Pen, Paper and Indra’s Web
“… the earth needs a dream of restoration —
She dances and the birds just keep arriving,
Thousands of them, immense arctic flocks, her teeming life.”
Robert Haas, excerpt from “State of the Planet”
I read the national award-winning poet
to juice my cadences. Maybe to
steal his stately, nutritious,
For it has been months since a
pen, a real ink pen, touched down upon
the snowy neat plains of my
journal. The one I carry with me
everywhere in my dirt-brown woolen
satchel from Peru, stitched one side
with a narrow, eyeless, pale white
It is a sort of deposit,
this carrying, I hope will earn interest
some day. Maybe today!
For after all, for the first time in many
months my hand, the fleshy pad
of my right hand, sidles inch-by-inch
and back again across this page
after my few moments with award-
winning lines from the handsome
paperback I’ve been carting,
too, these many months. Unread
since then, until just now.
Yet these are comments upon the
times. And also surety.
For if my precious phone they tell
me is so smart falls dead as a
hockey puck, the thing I most use to catch up
on my news and times, I still have
this honored poet to read inside my sack.
Where my journal also lives.
Should the planet, the town, this
little restaurant grow dark, all its
electricity gone in a second’s fingersnap!
though I’ll need a little sunlight or in deepest
night the nubbin of a white candle
sputtering away the darkness
for a few feet in all directions, yet
I shall be able to write to you,
the future. Still.
I’ll not need the coal-fired zapping of whole mountain
ranges, or the sapping, I should say,
of them. I will, at least until the ink runs out
and pages fill, have yet a lot of room
to have my say. Such as it is.
I could get used to this again!
Used to be all I knew, before the
advent of these vaporous tools
which now, thank you sapped mountains
and vast heaps and heaps of zeros
and ones, are where everything
I have to say now depends
and resides. Except for these
few scrawls on paper on this tabletop,
until I transcribe them into the
vasty deeps of Indra’s web, the
new one my race has built these recent years.
Only two of earth’s core elements can make
these pages I write fragile as that fragile web —
fire, come to to curl this page into blowsy ash.
Or water, to smear and soak
these words into oblivion.
Into obscurity. (I suppose wind, too,
could lift and steal these words,
ripping them from Ego’s proud
grasp, whisking them beneath
the muddy wheels of some indifferent
I shall leave it at that,
closing this re-meeting with pen and paper,
happy to have met again. Unsure
of what will last.
douglas imbrogno | tricky fish | charleston wv | may 15. 2013