Ode to the Fountain Pen


You are the poet’s looking glass-

The storyteller’s tongue-

The light when the world is dark-

The pain when it is numb.

You are the anonymous truth-

The philosopher’s sting-

The ring of every liberty bell-

The free thinker’s teeth.

You are as old as papyrus-

Old as the river Styx-

Old as stars and stone-

Old as flame and bone.

History written in your dark blood-

Culture in your pigment stains-

Revolution in your indentations- 

Change in the shifting of your weight. 

You spin spider webs in ink-

Bleed veins of silk and slime-

Speak new forgotten elegance-

In alanine and acidic brine.

Secrets in the curl of your lip-

Bravery in the flick of a wrist-

Mystery in the furls of your breath-

Despair in the well dip of your nib.

Every “once upon a time”-

Every “stormy night”-

Every “wish upon a star”-

Every “The End.”

Everything tragically romantic-

Everything bitterly real-

Every open door way-

Every finish line.

Alone above the page-

Cradled in slow propeller fingers-

Wait in the pause of thoughts-

Mirror the poet-

Light up the room-

Drip your dark blood.

A thin layer of skin pealed back-

At a tipping point.