While perusing my archive of last summer’s poems (with the aim to produce another volume of poems from the market–yay!), I felt the need to share some pieces from September 26 in La Crosse. That market day, two seasons’ turnings ago, set itself apart from every other market. The weather was gorgeous, late summer into early autumn. Oktoberfest was happening somewhere downtown, diverting from the usual swarms of Friday evening’s market traffic. Oh, well. This also happened to be the day I left Old Banger Underwood at home, and wrote out my poems manually, digitally. With hands and fingers. A pen was my medium.
I wrote quietly, and was relieved of the usual curious questions and wisecracks about typewriters. The risk in this method was that folks wouldn’t be able to read my handwriting…but, no one asked me “What does this say?” I invite you, dear reader, to tell me whether my handwriting is decipherable. 🙂
Without the typewriter, my table resembled a small writing desk, similar in size to what Emily Dickinson used. I could lean forward and rest my arms on it. I could see more of the gaudy printed tablecloth, and comfortably arrange my paraphernalia necessary for poem-pitching: recipe box containing prompt cards, business cards, envelope of blank slips of paper, tea thermos, and little ceramic ghost and stone rabbit (what some call “demons”)–all sitting quietly as good-luck trolls and paper weights.