<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343143" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Syrinx</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like the foghorn that's all lung,<br>the wind chime that's all percussion,<br>like the wind itself, that's merely air<br>in a terrible fret, without so much<br>as a finger to articulate<br>what ails it, the aeolian<br>syrinx, that reed<br>in the throat of a bird,<br>when it comes to the shaping of<br>what we call consonants, is<br>too imprecise for consensus<br>about what it even seems to<br>be saying: is it o-ka-lee<br>or con-ka-ree, is it really jug jug,<br>is it cuckoo for that matter? —<br>much less whether a bird's call<br>means anything in<br>particular, or at all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Syntax comes last, there can be<br>no doubt of it: came last,<br>can be thought of (is<br>thought of by some) as a<br>higher form of expression:<br>is, in extremity, first to<br>be jettisoned: as the diva<br>onstage, all soaring<br>pectoral breathwork,<br>takes off, pure vowel<br>breaking free of the dry,<br>the merely fricative<br>husk of the particular, rises<br>past saying anything, any<br>more than the wind in<br>the trees, waves breaking,<br>or Homer's gibbering<br>Thespesiae iache:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">those last-chance vestiges<br>above the threshold, the all-<br>but dispossessed of breath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Amy+Clampitt">Amy Clampitt</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343143" data-title="Syrinx de Amy Clampitt" data-description="Like the foghorn that's all lung, the wind chime that's all percussion, like the wind itself, that's merely air in a terrible fret, without so much as a finger to articulate what ails it, the aeolian syrinx, that reed in the throat of a bird, when..."></div> </div> </div>

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