(Paul McGrane writes asking if we have any news for the Stanza newsletter)
There is no news. The pens try hard to write
But can’t, still bickering with reluctant ink.
The pencils sulk, all spoiling for a fight
And point out that they can’t know what to think.
The keyboards are depressed, their functions blurred,
Resenting fingers eager to return.
The cursor will not run, cannot be stirred,
Just blinking like a child who’s slow to learn.
The pens, the pencils, keyboards, paper, screen,
We know we cannot blame them, any more
Than landscapes blame a sun they have not seen.
We do not fool ourselves, we know the score.
We nod, resigned, and softly scold each muse.
The words have crept away. There is no news.