Tale of a Typewriter

Unlike the pager, the PDA, the floppy disk and the VCR, the typewriter has escaped the heap of gadgets defunct and disused. The reason, according to Steve Soboroff, president of the Los Angeles Police Commission and typewriter collector: Its slow pace is meditative, not frustrating, an exercise in deliberateness closer to engraving than typing on a computer.

WSJ

I remember, I remember, that Underwood sublime

I had upon my wooden desk at home upon a time.

A second-hand appliance that would often drop the 'i',

scuffed and very dingy -- twas the apple of my eye.

The platen was of rubber, and quite often in the heat

it melted just a little, kept my work from being neat.

The type guide had gone missing and the type bars weren't aligned;

typing fast upon it got 'em very much entwined.

But though it jammed up frequently, with ribbon never tight,

that old machine-companion was a source of pure delight.

 It coughed up papers for reports, so very long ago.

I liked the easy pacing; I could think both long and slow.   

I used up carbon paper by the reams, in vanity;

my work would be immortal, going down in history.

 I typed up letters on it to my pals at summer camp.

I typed so many ballads that my fingers got a cramp.

And once, oh once, when I was young I gave my heart away

on that discrete contrivance to a girl I met in May.

I sent her notes of romance and I sent her mercy pleas.

She sent me nothing in return; love faded on the breeze.

And when I was ambitious and typed up my resume

it netted me a mail room job with modest weekly pay.

For years that timid little bell did ring when I returned

the carriage to begin new lines as fancy brightly burned.

For I was much determined that a novel I would write.

An epic tale that Hemingway would gladly want to cite. 

(Hardly need I say it; the whole thing was dull and trite.)

No matter where I traveled and no matter what I did

that Underwood stayed with me as around the world I slid.

Then computers came along, and the word processor bulky.

I looked down on my Underwood, and got a little sulky.

Why be mired in the past? Technology's the thing!

I parted ways with Underwood, despite its charming ding.

I remember, I remember, promises I kept,

and others that I so ignored eventually I wept.

And now my faithful Underwood is gone beyond recall

as my memories grow larger while my heart remains too small.