5 Poems about Typewriters
The typewriter is a recurring theme here and it seems that I’m overdue on sharing some poems about them, about the act of typing, and the music of typing. I love how Clarice Lispector and Annie Dillard and May Sarton wrote about typewriters and typing in their prose and I’ve shared some of their words in a post titled My Most Intimate Friend. But today is for poetry, which seems perfectly suited as a vessel to think and dream about the typewriter.
The first poem is by Charles Simic who I’m beautifully indebted to because he allowed me to use his poem “In the Library” in my novel, Everything Affects Everyone. His poem strikes upon the both-ness of delight and dark despair that it’s possible to feel these days.
Next is Australian poet, David Malouf’s poem about grasshoppers and the music they make — you can just hear the typewriter sounds as you read. The poem by Matthew Francis immediately caught my eye because he talks about a blue Smith Corona, which is what you see in my photograph. Adam Zagajewski’s poem is a self-portrait that begins with an image of his writing implements and goes on from there. But honestly, I’ll always share an AZ poem even if it only loosely fits the theme. The final poem is quite shamelessly, my own. It’s also the shortest piece I’ve ever written. I’ve shared it around a fair bit since my book came out and is probably one of those things that I like a lot more than anyone else, but that’s okay! It’s about typing rather than typewriters, but I think still works in this grouping. Which I hope you enjoy!
Let me know if you have a favourite, or if you have a fave poem about typewriters I should know about.
1. Let Us Be Careful
by Charles Simic
More could be said
of a dead fly
in the window
of a small shed,
and of an iron typewriter
that hasn’t
lifted a key in years
both in delight
and dark despair.
2. Typewriter Music
by David Malouf
Hinged grasshopper legs kick
back. So
quick off the mark, so
spritely. They set
the mood, the mode, the call
to light-fingered highjinks.
A meadow dance
on the keyboard,
in breathless, out-of-bounds
take-offs into
flight and giddy joyflight without
stint. The fingerpads
have it. Brailling through
études of alphabets, their chirp and clatter
grass-choppers
the morning to soundbites,
each rifleshot hammerstroke another notch
in the silence.
3. Typewriter
by Matthew Francis
One day I’ll fetch the Smith Corona from the cupboard,
set it on the desk and unclasp its blue plastic shell
to expose the nakedness of its baby-grand workings.
Remember the punch and peck words had in those days,
the strain of Q in the little finger, the type head
leaning out on its stalk from its semicircular roost,
the angelus ting that marked the end of a line
the slap of the silver lever that jerked time forward,
the shift key that tilted the world on its fulcrum,
the grey formalities hedged by tabs and margins
that turned language into geometry, the braille
of the other side of the page under the fingertips?
What was struck here could never be unstruck,
in spite of backspacing and xs, packets of Tipp–Ex paper
and the vial of Snopake, its screw-cap gritted shut.
Not used to taking ourselves so seriously, we prodded
at the ampersand tangled in its nest, the curly brackets
aiming their bows in opposite directions.
Switch on the anglepoise lamp; outside the window
it’s carbon-paper dark. There’s ribbonsmudge on your fingers
and a new sheet of foolscap rolled into place on the platen.
4. Self-Portrait
by Adam Zagajewski
Between the computer, a pencil, and a typewriter
half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.
I live in strange cities and sometimes talk
with strangers about matters strange to me.
I listen to music a lot: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.
I see three elements in music: weakness, power, and pain.
The fourth has no name.
I read poets, living and dead, who teach me
tenacity, faith, and pride. I try to understand
the great philosophers--but usually catch just
scraps of their precious thoughts.
I like to take long walks on Paris streets
and watch my fellow creatures, quickened by envy,
anger, desire; to trace a silver coin
passing from hand to hand as it slowly
loses its round shape (the emperor's profile is erased).
Beside me trees expressing nothing
but a green, indifferent perfection.
Black birds pace the fields,
waiting patiently like Spanish widows.
I'm no longer young, but someone else is always older.
I like deep sleep, when I cease to exist,
and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses
dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.
Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me
and irony suddenly vanishes.
I love gazing at my wife's face.
Every Sunday I call my father.
Every other week I meet with friends,
thus proving my fidelity.
My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow.
Could I help in this? I don't know.
I'm truly not a child of the ocean,
as Antonio Machado wrote about himself,
but a child of air, mint and cello
and not all the ways of the high world
cross paths with the life that—so far—
belongs to me.
5. Poet’s Musical Background
by Shawna Lemay
When I type I dream I am playing Chopin.
As often happens to me, while I’m writing a post, something will crop up that seems to pertain. Today it was an article in The Atlantic titled, The Joy of ‘Calm Technology’: A theory for resisting information overload by Charlie Warzel. It’s about our peripheral focus when we use technology, and I thought it was very interesting. It’s made me want to get some new ribbon for my old typewriters, or just a more workable typewriter, you know? Maybe Tom Hanks could send me one?
Meanwhile, a quick note to remind you that my Beauty School Patreon is still humming along. Join me there on Monday mornings.