The Typewriter
My parents gave me
a portable typewriter
with a box of onion skin paper
for eighth grade graduation.
It slid out of the box so smooth
and strong.
An alpine blue hard plastic case
covered the best gift of my life.
My fingers ached to touch and caress
the keys with the lust
of an adolescent girl
ready to change the world.
A manual Smith Corona
became my freedom machine
to type my life in words
across the crinkly typing paper
drenched in mystery
and ancient song.
The sound of the keys
clicked in rhythm
like wheels on a train track,
a symphonic language
my own to create,coerce, change, censor
as it echoed through the night.
20 thoughts on "The Typewriter"
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I had one just like it, and I used it the same way. Thanks for helping me to remember.
Sweet memory. Thank you for reading.
I love it! I can relate to both the typewriter and onion skin paper. I still have my mother’s old Remington Rand, that I used to learn to type, and two very old portable Underwood’s.
Thank you. You are fortunate to have those treasures.
Such a heartfelt poem, Virginia. I especially love this:
“A manual Smith Corona
became my freedom machine”
Thank you for your kind comment. I appreciate it.
I’d forgotten my Smith Corona until I read your poem. My father had a portable Olivetti. I’ve forgotten what became of them. . . To impart a bit of the history of technology, I’ve dug up carbon copied copies
Ah, carbon copies. I remember when I got my first box of carbon paper. Thank you.
Such visceral memories of using a typewriter… admittedly a brief time in my life before word processors took over, but it connected me to my mother in a way I’ll never forget. That third stanza is a heavy hitter — thank you!
Thank you for your insight and such a kind comment. I love when a poem generates memories for the reader.
Shew! “A manual Smith Corona
became my freedom machine”
I am so glad you selected those lines because I was unsure of “freedom machine.” My Grandmother called everything a machine, whether it was a car, a washer, a typewriter. Thank you for reading.
A manual Smith Corona/ became my freedom machine. So good!
Thank you for sharing that kind comment. I appreciate it.
Such a warm and nostalgic piece. It makes me want to feel the push back of a typewriter. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for your kind comment. I sometimes miss that push back of the typewriter and the unique sound.
Love that you left the poem with the sounds of typing echoing through the night – it’s like the poem and sound continue. What a beautiful memory piece. I saw someone else had a typewriter poem today – I guess Lexpomo-ers are getting in sync!
Thank you for this insight. I appreciate it. It validates my intention at the end.
Wow! I had to scroll through the blog to see who wrote the typewriter poem first…and you beat me! What a coincidence… I was gifted another typewriter yesterday evening and made a note to write about it.
Anyway, it’s interesting seeing your take on it. I love my Smith Corona Super Silent. You did incredible capturing the nostalgia and “like wheels on a train track” was the perfect sensory metaphor.
Amazing. The Muse was working overtime. So fortunate you were gifted another typewriter to string together such a dynamic poem. Thank you for your kind comment. I am pleased that the metaphor spoke to you.