The Hidden Poetry on Japanese Woodcased Pencils

A visit to one of Japan’s few remaining family-run pencil factories, and what it revealed about memory, legacy, and craft.

Oct 16, 2025

Once a daily necessity, now a vessel of heritage. From the Kitaboshi factory floor to my writing desk, an ode to the humble woodcased pencil.

When we arrived at Yotsugi Station (四ツ木駅), I smiled at the sight of Captain Tsubasa murals wrapped around the platforms—bright colours and kōkasen (効果線)1 effect lines bursting with nostalgia. It reminded me that I was on a small pilgrimage to my own childhood as we walked towards the Kitaboshi Pencil Company.

Scenes from the Kitaboshi pencil factory. Photo by author.

As we approached, the scale of the building was disorienting. The real-life factory is deceptively compact, tucked tightly into a mixed neighbourhood, nothing like the larger structure I’d imagined from online photos. I almost had to pinch myself that it was, in fact, a destination that we were moments away from. A lot of happenstance needed to occur: discovering Kitaboshi, travelling in Tokyo, learning about the factory tours and my family caring enough about my indulgence. Standing there felt a bit otherworldly: a koi pond, parking lot with kei trucks loaded with pencils, a mini shrine dedicated to the pencil gods, and the Showa retro vibes are all fitting, delightful surprises that feel right at home with the Kitaboshi ethos.

The steady heartbeat of the factory: gears, belts, and the scent of cedar dust in the air. Photo by author.

During the tour2, I witnessed dedicated workers shaping cedar slats and filling them with graphite, many of them doing so for most of their working lives. There is a clockwork cadence as the factory machines elicit a steady rhythm. The workers were modest, focused, and I suspect, quietly proud of their craft. I wanted to let them know that their work mattered to me. Their pencils, and now visiting the factory itself, has brought our family closer through learning, creativity and the simple joy of uninhibited sketches.

Our guide informed us that it wasn’t long ago when school children used to go through cases of 12 pencils every school year. And now, elementary students might use up one to two pencils only.3 At the end of the tour, there was a workshop where we learned that in an attempt to minimize waste, they found a method to repurpose the byproducts of manufacturing by turning wood shavings into a mouldable clay. For the rest of the workshop, the participants collaborated to mould small figurines and tiny stationery.

I left the factory with a bittersweet feeling. Should my daughters ever want to return one day, maybe with their own kids, I fear I can’t be certain that it’ll still be here. I’d hate for one of the few remaining family-owned pencil makers to disappear. Maybe we all hold onto a memory, a place, a tool — something we hope will still be there when the next generation comes looking for it.

And yet, while walking back to Yotsugi Station, I was reminded of the quiet sense of resolve by the workers, as steady as the rhythm of the machinery. There was a persistence, a feeling that making pencils — humble, fragrant, cedar-bodied pencils — still mattered.

I didn’t arrive at the Kitaboshi factory by accident. The visit was the culmination of a smaller rediscovery that began months earlier—one that started, quite unexpectedly, at my own desk.

Rediscovering the Humble Woodcased Pencil

She draws for no reason but to draw and I’m learning from her. Manga sketches by my daughter.

As I watched my children drawing and shaping their own flavour of letterforms, I was reminded of the quiet joy of other writing instruments that accompany us through life. The humble woodcased pencil, it turns out, has a lineage far richer than I ever imagined.

Henry David Thoreau, one of my favourite essayists, once helped revolutionize pencil-making in North America. A few years before Walden, he was shaping cedar and graphite at his family’s shop in Concord, earning the pedigree in craft before becoming a philosopher of simplicity. He carried them on his walks, jotting field notes and later expanding them in ink.4

Decades later, another pencil would earn its own mythology: the Blackwing 602, the “Half the pressure, twice the speed” pencil favoured by writers like John Steinbeck, who mythically began each morning by sharpening a few before sitting down to work. Its modern revival by California Cedar carries both devotion and debate: the new versions, made with Japanese graphite, are prized by some and dismissed by purists as fashion accessories rather than tools.5

That throughline of craftsmanship and culture, carried through generations of writers, makers, and everyday hands, was enough to draw me back into the vast, forgotten world of the woodcased pencil.

