Let me tell you merrily, enchant you quite rhetorically,
About a simple word I heard a little accidentally;
It’s now a vital part of me, this surreptitious imagery,
A meronomic dash of metaleptic contiguity,
That urges me to usher in this grand old hymn of hyponyms
And grammar-happy law.
To call a thing another thing, when what’s the thing is in the thing,
So calling it by what it is a bit becomes the thing it is,
That is, you see, synecdoche, a literary symphony,
A happenstance of circumstance and almost metaphor,
A nice concentric parallel of signifiable other selves:
Synecdoche, I adore.
Say you were to venture free upon a land as yet unseen
You could describe this journey using tired old metaphor:
By using feet along your way, just so you have “set foot” you say,
And thus of human travelling your readers will be sure.
“But this is not the same as me”, says innocent synecdoche,
So disparate assured.
This little term with grander dreams, an idea born of more,
Can figure speech with spindled reach of what it meant before:
A cup of tea can not be drunk, one drinks the tea but not the cup,
Yet here I sit with but a cup of tea for me to drink, as such.
This “cup of tea” synecdoche does titillate me thoughtfully,
A coil of seeming flaw.
If we know just what you mean you’ll need no detailed furthering
To stand in meaning fully meant with no accoutring evident;
A simple cusp of your intent will see sincerely ears are lent
Unto your tongue, as it does run its way around such sentiment.
But need befits a rhetoric that seeks expressive betterment
When speaking extempore:
These simple suits of substitutes of lexical a kind,
Are all a sort of mirror-thought for fractured casts of eye,
And such a reverent panoply of referential languaging
Does tell a tale of tellings, told with fervent teleology:
In truth your mind does need to find a space for truth to realign
Behind an open door.
Yet such a many-whimsied tree of ever-present fancy-free
Does throw upon the clearest song a fray of thoughtful gall,
For into our autonomy of insight-bound phonology
Comes something here that’s not so clear and sets me on a pondering,
I need a leaf of clarity to combat liminality;
Confused, I burrow more.
Beset with this endearingly unconsummated querying,
I need to see synecdoche defined unto its core:
If it is a smallery, implying what it seeks to be,
Then isn’t it the same as what it does refer to separately?
Can it be true that what it is, is what it isn’t truthfully?
What reference does it store?
Metonymy, conceptually, is like a wordy knavery,
Because the primal meanery does not survive the thievery;
Taken to a newer home, of context all the poet’s own,
The clash of image new and known is seed for meaning grown,
A little seed that may take heed of ideas left alone
On ever-verdant shore.
On other glove, synecdoche (to stay with manufactory)
Does hold the meaning with an iron-fisted gripped analogy.
In fact the meaning here is key, for what it sees is what you see,
The hand of man is still a hand (for man does have a hand you see),
The concept of synecdoche is like a forest all of tree:
A propagated core.
And there I twist a simile to seek and find definitively
That solid understanding so diaphanously eluding me.
Before, I stumbled on through the unbearable taxonomy,
Just skirting past the syllogistic claws of rank holonymy,
And so I now face up to the detestable recidivy
Of words, and all they’re for.
This meaning-multiplicity demeans the blind veracity
I seek in all the forms I trust as vessels of the sought;
A ghost of wrought opacity does haunt my perspicacity,
So wrenchingly does entropy finagle all my thoughts
And take them out of time, so time again can space exhort
Eternally, once more.
All this faff and drivel over just a simple swivel
From the micro to the macro by association’s call!
It seems a verbal ligature of idioms can signature
A referent, that never lent a consciousness imprimatur
Beyond the quick expedient of cognisance convenient
Where mystery is born.
For language, with its brutally enchanted sense of usury,
Does leave unblessed the better sets of visions felt intuitively.
And in these fissures, frugally, with figurative illusory
Assumptions, made in earnest with eluctable collusions, we
Do lend ourselves to subtle cells of fine, bespoke community,
And harmony restore.
What’s left must be an irony of all this human finery,
That never yet has author set a feeling down in law;
Whatever introspections can be felt as true inflections
Can still only be expressed with what a language can afford.
So call upon your subtleties, your dialectic alchemies:
Synecdoche once more!