Though full of direct knowledge of his fellows Whose eyes and faces are a script humane; Though voices sing to him like Lobos' cellos In lack and loss and woe this man remains.. In times gone by,the voice and face sufficed. Poets' music seemed to us almost divine; But now a subtle torture's been devised To write with pen and letters intertwined. This man, though wise like cat,or bear or owl, Has failed in his acquaintance with the pen. Nor does he have the words which politicians howl. Nor can he read more than his list of sin. For now the map is where the mind must dwell And of reality,no-one can tell.
Tag: pen
Damn it.I thought I was a virgin.
According to Freudian theory,writing with a fountain pen is the equivalent of copulation.Damn it.I thought I was a virgin when I got marriedThat Freud.. who does he think he is? God……anyway as we get older we can enjoy this simple outlet without dressing upor on line dating.And you don’t need protection,contraception or metal detection.Lose it the inky way.
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Enchantment
My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across the page to flow
Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,
And words come in a rush.
Enchanting through the hand which writes,
Bewitched with art, beauty alights.
The script is like a music score
Through which you pass as through a door.
Imagination’s home.
As,mysteriously.to you, to me,
The spirits of our hearts are tamed,
By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.
They enter vision quite unplanned,
Like moths to flutter softly round
Fire joined heart and hand.
The pen slows down,the hand goes still
And just as dreams at daybreak will,
They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone.
I almost caught that one
How my heart sings 