My old typewriter used to make so much noise
I had to put a cushion of newspaper
beneath it late at night
so as not to wake the whole house.

Even if I closed the study door
and typed a few words at a time -
the best way to work anyway -
the clatter of keys was still so loud

that the gray and yellow bird
would wince in its cage.
Some nights I could even see the moon
frowning down through the winter trees.

That was twenty years ago,
yet as I write this with my soft lead pencil
I can still hear that distinctive sound,
like small arms fire across a border,

one burst after another
as my wife turned in her sleep.
I was a single monkey
trying to type the opening lines of my Hamlet,

often doing nothing more
than ironing pieces of paper in the platen
then wrinkling them into balls
to flick into the wicker basket.

Still, at least I was making noise,
adding to the great secretarial din,
that chorus of clacking and bells,
thousands of desks into the past.

And that was more than can be said
for the mute rooms of furniture,
the speechless salt and pepper shakers,
and the tall silent hedges surrounding the house.

Such deep silence on those nights -
just the sound of my typing
and a few stars singing a song their mother
sang when they were babies in the sky.

("Royal Aristocrat", Billy Collins, in Nine Horses, 2002)

I am adding this poem because I especially like the line “Still, at least I was making noise”. This “making noise” – adding words to words to form a poem, then adding poem to poem to form a book – this is the noise I wish to be a part of too. And so, on my computer instead of a typewriter, I will make my noise in hopes of having a book of my own one day.