Discovering the Hidden Poetry

When I held one in my hand again after what must have been decades, I wasn’t prepared for the rush of nostalgia from my own childhood: the scent of incense cedar, the curl of pencil shavings, the mysterious graphite mixture in the core that defines each pencil’s writing characteristics. If you were like me and haven’t written with one in a while, stop reading, find a quality pencil and take a moment to reacquaint yourself with one again. For me, it’s both a tactile satisfaction and a form of time travel, straight back to school desks and art class, doodling in the margins.

Writing with a woodcased pencil is satisfying in a way that’s not easy to convey. It’s probably easier to grasp for those who already enjoy fountain pens, stationery and writing: there is the pleasant feedback, sound reverberating through the barrel, and the line variations based on angle and pressure.

For all that’s already wonderful about Japanese pencils, there’s one small, unexpected detail that I find delightful.

Foiled imprinted designations in timeless typography.

Typographic haiku on cedar. Photo by author.

Initially, I thought these were marketing taglines, just written in a very nuanced, almost comically earnest way.

Tombow: “Highest Quality” / “FOR Hi-Precision DRAFTING”
Kitaboshi: “Super Drawing” / “FOR RETOUCHING & SPECIAL DRAWING”
Colleen: “Precise Drawing” / “SPECIAL RETOUCHING & OFFICE USE PENCIL”
Mitsubishi: “SMOOTH WRITING PENCIL FOR Office Use”

However, these markings are remnants of an old regulatory system—a slight tangent, if you will, into the history of Japanese woodcased pencils.

Origins of Designation in Japanese Woodcased Pencils

Companies like Mitsubishi and Tombow modelled their products after the well-established German giants: Staedtler and Faber-Castell.6 Clean hexagonal barrels, similar graphite hardness scale (H, F, HB, B families), and perhaps even the green enamel paint and understated typography could be an homage to the European school of design and precision.

The Rise of Japanese Standards

Through the 1950s and 60s, Japanese pencils entered their golden age, a period when they began to be truly loved, especially with the rise of premium lines like Mitsubishi’s UNI and Tombow’s MONO. What once served classrooms and offices soon earned a place in artists’ studios around the world.7

As of writing, our business landscape feels almost frothy with constant headlines about generative AI and its impact. Imagine a similar sense of urgency and chaos for the light manufacturing sector in 1950s Japan.8 Over 125 pencil manufacturers were jockeying for positions in an overcrowded market.

Trade associations had to step in to impose standards and price control regimes—to ensure consistent quality and to uphold a fair marketplace between name brands and suspect quality knock-offs.

Manufacturers had to meet the requirements of physical attributes, lead characteristics, and even performance measures to remain competitive. Interestingly, markings and clear labelling also became standardized to don the badge of quality and honour, the JIS mark 〄.9

The JIS Mark 〄 — From a Symbol for Quality to Collectibility

The JIS mark 〄—once a promise of quality, now a tiny emblem of nostalgia and collectibility. Photo by author.

For more than half a century, the Pencil JIS standard quietly upheld the quality of Japanese pencils. By the 1990s, the quality of Japanese pencils was excellent, and the standards had outlived their purpose. What began as an effort to weed out knock-offs and match European precision eventually evolved into a culture of craftsmanship sustained by pride. In 1998, the Pencil JIS designation was dissolved as part of nationwide deregulation. Factories continue to ship quality products built on those exacting standards, but the JIS mark has since been dropped.10

In the past two decades, Tombow has shifted much of its pencil production from Japan to Vietnam. Diehard Tombow advocates, concerned about the quality of their beloved MONO line, began stockpiling the Japanese-made originals. “Made in Japan” new-old stock now commands extraordinary prices, with MONO100 pencils bearing the JIS mark 〄 listed for more than ten times their original retail value.11 Once a quiet and tiny emblem of quality, the JIS mark has transformed into a badge of collectibility and desirability among enthusiasts.

