Ode to a Pencil

I dedicate this poem to my cousin, Julie whose gift of a blue notebook inspired me to write this poem.

*

I went looking for a pencil

To write here in my book,

But they were all elusive;

Not apparent at first look.

*

None were visible on the shelf

Where they normally get put down.

How about the sideboard drawer?

But none were to be found.

*

I tried inside my craft room -

Paints and scissors and pens.

No pencils among the clutter.

The search began again.

*

I wondered where the pencils were -

Why were they hidden still?

Did they think they'd be used

For something bad against their will?

*

Poking someone in the eye

Or drawing rude motifs?

I only want you for my words -

I sincerely promise this.

*

I raise my eyes to heaven

To the pencil gods of yore;

A silent plea to those in charge

For more places to explore.

*

Where are you, little pencil?

Can you tell me where you are?

I promise you, I'll treat you well,

My little writing star.

*

My search becomes more frantic

As I scramble through new places,

Moving items hard and fast

And messing up neat spaces.

*

My heightened search is fruitless.

I sit down with a sigh.

I don't want to settle for a pen;

I want my words to glide.

*

Only a pencil can give me that:

A pen is not as good.

I like the way my writing looks

From this little piece of wood.

*

Perhaps the pencils are all away

On a well-earned pencil break -

Lined up on towels on a beach

Points tickled by ocean's wake.

*

Or maybe they like clubbing

And are dancing in the sun?

Or sitting on a terrace

Drinking cocktails, one on one?

*

Maybe they've been stolen

By a crafty pencil thief

And are trembling somewhere dark and cold

Wishing for release.

*

I don't like where this is going -

I need to find you now!

I want to hold you, warm and tight

And write my poem down.

*

Perhaps if I plead to its vanity

A pencil will appear

Like magic, right before me

If only it could hear...

*

I have a new blue notebook

A gift from someone dear:

Thoughtful, kind and loving -

A gift to shed a tear.

*

I want the book to be special,

A reflection of what I see -

Full of thoughts and all the ideas

That brim and spill from me.

*

How desperately I need it!

I can't begin to write

Without its graphite tip in hand:

My first line must be right.

*

And then I spot one on a pile

Of papers by a cup.

I move towards it stealthily

And gently pick it up.

*

It's taken time to find it

But it was worth the prolonged look,

And now, it needs a little grooming

Before I show it to my book.

*

I feel a little guilty

As I place it by the blade

And turn its pointy little head

To give it a small shave.

*

But I sense it is excited

And pleased that it is here.

It wants to share its mark with me:

Great things we'll write from here.

*

I make my first mark on the page -

The first line that I write

I dedicate to my trusty friend,

The pencil I hold tight.

Writer's note:

I was given a notebook as a birthday present and it is truly a lovely thing with a personalised message on the front. I wanted to write in it as soon as possible but wanted to use a pencil for all the reasons discussed in the poem. This poem was created first in that notebook and then transferred here to Vocal.

It's not often I write without the use of a keyboard but I can see that I will do it more, even if it's just to write down ideas. There's something quite satisfying, more than typing, about seeing my words on a page as written by me with my hand, rather than on a screen.

Does anyone else still compose on paper with their own handwriting? I would love to know if you do.