Handwritten
Oct 10 2014


According to science
I learn better
writing by hand.

The tactile art
of forming a letter
the feel of a pen.
The rolling friction, pleasing weight
of its steel nub
on the white absorbent page.

My mind and hand engaged,
messy penmanship
an aide-mémoire.

As synapses in my brain
strengthen the connection
between manual effort
sub-conscious thought.

Mistakes remain, all the second-guessing,
crossed-off
in dark blue ink,
rubbed-out
in a smudge of lead.

When I write too quickly

my back-hand grip
spreads fresh wet ink.

Smears soft black pencil

across the page,

its graphite sheen

shining greyly

in a certain light.

But between keyboard and screen
something goes missing.
The ghost in the machine
exorcised
by uniform letters, precisely set.
Defaulting, as always

to Times New Roman
in 12 point font.

Where poetry sounds the same
as a legal brief

divorce petition.

Except when the tap-tap-tapping stops
in a long pause,
of expectant quiet,
the machine patiently idling
as I wander off, somewhere
hungry for touch.