Markings and Meanings

Imagine my confusion before learning about JIS. With just a few choice words, a pencil’s purpose is boldly and elegantly declared in timeless typography, right on the body of the barrel. Sometimes they hint at self-proclaimed excellence; other times they suggest the kind of writing each pencil was purposefully made for—in tones that range from earnest to absurd, and sometimes, contradiction. It’s this peculiar mix of deadpan sincerity and unintentional humour that makes them so utterly charming.

Over time, these old designations shed their regulatory purpose and became part of the design language itself. What began as functional labelling has become part of the visual identity of Japanese woodcased pencils: the contrast of serif and sans-serif type, the deliberate hierarchy, and a certain precision of layout over each facet. I suspect many enthusiasts now expect these cues as much as the unique blend of graphite and clay itself.

An Exhibit of Charming Designations

No, this isn’t a flex to showcase a fancy pencil collection of prestige or rarity. It’s an exhibit of the pencils that happen to live on my desk, a mix of both modern and vintage one-offs from childhood between myself and family that have survived. Think of each inscription as a haiku of purpose and intent.

Colleen G Core No.5550
“The Highest Quality” / “For Draftmen, Designers, Copy-Writers.”

Draftsmen in the age before Illustrator or CAD. Reminiscent of times with ink-stained fingers, tracing paper, and overflowing ashtrays.

Colleen 9900
“Precise Drawing” / “SPECIAL RETOUCHING & OFFICE USE PENCIL”

It wasn’t long ago when pencils were needed to adjust shadows, highlights, and halftones on film and to clean up lines before reproduction or printing. This pencil embodied an age when precision and accuracy were done by hand.

Mitsubishi 9850
“SMOOTH WRITING PENCIL FOR Office Use”

An often-recommended model on the r/pencil sub. Many claim that it’s a handsome substitute for more premium pencils. Perhaps “Regular Pressure, Regular Speed” was already taken.

Kitaboshi 9606
“General use” / “ACADEMIC WRITING”

The only pencil that I can safely swap with my kids without fear of consequences: from checked-off grocery lists straight into the palms of my children for homework like a family baton. Some may notice and find it suspect that the 9850 and 9606 are oddly similar. The keen-eyed observer may notice that the 9606 has both gold and silver foil, a true rarity.

Mitsubishi 9800VB (COVID Edition)

“Matured” / “抗ウイルス VB配合鉛筆” — Antiviral VB-blended pencil / “水色の軸部分を持ってご使用ください” — Please use it by holding the light blue shaft part.

The pandemic-era rebirth of a classic. The same venerable 9800, now treated with “Virus Block” coating, its instructions politely reminding users where to hold it, as if the wrong grip might spread calamity. It’s the most literal evolution of the Japanese designation tradition: the pencil that once promised “General Writing” now promises “Safe writing.”

Tombow 2558
“Highest Quality” / “SINCE 1913” / “FOR GENERAL WRITING”

A model of humility. It claims nothing beyond competence. A fine pencil for grocery lists, notes to my family left on dining tables. Not quite Henokien12 but surely on its way.

Tombow MONO100
“highest quality” / “FOR hi-precision DRAFTING”

One of several pencils favoured by the renowned Hayao Miyazaki, who drafts many of his key frames of his films by hand. I question why I have this on my desk. I should carve my own “for imposter syndrome use” designation.

Mitsubishi “Français” Series (1980s–1990s)
“Je veux te donner un coup de poing.” / “Je t’aime.” / “Je veux t’embrasser.”
(“I want to punch you.” / “I love you.” / “I want to kiss you.”)

From the collection of Kamikokuen, a fellow pencil enthusiast who turned my eyes to this rare gem: the Mitsubishi “Français” series (1980s–1990s).

