She sits with panache,
looking out the window.
The sunlight peeping in,
through veins in the sky
Crossed legged, in a snug sweater
and coffee in hand,
she blows over the cup.
A lonely typewriter sits on the rosewood table
the scent of antiquity attached to it.
It longs for fingers to run over the keys,
to let flow the black ink,
to tell stories.
She steals a glance at it,
"Come to me, Come,
Write something. Write yourself."
She hides behind her commercialized coffee mug,
with the standard silly coffee table slogans scrawled over it.
"But I can't think of anything to write.
I'm running dry, dry, dry.
I feel empty."
She looks over at the typewriter again,
that old pal, waiting patiently.
"Write about the emptiness.", it whispers.
She walks over, cautiously
Like a curious infant
at the sight of something wondrous.
Gingerly sitting on the chair,
She runs her hand over the keys.
She writes.
No pause.
No interval.
She wrote.
Her dog resting at her feet.
Calm and quiet at the knowledge,
his master is revitalized.
She takes out the finished paper and smells the ink.
"I love you grandmama"
She looks at the typewriter and says, teary eyed.
Note: Writers always have had a seemingly eternal love affair with Typewriters,for some strange yet comforting reason.
looking out the window.
The sunlight peeping in,
through veins in the sky
Crossed legged, in a snug sweater
and coffee in hand,
she blows over the cup.
A lonely typewriter sits on the rosewood table
the scent of antiquity attached to it.
It longs for fingers to run over the keys,
to let flow the black ink,
to tell stories.
She steals a glance at it,
"Come to me, Come,
Write something. Write yourself."
She hides behind her commercialized coffee mug,
with the standard silly coffee table slogans scrawled over it.
"But I can't think of anything to write.
I'm running dry, dry, dry.
I feel empty."
She looks over at the typewriter again,
that old pal, waiting patiently.
"Write about the emptiness.", it whispers.
She walks over, cautiously
Like a curious infant
at the sight of something wondrous.
Gingerly sitting on the chair,
She runs her hand over the keys.
She writes.
No pause.
No interval.
She wrote.
Her dog resting at her feet.
Calm and quiet at the knowledge,
his master is revitalized.
She takes out the finished paper and smells the ink.
"I love you grandmama"
She looks at the typewriter and says, teary eyed.
Note: Writers always have had a seemingly eternal love affair with Typewriters,for some strange yet comforting reason.
It was the faithful companion before the digital revolution. One can't help but think affectionately on seeing it stashed somewhere! Great lines QS!
ReplyDeleteHank
I kept mine for so many years. A faithful companion much like a dog that seemed to always understand me. I had to be brave in the end! Mind you I have still got my Coffee Mug...I'm not letting that go!
ReplyDeleteA typewriter is such a natural companion, like a notebook... But still I use my computer better.. (At least I hope so)
ReplyDeleteA lonely typewriter sits on the rosewood table
ReplyDeletethe scent of antiquity attached to it.
It longs for fingers to run over the keys,
to let flow the black ink,
to tell stories.
Beautiful heartfelt lines :D
a sweet ode to the typewriter...they do evoke memories...
ReplyDeleteMy typewriter was left to me by my Grandpa when I was 9, so this poem evoked some memories. I had it for a long time, a treasured possession on which I wrote not only poems but in due course university essays. That was a long time ago, and I love my computer now, but I am very grateful for the old Remington in its day.
ReplyDeleteWhat a warm and touching poem - there is indeed something iconic about the click of typewriter keys - as if you can hear yourself writing and feel more productive..it took me ages to realise that the I pad made a similar noise when typing - though you are right not quite the same! lovely piece - pen and paper is good too ;)
ReplyDeleteWhat a lovely and very touching story! Makes me nostalgic for the typewriter days of old!
ReplyDeleteWelcome to Poetry Pantry! Hope you will enjoy other people's writing as we enjoy yours.
awe inspiring. you capture probably many a moment of most of us reading this
ReplyDeletegracias, wonderful!
I like the sounds of the typewriters keys and I like to play with the ribbon.
ReplyDeleteAnything can be a source of inspiration - sometimes our muse comes in various forms.
Thank you all :D
ReplyDeleteI haven't seen a typewriter in a long time. There is something magical about them though the feel, the smell, the tap tap tap.
ReplyDeleteMy writing began when my grandpa gifted me with an old Underwood at age 11. I typed on that thing right into my 40's when I finally - fearfully - discovered the delights of word processors!!!!! It was like reaching Nirvana!
ReplyDeleteThat ending left a lump in my throat! When I was a kid, I used to type on a typewriter where you had to backspace to erase....not quite as convenient as the computer, but it sure made you think more carefully about the words you were choosing!!
ReplyDeleteI love poems like this - where you're writing about writing. The poem, then, becomes what you're describing. Awesome! Meta-poetic.
ReplyDeleteThe entertainment a typewriter brings even if used for nothing more than giggles is great.
ReplyDeleteMy mom was a writer, and her Remington manual (no electric; she was a Luddite on this point!) was her trusted friend and confidente. I love the relationship you paint here! So true. Thanks, Amy
ReplyDeleteOh she is too comfortable it makes me want to be in her shoes. with nothing to worry about just a typewriter to put fascinating stories to paper. Grandpa had one and when he passed away, i used it to type my made-up newsletters because in those days, Typewriter ruled the Office space...great one my friend.
ReplyDelete