Typewriter Poetry
VINCENT HAS DECIDED TO LEARN TO TYPE
He’s found some new poetry he wants to share, and he plans to leave the poems for Catherine on her balcony. Each must be perfect – perfectly chosen, perfectly typed, and on fine paper.
Perfect … for a perfectionist … is a state of being so very hard to achieve. He must first practice. Fits and starts deemed unacceptable, balled up, arc through the air to land square in his trash bin. But not all of them hit that mark! In the space of a few hours, his chamber is littered with paper cast aside. (Less than perfect paper, practice paper it is noted, because … Typos! Spacing! Splats of tea!) He’ll keep at it until he gets it right.
Or decides to hand-write them after all.
No, he won’t be thwarted by a machine. An Underwood for an under-worlder, as Mouse put it when he delivered the repaired, cleaned, and well-oiled machine to Vincent’s chamber.
His best efforts will be found tucked inside her volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, a sweet surprise for her to find. Perhaps he waits in the shadows to watch her read, to hope she hears all he longs to say. A private moment, to be sure.
But we can uncrumple his first tries and sneak a peek …
HERE’S ONE
All this time
all this effort
trying to prove
that making islands
of ourselves
is the truest form
of courage.
All this time,
all this effort
wasted.
Bravery
is the staring
into another pair
of eyes,
the steady voice,
the four words
softly spoken:
I
belong
to
you.
Tyler Knott Gregson
tylerknott.com
HERE’S ANOTHER … A CERTAIN TRUTH
I loved her
not for the way
she danced
with my angels
but for the way
the sound of her voice
could silence my
demons.
Christopher Poindexter
AND A THIRD …
(reading took his own breath away)
Someone is thinking of the way
your breath excapes your lips when
you are touched
Henry Rollins
DARE HE EVER WHISPER …
All these words are
just a front.
What I would really like to do
is chain you to my body
then sing for days
and days and
Days.
Hafiz
OH!
(typing this one out, as he noted in his still-open journal, necessitated a fast walk to the pools and a long swim.)
She kisses like a sweet devouring,
and I don’t know where to touch her,
because I want all of her.
John Green
Will Grayson, Will Grayson
ALL I NEVER FOUND VOICE FOR,
he substituted,
sighing with what felt, nevertheless, like possibility
What if I kiss you?
Wildly?
Long kisses
so you
can wordlessly say
all you never
find the voice
for.
Tyler Knott Gregson
tylerknott.com
THE SEVENTH POEM
a wish he so wished to make, to be …
I
will crawl through
your hair,
tangled up and fallen,
and burrow deep
into your dream.
I will be the wish
you were too scared to make.
Tyler Knott Gregson
tylerknott.com
THEN I’LL BE UNHAPPY,
he’d once delcared.
Except he wasn’t.
Reason lost
the battle,
and all I could do was
surrender
and accept
I was in love.
Paul Coelho
AND THE LAST CRUMPLED ATTEMPT …
a truth beyond knowledge, his truth … their truth
The truth about
being hopelessly
and foolishly
in love
is that love
is not hopeless
and it is not
in the least bit
foolish,
but is and always
will be the most
hopeful and brilliant
thing our hearts
can beat true to.
Mary Kate Teske
marykateteske.tumblr.com
These poems were hidden in Vincent’s Chamber – as were a few more surprises. See the original WFOL 2014 Poem of the Day project here.
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