old family Remington
afternoon back verandah
unspool the ribbon
wet sweat hands
black and red fingerprints
torn cuticles broken nails
ribbon rolls,
crawl after it
wind it back uneven
type hammer leaps,
juts, the angle
thrust
the space beneath
leaving the letter
suspended in air,
a periscope,
then strike, press
jab into soft paper,
violet carbon
type cuts
around slipping letter e
the dark roller squeals
carriage walking on
ding
return and spring
pull
high pitched punch
punch punch
punch punch
pushing back
pausing
for the next line
This detailed poem brings back so many happy memories of my typewriters and me. I miss them. I have one left and I use it as a doorstop.
ReplyDeleteThank you Sarah.
Thank you Myron. They are wonderful aren't they? I used typewriters, but also played with one as a child and the mechanics was superb, magical, frustrating, what a mess I made and how much I loved it.
ReplyDeleteEnjoyed the pace and punch of your typewriter poem and your detailed memories. Brought back horror stories from school and short lived TAFE course but love the old Remingtons and wish I'd kept the one we bought years ago. (For a door stop?)
ReplyDeleteThanks Lizz, I think they may have been better to play with! Playing at typing was great. (My TAFE course not so, too!)
ReplyDelete