Bic Pen(itentray)

"Bic Pen(itentary)" is another one of those pieces where I whine about the muse. It is really a very simple structure, and a part of me would like to go back and expand upon it more, but there is the other side that really likes the execution of it as it is. Lately, of course, the muse has been active enough, but the motivation is lagging a little further behind it than is usual, so, at the moment, this piece feels particularly poignant. In some ways, I feel like I'm in the in-between times, where the story is about to be freed, and the world is going to become new and fresh again. But the story is not free yet, and the labours and toils we suffer while still imprisoned weight heavily. In part, perhaps, we are afraid, as is the ink, what lays beyond the ball. We approach, tentative. And of course, in the due course of time, as we begin to accustom ourselves to the world outside the pen; to the story upon the page, the weight we thought we were carrying slides off of our backs, and a new inspiration strikes; a new world unfolds, and we find ourselves staring once again at the Bic (or the keyboard). Of course, it is not always a tedious business. Just as often, the caper comes off without a hitch, and we get away, avoiding and evading the crystalline prison. But not every time. We do get caught. This is the muse. This is writer's block. Welcome to Bic Pen(itentary). Let's hope for a quick parole.


Bic Pen(itentary)

Each night they howl
“Let me Free”
from their crystalline
prison.

We wardens hear them
locked in the inky black
but to scribe their tales;
powerless

The muse hears them beg
one by one
before the board
for parole.

No matter what we
as wardens think
or how the stories
plead.

Though we may check
their cells
feed them
provoke;

Though the key lies ready
the bic posed
blank lies
the page.

The Muse has granted
no paroles;
none promising
proved.

So we writers,
who know justice,
stand ready;
with our pen

For when the Muse grants such;
frees the tale;
the pen descends
purposeful

And we wardens who watched
now prisoners become:
‘gainst the Muse
We’re powerless.

an Ode for a Bic pen

Every once in a while, the muse strikes us with the most innocuous ideas... ideas that make us giggle at the idea, and drive the writer's itch so deep into the brain that we can feel it in the fingers. We know we HAVE to do something with it. We are driven to DO something with it. And, sometimes(read rarely) when we sit down with the pen in our hand or our fingers upon the keyboard- we disappear and the muse takes over.

I have many BIC® pens, but there are only a few that I consider "collected." They are old friends from the days when I was not so fortunate as to have my fingers rest upon the keyboard. I remember those days fondly, and the empty corpses of Crystal BICs® that I have kept are a testament in and of themselves of my dead-ication to the written word. It seems only fitting that I should title my blog, and lead my entries with this earnest lament for my fallen friend.


an Ode for a BIC® pen


How do we say goodbye?
How sad, dear friend, to part.
Do we measure your life in inky blood?
Do we commend your duration?
Or are the tracked thoughts
Blots
Words across a page
Written in your blood
A testament to your time?
How brave the mighty BIC®,
How clear.
We see your veins
As we bleed you;
Slowly;
Word by word,
Letter by letter.
You are the voice,
The Bearer,
The Apollo of thought;
An avatar to the world.
We cherish as we remember
That ev’ry colour is yours.
Blue
Red
All black.

Now the rainbow dresses in black,
In homage;
In sorrow.
They say a picture is worth
one thousand words…
How much greater, then, is
the stately BIC®?
So vivid its details
Its expressions
Its lines upon the page…
It is an analog truth
a fortune teller
a historian
a soul.
Should we torturers be guilty
As each drop
blot
clot
Of viscous blood
Becomes a culture,
a revolution
an idea?
Do we pity the BIC®,
A martyr to the cause,
A brave and heroic villain,
That we wield without
a second thought
Against an unthinking world?
Or do we relish
spilling the BIC®’s life-blood
writing comedy
celebrating vanity.

Is each drip of
inky blackness
that
slowly kills the pen
a
necessary sacrifice?
Do we make trophies
of the
bloodless BIC®?
Do we count it a victory
To empty our maker
and deliver its corpse
to the garbage?
The BIC® has made us
And it will break us
For what can the writer say
when the BIC®
runs
d…