Elegy

for an Ink-Stained Wretch

Aug 31 2012

I will miss

my daily paper.

A dull thunk

on the front porch

on crisp still mornings.

Or falling short

on city snow

dew-soaked grass.

Newsprint

immaculate enough

for birthing babies

kitchen-table surgery.

Serving fish-and-chips

dripping grease.

All the news that fits.

A record of events

that will, in the fullness of time

become history

wrap fish.

Even though

we didn’t know

it was old, by then,

which was good enough for us.

How old news keeps

wrapped in pulp.

Because after almost half a century

I have learned

it’s pretty much the same, day-to-day,

variations on a theme

of venal, vulgar

courageous.

Except the broadsheet shrunk.

Colour

trumped black and white.

And the “Woman’s Section” disappeared,

when it became clear

the Secretary of State

would hardly miss

recipes, and make-up tips.

I never minded ink

smudging my finger-tips.

Inhaled the scent

of pristine paper

crisp and flat,

treasured the heft

news section in hand.

The untouched page, the unexpected,

instead of information feeds

pre-selected.

(Not to mention

Margaret Wente

breezily giving offence!)

I wrote letters, both appalled and incensed,

rejected, mostly.

But sometimes there, in text

cajoling the editor.

A megaphone

for my puny voice,

15 seconds

of self expression,

and a week to preen.

From now on

I must read on a screen,

squinting in

at the hard reflective surface.

Countless papers

tossed across the room

in disgust,

no longer done.

Instead, I will scroll,

silently seethe

at the latest affront,

because screens

are not easily flung.

Yes, I will peer into my plastic machine

at light speed,

on time, and in touch.

But miss the pleasure of the printed page

the kinaesthetic feel.

The end of Saturdays

immersed, but relaxed,

the room strewn

with well-read papers,

coffee brewing black.

Modernity

has overtaken me,

I cannot go back.

I’ve been reading the Globe and Mail – daily, almost religiously – for over 45 years. And August 31, 2012 (the day this poem was written) was the last day the print edition was delivered to this medium-sized city:  a casualty of costs, and our relative remoteness. I fought the change, but ultimately failed.

Today, as I transcribe the hand-written version of this poem into the computer, was in fact the first day reading off the screen. And I must reluctantly admit that it went well. Although perhaps this is just the inner secret techno-geek, who hides out beneath my crusty Luddite exterior, enjoying the novelty of a new gadget.

I’ve taken a little poetic license, especially in the opening stanza. Because our “morning” paper up here never arrived in the morning. But I do recall this from my youth:  that cool crepuscular feeling of early mornings, when paper boys (yes, even I was, for the briefest time imaginable, a very poor one) roamed the streets, expertly tossing their precisely folded projectiles.

I come from a family of readers. Growing up, newspapers littered the den. In those days, in Toronto, there were 3 dailies, all broadsheets:  The Globe, The Star, and The Telegram (later reincarnated as The Sun, which nicely completed Toronto’s peculiarly astronomical taxonomy of papers). We got them all!

I mention letters to the editor. Mine weren’t (and aren’t) often published, but I couldn’t (can’t)  help myself. Because even if they aren’t published (to the everlasting discredit of the editor, I hastily add), there is a great catharsis in the act itself:  the simple act of putting pen to paper. So in high dudgeon, I vent. And as it happens, I had one published on our final weekend of receiving the print edition. So I suppose this will serve as my symbolic farewell to newsprint.

I know I should enjoy the apparent virtue of being more “green”:   fewer trees pulped for my transient pleasure. On the other hand, I am now forced to participate in our technological culture of obsolescence and over-consumption:  all those rapidly out-dated (not to mention over-priced!) iPads and eReaders heaping up in landfills, and leaking who knows what. After all, newsprint is recycled and trees re-grow, assimilating a lot more carbon as saplings than the mature trees they’re replacing. (I’ve always been very good at rationalization!) …On the other hand, the airplanes will fly lighter; the delivery car will remain parked.

And I will continue to read newspapers. Even though the word “newspaper” is quickly becoming as archaic as “dialing” when we make a phone call and “befriending” (I refuse to verb the noun, which I find highly inelegant) when we click a box on Facebook. Ahhh, modernity!