As a not-so-secret logophile, I love words, and particularly antiquated ones. I thought this list (from Victims of Circumsolar) was delightful, and wanted to write a poem that used all of them.

So I did.



“Pish-tosh!” the gentleman spew at the blatteroon
as the rain dripped delicately off the metal structures
and careened through the cracks in the alleyway
the gas light casting faded orange shadows in the narrow street

“Sir, when our tender acquaintance began yestreen, I welcomed the opportunity
to discuss your invention’s merits. But the device before me bears no resemblance
to the glorious contraption you described! This meeting has persisted too long; what
need have I–or anyone–of spanghewing?

The peddler ruffled his buttons and drew himself up
as a ungainly bird to a leopard seal
and mumbling “Oh, reason not the need!” in a desperate Galton whistle
draped a underhanded arm across the gentleman’s shoulder

“My dear fellow,” he cajoled, voice bright as polished copper, “do you not find that
one’s circumstances are malleable? No one can predict the future! Is it not prudent to
give ourselves every advantage? Now, granted, I cannot predict when you might benefit
from a deluxe, artisanal, custom-engraved frog launcher, but surely a sophisticate
such as yourself recognizes the importance of being prepared?”

His companion produced a sound that may have been a snort
as he studied the other and sulkily wished to be out of this drizzle
and back apricating among his books, his wine collection, his fireplace
partaking of the cheese he had been slowly savoring since Thursday last
Nothing wrought anagapesis like the threat of missing exceptional cheese

“Sir” he began, his tone creaking slightly, “I had not marked you for an aeolist!
Now, I must bid you good fortune, but we cannot proceed further, and I conclude
it is in our interests that we remain better marketplace strangers
and consider this our natural satisdiction.”

The gentleman strode towards his horse, beckoning his man with a flourish
as the peddler turned his head, the corners of his mouth slipping into a mischievous grin
let that bawcock have his sanctimonious soliloquy
for he had failed to realize that his fortitude tonight was merely potvaliance
and that the peddler’s aim was not to close a sale, but to augment it
because the bill demanding payment for a dozen custom goat catapults
ordered in the hazy phantom hours, with the assistance of the finest spirits,
would arrive overmorrow