The Writer Aged by Martin Porter

His life flows like ink from his fountain pen,
The type that sucks up the blackness by capillary action
Effortlessly, until one day
A blockage might occur in the feed
Or the sac begins to perish
And decay.

He wears his hat at a more jaunty angle
But fails to conceal the less distinct nature
Of his hairline, the smudged boundary
Between lip and chin, the creased parafiltrum
And the lines on his face drawn
With time’s fine nib.

He knows he is in the wrong stanza
Of a poem he writes, but
It is his readers who create the character,
He has lost control, is not who he imagines himself to be
And nor are we, drifting along his script,
And he is aged.

.

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6 Comments

Filed under Martin Porter

6 responses to “The Writer Aged by Martin Porter

  1. guy

    Like this on a couple levels — as a fountain pen abuser and as consumer of fine writing.

    Some of them just crumble, others warp in the sun, sometimes the stress on the nib leads to cracks, or the tipping just wears away.

    Thanks for this, enjoyed it a lot.

  2. Loved this. Beautiful.

  3. Love this “it is the readers who create the character” and “time’s fine nib.” Actually, quite like the entire poem. Peace…

  4. Grant Farley

    This is an exceptional piece! And it hits a bit close to home.

  5. Martin

    Thanks to all for your comments, I very much appreciate them. This piece was a huge pleasure to write and allowed me to indulge in the joys of fountain pens (yes, they are great to use and I don’t use them enough) and explore my own relationship with the reader. So, once again, thanks for coming along to the party.

  6. Pingback: Week #51 – Unintended Consequences | 52|250 A Year of Flash

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