Wednesday, September 21, 2016

the art of calligraphy, the beauty of a name

I scribbled my name
illegibly with my beloved fountain pen
I bought it in Paris.
he cradled his cheap ball point pen,
waving it in the air like a conductor working
her orchestra, the glitter of her gown
temporarily blinding us
thus I watched him, transfixed
as the tip of his pen touched the paper
in great circular motions to form 
the first letter of my given name,
my name, which had never seemed so
beautiful as then, finishing with a 
grand flourish, releasing his pen
from paper at the same moment
as the conductor
lowered her baton 
to roaring applause.

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