My age became digital. Nowadays, I wax lyrical
upon touch screens, extracting moon beams
from my dreams and burying them inside
the lattices of liquid crystals, taught like DNA
to hold letters and instructions coded at the
infinitesimal level – but I revel in my mind

as I replay those days when paper and ink
would capture the tiny sparks of my soul
that I used to shed off as I walked, talked,
ate, slept, and dreamed. I lined high school notebooks
with carpet threads, forbidden magic purloined
from ancient fingers and candle flames, and
language lifted from the tongues of long-dead bards:
I thought that
perhaps one day, I could weave my
enchanted rug, my chariot of escape,
and leave that town, which hissed at me with
its pungent stink of Marlboro, steel mill, and
NASCAR breath on a daily basis. Upon

the faces of brown paper bags –
little ones that would whisper into your fingertips
as you pulled them from the stack behind the cash register –
I crammed verses in ink. I rammed my
dangerous drink – in my innocence, not yet absinthe,
but an elixir distilled from my phantasms –
down their blood-slicked, wanton throats. The
paper always begged – implored –
me for more. And paper

can be such a lovely thing
upon which one’s pen can dance in
far more brilliant and gorgeous formations than
figure-eights in the ice, or
bisected cold reflections on a libertine December day.
Do you believe that the soul is visible,
able to be revealed to the naked eye? It is
present in the hushed moment while
the page is still blank, and our
letters of language become gravid, groaning
to release newborn angels into flight.

Whether it is upon paper or screens,
I can bleed sideways onto white space. I don’t
have a MySpace page, but my personal revolution
is televised by my words, impressed onto
Wordpress pages. Some of my children begin as
growing paper and ink bodies while others
are knit together by the clicking of keys. And
I still believe in books –
the desire to give an inspired gift
from my hands to yours will never fade. In my
mind, there remains some questions:

will there ever be an age when
words cease to travel from brain to fingertips
down our telegraph neurons and our
laddered spines? In that case, how will
the little gems slide out from underneath
our skins? For that answer, my friends,
we shall have to wait and see.

Written 7/19 and 7/22/13
© Nicole Nicholson. All Right Reserved.

This poem was written for We Write Poems Prompt #166: What’s It Like to Be Your Age? This is one response (there might be a second, but I can’t promise anything), inspired in part by this song by OK Go, “Do What You Want”:



Stumble It!
Stumble It!

Bookmark and Share

About ravenswingpoetry

I am a 38 year old writer from Columbus, OH and the creator of Raven's Wing Poetry. I am a poet, seeker, fellow traveler, and autistic.
This entry was posted in Poems, Prompt Poems, WWP Prompt Poem and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Imprints

  1. Pingback: Patron Saints | Raven's Wing Poetry

  2. julespaige says:

    I like the whole of this, but the last to stanzas really speak to me.
    ‘I still believe in books!” Toche!

    I’m a tad older than you. 🙂 I think though that as we grow into who we become the number of years is just a secondary citation in the index somewhere in the back of the book…

  3. Exactly. It’s sometimes hard to comprehend that I’m almost 37. Mostly, I can’t comprehend myself as a being with age. But some days…I’m reminded of it. Like every year, when the new students arrive at the seminary at which I work.

    I don’t think I’ll ever give up printed books. They are just too wonderful to hold, and the tactile experience of reading and turning the pages appeals to me. I don’t knock e books and I think it’s a great way to publish. But give me a printed book any time. 🙂 I feel as an author it’s a more personal way of reaching out.

    I think even some or our sci fi visionaries understood this. In Star Trek, there are still printed books in the 24th century. 🙂


  4. stimmyabby says:

    “I wax lyrical
    upon touch screens, extracting moon beams
    from my dreams and burying them inside
    the lattices of liquid crystals” Wow.
    “the hushed moment while
    the page is still blank” I love that.
    I love paper. Sometimes when I’m sad I go to Staples and look at notebooks.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s