For those who cannot see the picture above, please imagine this text is the most hated font of all time*:
There are certain sins
a poet learns never to commit,
whether by teaching or
simply bad experience.
Poetic sins come in many
shapes and sizes, grammatical,
or just about any -al you choose.
Bad rhyme is a minefield, unable
to know slant from abject miss,
forced form a train wreck with you
at the controls, blinded by ambition.
But the cardinal sin, the one
for which there can never be
any excuse, mortal to a poem, is
to think you can use this font.
*comic sans, of course.
The history of modern literature,
at least to those who purport to create
it, is inextricably tied up with technology.
The quill and inkwell ceded only
reluctantly to the fountain pen and ballpoint.
Foolscap was affixed to corkboard
by countless pushpins, but one wasn’t
a teal writer until one stuck in the sole
of your foot as you wandered in the dark
in search of a pen in the night while
trying vainly to cling to a thought that only
moments before had dragged you from sleep.
We have progressed far, the pen falling away
beneath the great weight of the keyboard,
paper now a wrapping for electronics
which now serve as both paper and book.
many are no longer writers at all, dictating
words which appear on the screen, the machine
at once editor and publisher and bookstore.
And we know the day is approaching when
voice and hand will cease to be tools, when
mere thought will be the poet’s task, and reading
will be a lost skill, something the ancients did
when they still had poetry and literature.
First appeared in Erothanatos, Vol. 3, No. 3, July 2019 at Pg. 41