For Number One Son
Strange to watch black ink disappear
from my pens, like small rivulets pouring
out of the hillsides on the dales.
Some pens I have had since 2004,
on a shelf, in a drawer, or holder
in the kitchen long forgotten messages
on sticky notes cluttering the fridge.
We writers love the tools of our craft,
and relate to paper, pens, ink like so
many fine tuned instruments there to help
us sing. One learn which brands are best suited
to one's fingers, but still, like Austen's quill, or
Montblanc writer's edition, one wants one's
own teddy bear pen at midnight, when ideas
creep over the white covers, surround one's
head, demanding attention like hungry cats.
So, as I listen to these children of the night
begging for food and drink, I reach for a
Pilot or Optiflow left over from college days,
wishing I had my old calligraphy points or better
yet, my gold and black of old or a new Aspinal.
Some writers like fine tips, some bold, but none
scratchy or blotting. We are spoiled for choice
with roller balls or mechanical pencils, or gel pens.
Still we write on and on, despite the wrong
size of nib or horrid colour. My son's silver pen lies
in a drawer somewhere, unused by the techy one,
but like me, he wishes he could haunt stationers' shops
and look for that perfect pen. His bamboo kanji pens,
ignored until he has time; when will that be?
We wait for inspiration, and I use yet another school
girl's pen found somewhere in order to answer the
siren's call now--write now. Write now.
These pens on my duvet have crossed several oceans
waited in five countries for me to open the case,
instead of using my computer, which is hundreds
of miles away. The bottles of ink in my luggage
dripped, of course, the red, but I am grateful for
American ziplock baggies. So, I wait for my computer
enduring a few frustrations, and candle-light would make
no difference; I think of Lincoln as a young pioneer, stuffed
into a tiny attic with pencil and paper, like gold dust,
rare in New Salem. I am sure he was more comfortable
in Springfield on the leafy streets, with pens galore, most
likely gifts in leather cases from his aesthetic wife.
In this room by the sea, in a late spring which feels
like winter with no Christmas, to paraphrase another
word-smith, I wonder, what were his pens like and
did he think anyone would read his tales, or poems,
like my 100s lying in boxes, with plays, short stories,
essays, satires, somewhere in Illinois in storage.
Life is too short for all the words leaning against
my brain this twilight, like birds on a wire in the wind;
leaning for warmth and solidity. These birds struggle
to stay, but finally forced to fly away while I pretend
to sleep. Goodbye words, goodnight. Rest by my pens
until later, I am too tired to entertain you tonight,
by playing music to meet your fancy--and yet,
the ink flows like water trickling down the window
in this bleakest of seasons in Kent.
