Ode To My Pen Poem by Max Reif

My pen moves, its trail
A flow of energy.
Its loops and stems
Remind me of
A living, growing vine.

Life streams.
My penpoint dances,
Mimicing and mirroring
All Being in its ballet.

Its nib's wise, protean flow
Traces two lovers' longings
Or a pilgrim's love for God—
A pigeon strutting by a bench—
Far journeys of the mind.

Oh, pen,
You are so supple!
Diverse the energies
You move, the pictures
That you paint
Through language,
That Miracle.

You can contain the blazing sun
Or a description of
Minute atomic particles
In your amazing point.

Your stream flows on and on.
It lubricates all life,
As the writer at his table
Rides across Creation
Upon your sliding ball,
And even shares
His dreams with all.

Yes, pen, you're a great
Instrument, enabling the whole
World to read my mind!
I'll never doubt again
Your sled of ink
Sliding 'cross white pages
Like a toboggan on the snow.

A thought—invisible—
You let be seen!
And, ferryman, you also
Bring it from its nesting place
In grey folds of my brain
To the white boat of a page,
Where millions may receive it.

2
Will you ever empty
My mind of thoughts
That grow like hairs,
No sooner harvested
Than springing up again?

What, pen?
That's not Your job,
You say?

You're disappointing me.
I thought that you
Knew everything!

What's that?
You're just a tool,
A puppet? When
I lay you on the table,
You become an inert thing?

You only know
What you receive
From me?

Well, pen:
Who, then,
Am I?

I know
What you
Are going
To say!

I am His instrument,
His puppet,
The same way
That you're mine!

Without Him,
I too am
A piece
Of inert stuff.

It's He Who writes
The poem of my life
With His own Hand.

When I write well,
He uses me
The same way
I use you!

And you, too,
Pen, are Blessed then—
By His thoughts
Coursing through your
Doubly-borrowed life.

(1999)