Poetry

The Progress of Tools

If you think hard enough you might remember

the first writing tool given to you:

Charcoal instead of wax.

In kindergarten teachers prohibited

Many a Picasso denied or discouraged, for

graffiti is not allowed on walls, nor,

your notebook stamped with rabbits.

A for apple, B for boy.

Followed the dotted lines on a copy book

children begin the pleasure of obeying rules.

A nine year old is trusted to manipulating

a ball pen. Every piece of homework carefully crafted.

Unlike erasable pencils. Burdened with this thought,

I carved every word like marble.

The smell of correction pen filled the room.

To kill boredom, or foreshadow my hatred

of completeness, I corrected a good word.

Only to enjoy painting my own words.

One year older we manoeuvred

one of 'the four treasures of study' – a writing brush.

The ink lingers. Pungent as a pair of socks unwashed

for months. My mum hated this class;

once a fortnight we jumped up and down,

packing the tools school. Sensitive to water, children

smeared their mouth with the back of their hands,

stained with ink.

The progress of tools never could satisfy.

My eyes turned to the tools my parents used

in each of their own domain. Silvery, heavy, dainty.

Only held by weighty people of the house;

I was jealous.

I picked up the knife my dad used,

on my smooth chin and pretended.

Only a cut and I was a child no more.

Or so I thought.

Marjorie Cheung