Best Typewriter Poems
It sat there—not as metal, not as memory,
but as something half-asleep and listening.
A quiet creature of keys and shadows,
its body dulled by dust, its spirit still humming
beneath the years.
It had known the weight of a man
who believed words could bend the world~
a man whose hands were rough with labor
yet gentle with letters, as if each keystroke
were a small salvation.
I remember the music of it~
that click-clack cadence like rain on a tin roof,
like a heartbeat learning to speak.
I was a child then, cross-legged under his desk,
catching the syllables like fireflies,
not knowing they were seeds, not knowing they were mine.
When Granddad passed, I carried the machine upward
as though escorting a relic to its resting place~
a silent procession through the narrow throat of the attic.
It waited there—through summers that smelt of cedar and heat,
through winters that whispered of things forgotten, it waited~
a sentinel of stories I was too afraid to write.
Years later, the attic groaned under my return,
as if recognizing the footsteps of someone
who had once believed in beginnings.
The machine was still there, its silhouette steady,
its longing patient. It had survived because some things endure
even when we abandon them~
faith, memory, and the quiet insistence of a dream
we pretend we outgrew.
When I touched it, the dust rose like breath.
The first key resisted-a refusal,
a reminder of all the years I’d resisted myself.
But then, a single letter, dark and certain,
punched through the page like a pulse returning.
By the third paragraph, I understood:
I had not resurrected the machine. It had resurrected me.
And somewhere between the rafters and the rising words,
I realized this truth: I was never the one writing the story.
I was the story finally finding its way back to the page.
The accompanying memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The keys are still—no clacking, no dinging~
now only dust lies in the grooves
where fingers once belonged.
Once it knew the weight of wars,
of Hemingway’s cigars and wine,
of love letters dipped in kerosene shine.
Now spiders draft their webs between
the metal bones of the obsolete machine.
A museum piece.
A fossil.
A ghost.
Waiting for words that matter the most.
But the writer’s hands?
Oh, they’re somewhere else~
tapping glass,
begging the sky
to inspire a story
worth its own ink.
After my father died, I moved to his old house
Donated many large items to charities
As each item was removed, tears streamed down my blouse
But some were not wanted; what would become of these?
Set up a table in the yard; sign said, “Free Stuff”
The old Underwood typewriter wasn’t set out
Parting with memories it evoked was just too rough
It symbolized Dad’s life, without any doubt
The late night hours a CPA spent at his desk
With my cat curled up next to him, evoking grins
As Dad typed away, little Prince looked statuesque
I learned to type on what is now a “has been”
This manual contraption replaced by high tech
Represented a man who worked to provide
Freely offering love, but stretching each pay check
To give us a better life, Dad’s efforts applied
The hours work took away from his family
I used to resent, but I understand more now
A sacrifice he made for my siblings and me
The thought of parting with it I couldn’t allow
The typewriter remains on Dad’s desk in the den
As a reminder of how hard he worked to please
Sometimes I still peck at the letters now and then
When I’m missing Dad most, somehow it brings me peace
Tapping to "The End"
The tap, tap, tapping of the keys
with the carriage thrown
in rhythmic dings to the letters
appearing on the page.
Each letter becoming a word
then turning into a sentences
that flows into paragraphs
of the story living in his head.
Zzzzzzip !!! Another page finished!!
Followed by the click, click clicking
of new paper being fed to address the
quick flow of his words.
He was at his work and had found
his muse, singing in rhythmic chorus,
through the quiet of the early hours
while others down below try to drift
asleep to the clicking,
dinging and tapping of his keys.
Better still, we all knew, than the pacing
and shuffling of steps round and round
the room--- The attic floor revealing
the circles of worried creative thinking.
The storyline falls into place
as the characters breathe on the page
and new life appears in chapter after chapter.
He pecks on with his typing with writers
ferociously till his story reaches “The End”
5/16/13
For: “The Typewriter” contest hosted by Craig
In 1925 the birth of the King of the Underwood came forth
and some 21 years later, he would grace us with his wisdom
as well as his politics, quotes, manuscripts, short stories and then deliver to us Ben Hur
and Lincoln. His name was Gore Vidal and today he still "is".
