Yesterday’s Technology . . . Today!
Greg Fischer sent in this poem, which is about a Linotype operator, written from the point of view of a Linotype mechanic on a daily newspaper.
Over the idle Linotype
the Lino machinist stands.
Not a brain within his head
just large and horny hands.
Many thanks to John Bowles for sending this one in. Author unknown.
Owed two a Compos it or
Owed Two A Spell Chequer:
From the late Dave Bowles’ collection of London Fleet Street compositors items comes this song. Sent in by his son John, the song refers to production of the Sunday Telegraph.
Sung to the tune of “I Did It My Way.”
METAL TYPE regular Mike Wilson, from Bridlington in the UK sent in this poem.
Mike said: “I’m writing tales in poetry about my childhood. And as I looked at your site today I seem to think I saw the words “Printer’s Pie.” So I sat and composed this poem. It’s a blank verse sonnet, which the writers tell me is difficult to do. But this one just fell into place. Hope you like it.
A poem written by Frank Granger.
I like this printing job I just got.
But there are things I wish were not.
An amusing poem written by Frank Granger.
all the sentences started with lower case.
The 3 em indent was way two much space.
The Futuria type was very, very bold,
Also not the face the customer was sold.
A collection of print-related limericks sent in by Greg Fischer, who spent 42 years working on the Trentonian newspaper in Trenton, New Jersey, USA.
A machinist who came from Timor
Changed magazines often before.
But the lock wasn’t tight
To the left, but was right.
And he dumped mats all over the floor.
A poem about the Linotype from the book “In the Beginning was The Word” by David Andrus.
1954:
Central S.S., Hamilton
A poem about the Linotype from the book “In the Beginning was The Word” by David Andrus.
It was one of those days
the machine began to act up,
th troubl somwhr in
th distributor mchanism,
nd I only begn to notice it
when my proofs cme bck
nd the proofreder’s red ink
ran frm my type like blod
frm a slaughtered pg,
lke paint frm Van Ggh’s
Hed of A Womn,
and the sharp, terrile lines
wounded me at my machin,
so that siting a the keord
I flt like
a World War II fighter plot
going down with hi craft,
in front f me th burning lead
scummd ovr with dust nd
dross, al of it trembling
bcuse of a slightly-loos
driv blt, and th day
ending badly when the elevatr
jammed and a spurt f lead
ejaculated int the air and
came down on my head lik
hot hot rain,
nd now as I get oldr
and baldr, the smll burn scars
becme mor and mor visible,
remindng me of tht day
th machine began to act up
and finlly hurt me
hurt m bdly
A new poem written and sent in by Mike Wilson of Bridlington in the UK.
In far-off days,
when Macintosh deterred the rain,
and hot metal reigned supreme,
there dwelt abroad,
in solitary splendour or ranked and rowed:
the linecaster.