This is an outlier that I feel compelled to include. Perhaps, the designers at Mitsubishi were in a mini obsession with the French language design aesthetic from the 80s. These pencils were printed with floral patterns and a confusing blend of affection and aggression.

Pencil Haiku

My daughter came by my desk and wondered why I had different pencils scattered everywhere. She has offered to help illustrate for this Substack for a long time, and I am happy to share that her time has finally come. Here is our little art piece where we designed our own pencils in the same vein as the exhibit, following the same structure of the traditional designations, as if each were a kind of pencil poetry.

The themes behind them came from something I’ve noticed while watching my children at play or deep in art: that effortless abundance of creative energy. I remember feeling it once too: the restless, overflowing impulse to make things simply for the joy of it. It’s uninhibited and autotelic, without concerns for outcomes, products to sell, or posts to garner likes.

Somewhere along the way, that impulse grew quieter, more restrained. Some days, it disappears altogether. I can’t help but wonder if it was worn down—dulled by years of abrasion at the office and the slow erosion of creative confidence. Maybe some of us are lucky enough to carve out small refuges, protecting those rare moments of genuine creation from the routines of everyday life.

*Pencil Haiku.* A father-daughter collaboration of JIS-style markings. Imagined and drawn together.

With that in mind, we began sketching our own aspirational, fictitious pencils.

“CURIOSITY CORE PENCIL FOR Daily Discovery Use”
“Unbounded Graphite FOR SPECIAL DRAWING”
“Highest Quality FOR SPIRITED YOUNG DREAMS”
“Forever Graphite 家録用” (For Family Chronicle Use)

Kitaboshi, Mitsubishi, Tombow, or any other pencil makers, for that matter, if you are reading this and if it resonates, consider bringing one of these pencils to life.

Return to the Writing Desk

My daughter recalls our time together at the Kitaboshi pencil factory as we sketched out more pencils together. She names them, I letter them, and we laugh at how serious and absurd they sound. Maybe that’s what ‘special drawing’ truly means on these pencils.

By dreaming up the ideal pencil haiku, I feel a little bit closer to that uninhibited energy to create and make things up with complete disregard for outcomes. I don’t know how else to describe it other than the concept of tenshin (天真), that innocent sincerity I’ve long misplaced. My daughter still has it, drawing without hesitation, without purpose, simply because it feels right.

✒︎

An Invitation to Write

If you haven’t written with a woodcased pencil in a while, make it a small exercise this week. Use any pencil you have nearby—or better yet, something in the B range with some feedback. Dull it, sharpen it, hold it high, then low. Grip tightly, then loosely. Listen to the sound of graphite against your favourite paper. Notice the subtle nuances compared to other writing instruments.

Pencils are remarkably simple. Both the cedar and the graphite are literally consumed through use—each word, each line, wearing the instrument down. I believe the purpose of the pencil shrine at Kitaboshi is to pay respects to the sacrifices of the pencil. Yet compared to pens that cost hundreds or even thousands, the pencil remains the most utilitarian of all. It’s robust, self-renewing, and honest about its impermanence.

Maybe that’s what makes it such an ideal companion for pocket carry. Especially the shorties, those half-used stubs with patina from use and carry. Perhaps that’s why Henry David Thoreau was often seen with pencils of his own design, ready for field notes as he walked through Concord, Massachusetts. His method of observing the world and holding onto small vignettes as inspiration before they disappeared was its own kind of writing. I wonder how many of us still keep a pencil within reach, one that bears the markings of use, the cedar scent, the quiet companionship of graphite on paper.

And if you’re a subscriber who’d like to try some of the pencils mentioned here, I’d be happy to mail a few your way or trade. I’m always gushing about the playful ones, like the Mitsubishi Kohitsu Shosha (硬筆書写) calligraphy pencils, with their brush-like softness that still surprises me every time I write.

(While my supply lasts, and assuming reasonable mailing costs to your region.)

Maybe that’s what writing and drawing are all about, a slow wearing down of tools until what remains on the page feels unmistakably ours.