I picture him typing on his Underwood in his various villas (of which he had many)
writing his own manuscripts chiefly because he despised, like most writers, interruptions
unless it were as he said, " to have sex or a television appearance, both of which he lauded.
Today Vidal leaves us with, " We are permanently the United States of Amnesia. We learn nothing because we remember nothing."
The other night at the bookstore in a young family strolled
and it didn’t take but a minute for them to make me feel old.
We have an antique typewriter in the store…
(the kind that makes a clicking sound and ends with that familiar ‘ding’)
which the young girl took one look at it and asked:
“Dad, what is this thing?”
Her dad explained how it was a typewriter.
He said, “People used to write letters on these
but that was long before you were born
back in the ‘70s.”
All of a sudden it was like in some time warp I was caught
I swear I aged 10 years that moment…right there…on the spot.
Then before I could compose myself…and my old age feelings allay
Her mom found a book on the Beatles and the daughter asked…”Who are they?”
I had a moment to reflect on how time is a funny thing
for imprinted on each generation are memories to which we cling…
Things that were important to us…important to who we are
are unknown to future generations…or even seem bizarre.
But we must never forget the past if humanity is to survive
which means it’s up to us, the older ones, to keep those memories alive.
This is a burden we must accept…a responsibility we can’t shirk
so I walked over to the typewriter and said, “Let me show you how this works.”
I loaded a sheet of paper…my typing was crisp and clean…
I quickly typed: The Beatles were the best band the world has ever seen!
Then I left the girl to type on her own
(Hopefully this is a memory to which she’ll cling)
“Daddy, I’m typing!” She said with a smile.
“Listen, you can hear the ding?”
With a Beatles CD playing in the background she asked
“Mommy I love this typewriter can you buy me one?”
and though they did not purchase a single book…
I knew my work, that night, was done.
Tap, tap, clickety-clack
Thoughts vigilantly stamped
Trademark of transcription
Technology's prologue
Twain's famous "Tom Sawyer"
Time etched black and white scene
Tinted with grandpa's dust
4-27-2021
Typewriter Symphony
Borge played
with fingers splayed.
Not one key stuck
Or gone amuck.
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog"
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog"
Nine small words have leaped right through the decades.
Jumping through my brain
Thumping through my memory
like a drum that still complains.
Dedicating dancing sounds
on keyboards of old Remingtons
and Underwoods, that understood
young fingers tapping, zigging- zagging
rhythms beating , small bells ringing
to and fro, a carriage swinging
to orchestrated yesterdays
While papers flew, and fingers numbed
with sly old fox tricks, lazy dogs, mixed
with mindless sounds of drumming bits of
gibberish verses, hands rehearsing
the fox, a hound, a cadance clicking
tick-tick-tocking back to classrooms
clocking words now locked in time
Sitting straight, with neck erect
a sticky "J" key...a whiz kid sat
next chair over, such a brat,
she'd try to race me, set the pace
that I could never match, no trace of
satisfaction on her face, and
I would lose my concentration
my head would wander into clouds
where foxes should be chased by hounds
instead I type the same old rounds
of foxes jumping over dogs,
that clogged my mind with silly sounds
which hummed inside my inner child
Old clacking sounds, are still around
they pound today, inside my head
and still I ponder all the while
how that old fox could leap a dog
unless that dog was dead!
..............................................................
Inspired by Craig's Contest: Typewriter
4/20/13
Some winter day,
In Orson's realm...
Or was it just a film?
One Paris night,
Along The Seine streams...
Or was it in my dreams?
I saw them, spies,
I heard all the cries...
Or had I been dreaming?
A machine gun
Would not stop to run...
Or was it still this film?
I woke up, then,
To grab a new pen...
Could THAT all make MY film?
The typewriter
let her fingers run...
WHO'LL STOP THIS MACHINE GUN!?
