by Carol Rumens
Pass me that small pencil, sharpened nicely
At both ends, a pencil with two eyes,
And up for anything – a screed, a scribble.
The gold and navy stripes, still visible,
Might be school uniform – the low-slung tie
Of anti-fashion, mocking and awry.
The pupils do their time; some pencils sidle
Off desks and drop and vanish. But the word
Is out, this pencil says, when a bright-voiced
Young teacher names the mist in someone’s head.
And the kid stares, and sees the point at last.
A pencil starts from scratch, like anyone.
It knows hard graft, despair and knuckled tension,
A shadow flickering like a footballer’s –
Designed for transfer. It diminishes,
But leaves hard copy, proofed by crossings-out,
Forensics of the rubber, and the bruise
Of graphite on our fingers. If you’ve never
Nibbled at a pencil-top, you’ve never
Tasted words.