Poetry from an Analogophile

I haven’t really written any poetry in awhile. It’s sad, because I really enjoy pairing and pruning my words and ideas, so when I had some free time today and a lyrical phrase popped up in my mind, I took full advantage of it. The result?
I think I’m an analogophile.
Let me explain. I love my MacBook dearly. I love my cell phone less, but I still love it. I love blogging and I love Netflix and I definitely love keeping in touch with all of my best friends from back home. But sometimes?
Sometimes I want an alarm clock that ticks and rings a bell to wake me up, instead of my phone so the first thing I see isn’t my missed calls or texts. Sometimes I want to turn a knob to click on the radio instead of having to turn on my computer and be bombarded with email and Facebook. See what I mean?
I came up with the term “analogophile” while trying to go to bed way too early a few nights ago. I wanted to make sure it was unique, so I Googled it, and people have used it before, but only for usernames and the like.
I think analogophilia should be an Urban Dictionary term or something (ambitious, I know), because I think a lot of people have a bit of it in them. It’s definitely showing up all over Pinterest in that hipster-vintage style. Clocks, typewriters, rotary phones… We eat it up. The background of my blog? Old phone. I loved it, so I took a picture of it. Case and point.

Before I let you read the poem, though, I would like to comment on its phrasing. It’s almost a limerick gait, a sing-songy, bouncing thing. I’ve never written poetry like that before, and I don’t know why I’ve started now. Part of me likes it, but part of me hopes it will go away with time. Like it? Hate it? Let me know, because my mental jury is still out.


A cell phone will make
no time-passing tick,
unless it’s been smashed by a car.

A laptop will sound
no cheery ding,
on completing a new line of thought.

The ring of a call
is confined in a chip,
and isn’t an actual bell.

Radio “streams” now, not just “plays” anymore,
and music’s microscopically small.

Everywhere the clicking, the ticking,
is silenced,
replaced by a digital glide.
But email, and texting
and Facebook updates,
incessantly buzz in my mind.


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