 |
| Briggs walking his little friend |
Our Poetry Focus posts return, and I can't think of a better time for this wintry-themed poem, as the cold settles over England. I recently had the chance to read for David
Briggs (pictured) at his splendid series in Bristol. He's a splendid poet well worth reading, and delightfully eccentric. Briggs received an Eric Gregory Award in 2002, and his first collection The Method
Men (Salt, 2010) was shortlisted for the London Festival Poetry
Prize. He teaches English in Bristol.
Snow
Contrary to
popular belief, the Inuit do not have more words for snow than do speakers of
English . . .
Counting
generously, experts can come up with about a dozen.
— Stephen Pinker
The Language
Instinct
Say there are no words for
lawyer
in the Inuit tongue; yet,
perhaps,
a dozen by which to adjudicate
snowfall. Say there is
no English word
for the particular spectacle
of aurora-lit snowfall,
of aurora-lit snowfall,
while for lawyer we have:
barrister,
attorney, brief, solicitor,
silk,
advocate, justice, litigator,
magistrate, counsel,
prosecutor,
perhaps even
jurisprudentia.
And it follows that in the land
where they speak only
statistics
there will be a sworn
affidavit
against each irregular snowflake.
But you are advised not to
impugn
the government of such
climes
for burying truth beneath an icy
for burying truth beneath an icy
deluge of little, whitely-lying
words.
Some thoughts will simply fail to
settle
in our language, or gather
only
in obscure, mountainous
regions.
This thought itself may fail to
find
the climate necessary to its
survival and, so, melt
gently
on the thick muscle of my tongue
as might tla (snow), tlaslo (slow falling snow),
on the thick muscle of my tongue
as might tla (snow), tlaslo (slow falling snow),
or penstla
(merely the idea of
snow).
Comments