On The Art of Poetry

      Just how fortunate can I be! This week I received a gift from a dear and trusted friend––a soft-covered book from a personal library given to my friend by an aunt.
     The book, "On The Art of Poetry," is diminutive, almost pamphlet size, with ninety-five pages stapled on the spine, and published in Great Britain in 1929. Its frailty asks to be handled with cotton gloves, which I did not wear on my first fingertip turn of the pages.
     If being on the receiving end of this volume isn't thrill enough, imagine my pleasure to find marginal notes in scripted fountain-pen ink peppered throughout. Those who have read my past blogs know fountain pens and marginalia are sacred to me.
     I am 0-schooled in the Classics, so it will take quiet and meditative time to digest the pondering of Aristotle––ancient Greek philosopher, student of Plato, and teacher of Alexander the Great. I shall give it a try. I hope to be better for it even if I need an assist from Sparknotes. Thank you dear friend (you know who you are!), and Aunt Neva.

He defines poetry as the mimetic, or imitative, use of language, rhythm, and harmony, separately or in combination. Poetry is mimetic in that it creates a representation of objects and events in the world, unlike philosophy, for example, which presents ideas. Humans are naturally drawn to imitation, and so poetry has a strong pull on us. It can also be an excellent learning device, since we can coolly observe imitations of things.... Aristotle identifies tragedy as the most refined version of poetry dealing with lofty matters and comedy as the most refined version of poetry dealing with base matters. On The Art of Poetry

Barrel to Nib to Paper

     Some people say they cannot read my handwriting. A few have suggested it's my writing instrument. With pride, I tell them I was weaned on fountain pens and ink wells, was  trained in the loops and slants of the Palmer Method, and always use a fountain pen with its cap posted. I'm not sure what the issue is with the writing, because I can read it. I love my handwriting. In fact, I think it's expressive.

     My pen––well, there are several, a good several, housed atop a bookcase. Each has a personality, a particular feel, a memory attached. Some I use for special occasions, like personal notes or Holiday greetings. I've two red-barreled pens I use with Visconti red inks for marking revisions on my poems and stories. Quite effective. Other colors have a function that match the pen they flow through: brown Sheaffer ink is used in the brown Sheaffer for draft writing. Two blue Pelikan pens use blue Pelikan ink. They're the daily work horses. Two Parkers rely on Parker black for a range of jobs, and a green Parker Duofold uses emerald ink for Holiday cards. The yellow Waterman pictured here, uses Waterman's black. No one is special. Each is special.

     My Composition Books and journals are filled with fragmented thoughts and ideas, character names or sketches, overheard conversations, future titles, +++ and all in different colored inks. Different pens, too. There's a lot to consider when you write with a fountain pen and free-flowing ink. For instance, the feel and absorbency of the paper, the size nib, and whether the pen feels good in my hand at the time.

     Like everyone, I succumbed to the vogue and ease of ballpoints, rollerballs, and gels. Most are disposable. Not so a fountain pen, which can have a life of more than one hundred years. A ballpoint and its siblings do not and cannot give the feel and comfort of a fountain pen, and the effortless writing that comes from using one. A fountain pen trains you to write with a light pressure, and is much less tiring than the other pen types.

     "The more you use a fountain pen," my Dad used to say, "the better and smoother it will be to write with." I am attached to my fountain pens and the expressiveness they lend to my writing. I returned to them after a hiatus of several years, but will never part with their company again.