Typing in the Fifties
Dad’s typewriter,
like his car, my bike
and Mum’s Singer,
was British,
portable and old,
nineteen-thirty-ish,
of dingy soft metal -
object of pride,
not much used.
Set up on his card table
and gently tapped
it made the table shake.
It carried his aura,
the ‘educationist',
till he let me practice.
Soon it was mine
as I managed
to shuffle paper in
round the black roller,
watching how the tape lifted
with each finger-tap.
QWERTY! at first
crazy, began to make
sense and pace.
Carbon paper for copies
could be awkward
and messy, but fun -
though whether you typed
black or red, copies
always came out black.
My first poems appeared
in print-runs of three:
crisp - blurry - faint.
Then at eighteen,
conscription - the Army
made me a Signalman.
For working on teleprinters
touch-typing was taught us.
At Papakura Camp
summer passed in drill,
rifle and Bren practice,
and in the Signals hut
hours acquiring typing skill.
The slack old sergeant
went outside for a smoke
letting us type what we liked.
I recall Milton’s ‘Lycidas’
and some Lawrence letters
on rolls of yellow paper
the teleprinter disgorged
for me to savour.
Not once was my machine
linked to a receptive
printer somewhere else.
'Tomorrow to fresh woods
and pastures new’
reached no signalmen.
Nor did war break out -
just as well - defence
without defences.
New Zealand was still
almost off the map -
its powerful
allies kept their Cold
War mild in the south.
We were shown movies
compiled from old newsreels:
Rommel’s defeat, D-Day,
Berlin burning,
the opening of the camps,
piles of corpses,
victory, peace.
At night I’d watch my toes
under my army blanket
tapping typing
till I slept and dreamed
typing - just as when,
a suburban postman
during the Christmas rush,
night after night
I’d dream sorting mail.
Back home I typed my heart out
on Herrick, Congreve,
Coleridge; Conquistadors -
empire builders worse than
the British had been,
but more colourful.
My first chosen typewriter
would be Italian, more
elegant than I could write.
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