The Progress of Poetry

In the beginning, there was a pencil that you used

To put down words, a rhythm you could interrupt

By crossing out, erasing, writing over, mused

And then copied over with a pen, and dipped

Into blue-black ink.  Then typewriters came along

With smudgy ribbons, required great pounding, ding

As the carriage shot back into place, a wrong

Letter or word requiring a bit of twink,

Best then to think through several lines in your head,

Hold them there while you found your rhyme.

Then came electrical machines: what dread

To watch the letters pour out because your time

Weighs heavily on your fingers, your sense of tone

Disappearing in a great digital confusion