The Pen Holder of John Steinbeck

In a gallery on Fountain Avenue,a John Steinbeck pen holder rests in solitudeon a wooden table, longing for the penthat once nestled upon its surface,near a tribe of pencilsthat formed an “umbilical connectionbetween him and his words.”These pencils, essential to his craft,were objects of his passion.He “cherished their feel between his fingersand boasted of the callusesearned from holding them.”Their movement across the pagemade him believe that within the hearts of people,there still exists a place for hope.As I gaze at the pen holder,a voice from the past whispered to me,“It takes great courage to support truthunacceptable to our times.”This revelation ignited within me a longing to writemy own version of The Grapes of Wrath,to carve new paths for my angerwhere I won’t unleash it upon others,where “I don’t aspire to be perfect,but to be good;”where “there ain’t no sinand there ain’t no virtue.There’s just stuff people do,”where I won’t drop bombs on occupied lands,And kill innocents,“where death was a friend,and sleep was death’s brother,”where “vice has always a new fresh young face,”where I won’t use a novel’s titleto name a destructive war,where “repression works onlyto strengthen and knit the repressed,”where I won’t sever limbsas sacrifices on the altar of a privatized God.Instead, I will strive to see the days I’ve livedthrough a fresh lens,to feel the hand that grippedthe pencils in hours of solitude,drawing warmth from their spiritfor my times,chilled by the death of meaning.I will create vistas of hopewhere we can seek refugeand escape the horrors and confines of reality.On the road to the poem,to the stench,to the grating noise,to a quality of light,to a tone,to a habit,to nostalgia,to a dream,Steinbeck’s portraits hang on wiresor cling to poles,reviving memories of a life once livedin a city ruled by the gods of real estate moguls,where people forgot to ask,“How can we live without our lives?How will we know it’s us without our past?”I left the gallery and walked to search for a housethat Steinbeck had longed for since childhood.Then I drove to Salinas and parked by the river,which no longer flows deep and green,thinking of the days when Steinbeck walked hereand returned home to sharpen rebellious pencils;while around him “the land cracked,springs dried up,and the cattle listlessly nibbled on dry twigs.”I began to repeat his words on my lips,like a prayer, as I crossed the fields of Salinas,where time does not stop“to examine itself,”where “men are born with a debtthey can never repay,”where “muscles ache to work,minds ache to create,”where change remains elusive,where I hear the language of hands,playing the keys of reality’s piano,creating a symphony of unfulfilled dreams,where immigrant workersbend over seedlings,their sweat dripping,filling the inkwells of an unwritten rage.This poem draws on quotations from Cannery Row, East of Eden, The Grapes of Wrath, and other novels by John Steinbeck, as well as insights from those who knew him intimately.