Ah... What ecstasy on a page caressed, pen to paper
ink that glistens wet and sinuous, turns to pretty
squiggles, sensuous curves, austere lines,
playful dots and commas, all a-dance on stage.
Hand helpless led by quill, this way, that way to
choreograph a mad ballet; virtuoso shape of words
and letters that circle here, leap there. Words
that twirl in loving pairs while others joyfully pirouette.
They all whirl and twirl to the sound of secret music;
a rhythm, that for now, only the hand perceives.
Dancers that convene mysteriously, later
part in dainty adieux, yet again change shape
as they regroup. Anew they dance; sometimes
as angels, clowns or demons, they bring joy,
announce sorrow, they comfort, wallow in love,
they challenge and entertain. And what is more,
they do so with Soul, for those handwritten words
are the only ones truly alive, with body, spirit, shape
and heart. Unlike that soulless keyboard tapping,
graphic leap on screen, as democracy on paper
all so equal, so up to date, perfectly formed letters dead,
each and everyone all same, in nature morte nothing
out of place. Whether yours or mine, who could tell...?
For the hand never gave them life, they possess
no soul, no heart, no breath.