October 24th, 2011

alice lost in labyrinth

poem: child on a typewriter

child on typewriter
let's put one in the classroom
one at every desk




child on a typewriter

the amazement: seeing a child on a typewriter
their curiousity their determined clack at keys
to see a white sheet turn spatter black with words
the ding of a new line the fierce slap of letters
the use of strong language of words made clear
concentration of thoughts only and intent to
express create make an old world present now
familiarity with where the alphabet is from years
of computers and internet and chatrooms and instant
messaging all focused on this key and this sound
not one cellphone or app or web browser or text
but the consumption and directive of type and type _ ding.


- adp, 23 October 2011
(typewriter poem @ Canzine)
alice lost in labyrinth

poem: typewriter poems

typewriter poems

The following is one side of a page I typed at Canzine in the 'Typewriter Orchestra' room. Something about the typewriter and the sound of Nichola playing double bass - this is the most I've written in some time without (over)thinking - something other than my daily paper journal.


XXXXXXXX

i miss the weight of the words laid down
the clarity of purpose when defined in type
when each letter was a heavy foot set down

this is what i meant to say and
this is what i mean to say because

i have thought it slow and i have
worked it out / through fingers
through my brain / down to this

this is what i meant to say


XXXXXXX

it sounds like bee bop jazz kerouac
double bass strings sing accompaniment
to our impressions and expressions / to us

XXXXXXX

letters were written

letters were written on typewriters
confessional poems and prosaic novels
and every word / a change / a quickness
after pen and pencil on paper paper paper

XXXXXXXX

for (all) intents and purposes
we should return to ribbon and
the concentrated language of mind

XXXXXXXXX

you are not in 20II
you are not tied to
a wireless phone or

a connection
disconnection

you are at a small desk
a wooden table
a room of your own

there is a book or stack of them
and a cigarette burns out in lamplight

you hear more silence the silence depth
the distance of empty night streets with
the echoes of each clack clack clack and

you
write.


- adp, 23 October 2011