(Written on 04/27/2013)
A fresh college graduate looking for a job
To undergo trials one of which is the typing test
Handed over a text passage to pound on the keypad
Typing 40 to 50 words per minute, I needed to press
Facing a manual typewriter, rested fingers to home keys
Try to feel the small bumps on the F and J keys
Now confident, curled fingers to position strategically
Hoping to type the text reflexively
Altering the upper and lower case, pinky fingers strike shift keys
Reaching the number keys on upper level makes it fiddly
Pressing the keys very hard to swing the type-bar up
The carriage travels to the far right sluggishly
Leaving an imprint of the characters
I was whisked away by my disappointment
Never repeat same fate in front of a manual typewriter
The rhythm goes with each keystroke adapting to its component
The next day I saw a Remington typewriter
So old that typebars entangled so often
Curious to type words, always an attempter
At its clickety-clack sound, a relic of a bygone age
15 May 2013
Taking a course of being a secretary
Typewriter on the table is ready
My hands are aching to hit the letters
Speed depends on the movements of my fingers
A basic instrument of communication
You have to familiarize with the hands-on
Busy hands needs to type as many words
It’s like having a competition with swords
Manual way of making documents for you and for me
You have to be sure to type the words and letters correctly
Bond papers, liquid erasers, and a heavy type writer
The complete set to accomplish the mission as typist
Typewriters will be remembered as the years go by
Modern computers will not beat its quality even if I buy
April 25, 2013
For Craig's Contest "The Typewriter"
Note:
I worked as a secretary in an insurance company before and I used typewriter for making documents, letters, etc. and missed using it for a long time... (^_^)
Oh how well I do remember
Dear Miss McConnell’s typing class.
Fumbling fingers seeking home keys,
And so afraid I wouldn’t pass.
The quick brown fox jumps over the…..
I was assigned that exercise.
No lettering on the keypads,
My fingers had no help from eyes.
Dropping out was not an option,
In Miss McConnell’s typing class,
For she tolerated failure
About as well as she did sass.
So with real determination,
I had achieved to some degree
Enough success for Miss McConnell
To give a passing grade to me.
These were manual typewriters
A secretary’s tool for years.
There was no way to fix our errors
Than with whiteout and messy smears.
My expertise on the typewriter,
Won me a job and first pay check.
I was so happy Miss McConnell
Had saved me from the hunt and peck.
I was wary of electrics.
I didn’t like them very much.
They would stammer and keep typing
When they felt my heavy touch.
But of course one can't stop progress,
And my manual was replaced.
But not until today's great wonders
Could errors simply be erased.
Written April 16, 2013 for contest "The Typewriter"
Pumped
Reams of paper sit upon my desk accordioned untidily, dimpled where the cat stood or sat too long. The wastepaper basket was full of crumbled balls, reflecting the topography of the Nepali adventure I am trying to re-count. The heavily grained desk of golden oak supports a range of dictionaries and thesaurus’s, any one of which was heavy enough to use as a doorstop in a windstorm. An old Underwood typewriter sits, holding court, in the midst of all this, enamel black, with chrome edged keys and struts which depress at the tap of a fingertip. The radio blares, God Bless the Child Who’s Got His Own…as I formulate the saga of a heroine seeker, lead by two caramel colored Nepali boys, toward the foothills of the Himalayian Mountains.
The spindles holding the black ribbon snag in the clip-like opening which holds them taunt. Adjusting the tape turns my nails blue-black. I brush the hair from my eyes decorating the tip of my nose. Dirty business this writing. I tear another sheet from the rubber roller and crumple it with a sigh. “Damn, irascible machine don’t you have a soul? Give Mama something! Anything” I whine.
Scared by the abruptness of my outburst, and the carriage's leap left, the scared-y-cat is propelled to the floor, sending a half-stack of unsullied paper to ground, covering my patent-leather pumps.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKNtP1zOVHw
Enjoy...while you read..Billy Holiday
Inside a closet, going through a stack
of books and many boxes she had bound
with tape, she came upon coats way in back
and knew what underneath them would be found.
The typewriter she’d gotten long ago,
once used by her in college constantly,
forlornly sat, invoking thoughts to flow,
and lifting it, she pressed its letter “T.”
It still got stuck. How some things never change!
That brought her some small comfort, for despite
“improvements“ in the world, she found things strange.
The sticking key made everything seem right.
With that, she put her typewriter away,
its fate again delayed another day.
Written 5/1/13