Projectiles In A Cup
by Odin odin@aflx.com — Read all 3,869 poems by Odin odin@aflx.com
Many years ago I viewed a European film called “Hunger,” the story of a homeless man living on park benches in the middle of a Scandinavian winter and writing poems with the stub of a pencil. The image of that two inch instrument has always been a reminder at my writing desk of how long and risky the time to express who you are, or might be. So many unknowns to explore.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Projectiles In A Cup
by Odin Roark
Like a quiver of missiles,
how calm your forbearance,
pencils awaiting the launch pad of mind,
determined to explore targets unknown.
How stalwart the arsenal,
resolute your yellow,
courageous your form,
black-tipped payloads
waiting for the “go” moment,
the forever pause as minds draw on inspiration,
arcing trajectories of reason,
meant to land upon destinations in need.
These carefully chosen instruments,
once born from assembly line,
number 2s of heavier intent,
3s of tentative conviction,
4s of fleeting thoughts.
At times of such personal protection,
dissuading distractions,
sentries of sorts,
forever faithful
desiring only to be used,
to hit their mark.
Such history for instruments so poised
freshly sharpened so anxious,
worn and older so melancholy,
about to recall more
humble beginnings.
Now from my desk
my paper and pink pearl,
nudges my gaze from window to horizon
cup of lead patiently waits.
A countdown…
How seductive,
this insistent persuasion,
knowing conviction knows not
a fail-safe.
The moment’s epiphany takes flight!
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I recall having cups like that filled with pens of various sorts. For the last time I used a pencil was when I was 20. A number 2 on Mylar was like the finest of fountain pens. Near that end I used colored pencils on colored construction paper to draw renderings that were as realistic as photographs. My favorite: automobile designs.
But that all ended with paralyzed hands, so at 21 I was given a rigid hand splint and a ballpoint pen with surgical rubber around it for grip so that I could write again, but never be able to scratch out something in pencil and then, erase it. I could still draw with a ballpoint pen. Later, I left cursive writing for architectural lettering and left ball points for felt pens. Finally, when I could no longer hold any pen steady enough to write (my abs, not my arm and shoulder muscles) I moved to the keyboard, and then to voice dictation.
I do not miss pencils except when I wish to draw.
Ron
Alert and ready, for whatever targets there be ...