My Typewriter

I have a trim typewriter now,
They tell me none is better;
It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row,
And neat is every letter.
I tick out stories by machine,
Dig pars, and gags, and verses keen,
And lathe them off in manner slick.
It is so easy, and its quick.

And yet it falls short, Im afraid,
Of giving satisfaction,
This making literature by aid
Of scientific traction;
For often, I cant fail to see,
The dashed thing runs away with me.
It bolts, and do whateer I may
I cannot hold the runaway.

It is not fitted with a brake,
And endless are my verses,
Nor any yarn I start to make
Appropriately terse is.
Tis plain that this machine-made screed
Is fit but for machines to read;
So Wanted (as an iron censor)
A good, sound, secondhand condenser!

Edward

Edward Dyson was a versatile Australian writer and poet known for his prose and poetry that vividly depicted the lives and experiences of miners and working-class people in Australia. Born on March 4, 1865, in Ballarat, Victoria, Dyson worked in various manual labor roles in the mining industry before turning to writing. His works often drew from his firsthand experiences and offered a unique perspective on the struggles and triumphs of everyday Australians. Dyson passed away on August 22, 1931.

Edward

The Shanty

Edward , Simple Poetry

The Old Whim Horse

Edward , Simple Poetry

Bullets

Edward , Simple Poetry

The Young Lieutenant

Edward , Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Lines On A Typewriter.

Having received a letter from a gentleman glorying in his typewriter we replied as follows:


        You glory in your typewriter,
            And its virtues you rehearse,
        But we prefer the old inditer,
            For to write either prose or verse.

        And let each man work his will,
            But never never do abuse
        The ancient and glorious quill
            From the wing of a fine old goose.

James McIntyre

Repaired

Hauled I was from out the tip
Fritz made with his demonstration,
All broke up, a fractured hip
In me Darby Kell a rip
Settn' up a cool sensation
Like excessive ventilation

One 'and cluttered up a treat,
On me oath you wouldn't know it
From a 'and some plate of meat.
They had sorter pied me feet,
And a bullet of the foe hit
Where no decent bloke could show it.

'Arf a year they've botched me now;
Ev'ry scientific schemer
In the cor' has faked me prow,
Soled 'n' heeled a bloke somehow,
Gawd, the last one was a screamer.
Wirin' up me flamin' femur!

Comes a guy and pipes you square,
Gogglin' at you through his glasses,
Swings you in the barber's chair,
Tilts you this end up with care,
Lets you have a whiff of gasses

Edward

To The Typewriter

Here's to the Typewriter!
Health to her type!
Whether blond or brunette
Or budding or ripe.
If she be the right type
Be she buxom or slight,
When she doesn't type wrong
She is sure to typewrite.

Oliver Herford

Pen and Shears

My tailor's shears I scorned then;
    I strove for something higher:
To edit news--live by the pen--
    The pen that shall not tire!

The pen, that was my humble slave,
    Has now enslaved its master;
And fast as flows its Midas-wave,
    My rebel tears flow faster.

The world I clad once, tailor-hired,
    Whilst I in tatters quaked,
Today, you see me well attired,
    Who lets the world go naked.

What human soul, how'er oppressed,
    Can feel my chained soul's yearning!
A monster woe lies in my breast,
    In voiceless anguish burning.

Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!
    I'll bear as ne'er I bore it.
My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!...
    Now less I'll blame you for it.

I'll stitch as ne'er in fo...

Morris Rosenfeld

A Familiar Letter - To Several Correspondents

Yes, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying;
Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?
I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying,
If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold.

Here's a book full of words; one can choose as he fancies,
As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool;
Just think! all the poems and plays and romances
Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!

You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes,
And take all you want, - not a copper they cost, -
What is there to hinder your picking out phrases
For an epic as clever as "Paradise Lost"?

Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero,
Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean;
Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero
Are much the same thing in th...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Stop-And-See

Im stewing in a brick-built town;
My coat is quite a stylish cut,
And, morn and even, up and down,
I travel in a common rut;
But as the city sounds recede,
In dreamy moods I sometimes see
A vision of a busy lead,
And hear its voices calling me.

My flaccid muscles seem to tweak
To feel the windlass pall and strain,
To shake the cradle by the creek,
And puddle at the tom again.
Id gladly sling this musty shop
To see the sluicing waters flow
A pile of tucker, dirt on top,
And simply Lord knows what below.

Twas lightly left, tis lately mourned,
The tent life up at Stop-and-See,
When shirts with yellow clay adorned
Were badges of nobility,
When Sundays best was Mondays wear,
And Bennett gave us verse and book
Poor D...

Edward