I’ll tell you something about the problems with language:
there are things I just can’t wrap my mouth around.
Like when I see you sat and all I see
is a seat –
ceci n’est pas une chaise.
A camera obscura beams on the hemisphere.
Pronounce: if the poem is an exorcism,
a change of state, some humour
takes shape to escape from us.
That’s phonation, enthalpy.
But yes, you are absolutely right:
my delivery leaves
much to be desired.
(If I’m not watching your teeth
I won’t understand a word you say).
The sky shrinks. Helga smiles in italics.
And I learn the difference between a beard and a bird
– and not just what takes off
when I try to hold it
in my hands.
Translation
when she spoke a language I understood.
No matter we loose our roots
and coil them into tongues.
(My name you know,
could be four syllables long,
and if followed by habibti
could luminously shine).
It matters not a jot
if you say it in Italian,
if you say it in Icelandic.
A mirror in front of me this Egyptian
woman writing with her left hand.
We sculpt with the ashes
of all that was scorched
by the tongues of flame
and at the end of the day we write
towards the margins
while all the rest move to the centre.
New moves will have to be learned
now that you need dance a polka
in the corner of your mouth.
No matter
every hug
is a translation.
(from Yolanda Castaño “Second Tongue”, Shearsman Books, January 2020)
(Translation Keith Payne)
