It's been a while since I've had poetry
So I wrote this today, maybe about an hour ago. I like some of it a lot, but some of it is also kind of hmmm. I like the idea of it, and I think some of it carries it well, but it gets a little going around and around. The last two stanzas didn't really come out right.
August 4, 2004
Written with an inkpen
My letters stumble across the page,
Uncertain, wandering with a strange guide,
Unsure of their destination.
My fingers shake as I dip the nib
Into its inkpot, rattling the pen
Against the sides, collecting ink where my fingers rest.
On my right hand, two fingers
Are smudged grey with ink;
On my left, the thumb bears the black line
Of where it brushed against the rim of the bottle.
As I pause to consider this,
I rest the pen in a cup of water,
Hoping to prevent the ink from staining
The nib with a line of black,
As it has my fingers.
But I do not soak my hands--
Instead I wear the smudges with pride,
Hoping hours later someone will take notice
And ask why my fingers are so dirty.
Perhaps I am a relic of another century, I think,
Pausing every few words to renew the supply of ink
That drips down the nip onto the paper.
But the paper is too thin,
Too mass produced, absorbing the ink
And bleeding through on the other side.
And the curved body of the pen
Shoves my fingers into an unfamiliar grip--
They are too used to clenching
Around the smooth line of a pencil.
I blott with a paper towel
And my water cup is made of clear plastic.
But the inkstains on my fingers are genuine
And I wonder if perhaps
This is what I'm searching for--
If want something old, something certain,
With roots firmly placed
In the generations before me who learned
Their letters in black India ink.
But as I look around me at the symbols
Of modernity -- the cup, the notebook
With a twisted metal binding,
Even the plastic tub I keep my nibs in--
I realize that I belong to this.
I belong to the florescent bulbs
And the pens with chewed caps and colored ink
That goes onto the paper neatly
From a small turning metal ball.
And so, with something like regret,
I scrutinize the patterns the ink makes
In my plastic cup as I clean my nib,
Wondering if I could divine my future
From its swirls, but all I can discover
Is that if I watch for too long,
It all difuses to a uniform grey.
August 4, 2004
Written with an inkpen
My letters stumble across the page,
Uncertain, wandering with a strange guide,
Unsure of their destination.
My fingers shake as I dip the nib
Into its inkpot, rattling the pen
Against the sides, collecting ink where my fingers rest.
On my right hand, two fingers
Are smudged grey with ink;
On my left, the thumb bears the black line
Of where it brushed against the rim of the bottle.
As I pause to consider this,
I rest the pen in a cup of water,
Hoping to prevent the ink from staining
The nib with a line of black,
As it has my fingers.
But I do not soak my hands--
Instead I wear the smudges with pride,
Hoping hours later someone will take notice
And ask why my fingers are so dirty.
Perhaps I am a relic of another century, I think,
Pausing every few words to renew the supply of ink
That drips down the nip onto the paper.
But the paper is too thin,
Too mass produced, absorbing the ink
And bleeding through on the other side.
And the curved body of the pen
Shoves my fingers into an unfamiliar grip--
They are too used to clenching
Around the smooth line of a pencil.
I blott with a paper towel
And my water cup is made of clear plastic.
But the inkstains on my fingers are genuine
And I wonder if perhaps
This is what I'm searching for--
If want something old, something certain,
With roots firmly placed
In the generations before me who learned
Their letters in black India ink.
But as I look around me at the symbols
Of modernity -- the cup, the notebook
With a twisted metal binding,
Even the plastic tub I keep my nibs in--
I realize that I belong to this.
I belong to the florescent bulbs
And the pens with chewed caps and colored ink
That goes onto the paper neatly
From a small turning metal ball.
And so, with something like regret,
I scrutinize the patterns the ink makes
In my plastic cup as I clean my nib,
Wondering if I could divine my future
From its swirls, but all I can discover
Is that if I watch for too long,
It all difuses to a uniform grey.