Manuscript
April 12 2015


Shavings
curl off the blade
paper-thin.

A steady thumb

a practiced eye.

Like peeling an apple, skin deep,
the precise feel
of its keen edge

through yellow paint
blonde wood
soft black lead.
A standard pencil, medium hard,
tooth marks
on it badly gnawed end.

The point will wear,
smooth, round, glossy.
Silky graphite
on creamy paper,

moving over the page

with the perfect balance
of resistance, and slip.

Or break

at first touch,
brittle bits

of shattered shrapnel

snapping off.

But how sweet
when it's perfectly honed,
and words flow
like honeyed whispers
in a lover's ear.

The sloppy tongue’s

muddled endearments,
the cursive line

softly smudged.

The nub
of the old-fashioned instrument
is a measuring stick,
steadily diminished
as its letters empty out.
Which are mostly mine,
but sometimes, inspired;
as if the words came to hand
and I simply channelled them,
watching
as the page fills.

Writing in pencil
there's no fooling yourself
with illusions of permanence.
Because ink
is only a matter of time.
And even the printed page
will not survive
water, air, fire.

Like all good craftsmen
the writer's hand is sure,
taking care of his tools
honing his words.

I can't recall from where, but an image came to me of a pen knife in strong competent hands, sharpening a pencil. I don't use pencils. I write in pen, and edit on the keyboard. But I like the implication of craftsmanship, of practised expertise, of taking care. When you write by hand with a traditional instrument, you are focused on one thing. And you are applying yourself to a task free of the urgency and speed of modern life. The root of "manuscript" is "the hand" (manos); as in hand-made, hand-writing. This is not something a machine can do. Or at least do well.

I smile each time I read softly smudged. Even though I'm right handed, I have a terrible back-handed script: pencil smudges terribly; and even ink does, if it isn't quick-drying enough.

I wanted this poem to be sensory, tactile, physical. Especially the feel of graphite on paper: when the sharpness is perfect, the weight of the pencil is just right in your hand, and it's the kind of paper you like. Here, process is as important as creativity, and the act as pleasing as the end: the honed words, as much as the well-cared-for tool.