I’ve taken to writing lately, the old kind, my day’s agenda set down in old-fashioned ink I draw from one of those squat, prism-shaped bottles found at estate sales or in musty Venetian shops. On a meadow of paper whose spring is the pen’s nib, a woodland creek of my making flows. For years I lost track of her, my fountain pen, a separation born of my senseless neglect. She’s aged well, no less shapely, I see. As I hold and warm her, her tarnish wears off. We start the day together, she insistent on careful finger-and-eye interplay: artful swirls, pleasant tilts and dips, measured spacing, lazy backslides (the tail of the “y”), well-placed touches (dotted “i’s,” crossed “t’s”) and once in a while a robust stroke let loose in a moment of mini drama (“!”). More and more I like this, my morning begun unrushed, with some flair, my tasks ____books to the library ____stamps at the post-office ____trash out an elegant list in florid indigo.
I am sharing this since Richard Swanson is my neighbor and a former Library Board member. He has gifted Bev and me with several of his books of poetry. This particular poem struck a chord with me since Bev is totally fascinated with handwriting, and for me he mentions on top of his to-do list to return his books to the library.