Triumph-Adler

Why I still love my typewriter...

A wonder maschine with

arms and legs; it taps at doors

and shakes vases. Heavy as a brick,

it dances over white pages, a changer,

subversive with small bells.

An orchestra waiting; the hanging moment.

A terrible beauty has escaped.

Fern Hill was born at its ribbon.

A heap of old iron to change your inside.

Reviews

[Rita L. Sev]

My mother gave me her old Underwood typewriter when I was about twelve years old. I remember feeling powerful with the noisy keys, relishing the 'ding' at the end of a line... You bring back wonderful memories with this poem, Leslie.

[AYVID N]

Who can forget the typewriter! So superbly worded and described. This was a treat to read.