These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves.
quote by Gilbert Highet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Books up on books
Color in Black, color in white
And also in different colors
Colors were brushed in minds
Respectively be hard
Printed embossed letters
In books of epigraphy
Color in black
On Space of white
Told that is black
Black white and colors
Books up on books
Being closed near by
Dialogues having intercourse
Get soaked colors of minds
Smudged
Scabrous words
Boorish colors
In a content of
In a book
Wearing a strange cover
Not get closed
And be separated
Having filed up afar
At the library of old
On a table
Books up on books
Turn pages
Marking and conflicting
And also comparing
An empty paper
A pen
A hand with five fingers
An artist
poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
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The Ash Heap
skin settled
arms of dust
lifeless lumps
heave your chest
sneeze life into a mug
and the droplets osmose
identity into the urn
lumpy dust into the cup
and later onto the ash heap
patiently await
incineration,
polish silver
wake ornaments
with rotting fingers
alive only in their dying
poem by Sean Godley
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Paper And Pen
Paper and pen
Trying to write a song again
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Trying to write a song again
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Can’t think of anything to say today
Can’t think of anything to do
Can’t think of anything to play today
Minds gone blank
Leaving me here, just sitting here
Listening to my hair grow
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
And I look towards you
For an inspiration or a word or two
I try but I find
Every road only leads me back to these lines
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Piano, guitar
I try but don't get very far
Paper and pen
Piano, guitar
Paper and pen
Trying to write a song again
Paper and pen
Paper and pen
Copyright Colin Coplin 1985 / 2010
poem by Colin Coplin
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You've got all these books on self help, getting to know yourself, doing the right thing, eating the so-called right foods, even down to what books you have on your shelves. People are encouraged to look to themselves first as opposed to being a part of society.
quote by Samantha Morton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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And Yet The Books
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
poem by Czeslaw Milosz
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Books
The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges
Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn
poem by Erica Jong
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No One's Friend
she's no one's friend
she's no one's friend
at mornings she wants to be dead
so lonely
so desperately lonely and sad
she just wants it all end
she's no one's friend
she's no one's friend
all days and nights run gray and blend
so empty
so hopelessly empty and drab
she waits for them all to end
no one's friend
books on the shelves
dreams melt away in her head
nothing ever will help
nothing ever helps
she's no one's friend
she's no one's friend
there are always things you don't get
but you want them
you want them so badly and wait
for years and years on end
no one's friend
books on the shelves
dreams melt away in her head
nothing ever will help
nothing ever helps
poem by Max Kuvaev
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Gathering Dust
The books on my shelves
are now gathering dust.
I will get back to them
for I know I must.
But not just now,
can’t think of them somehow.
Their pages won’t solace me.
Their words can’t turn my mind.
For my mind just wanders
to you, I find.
Books need concentration,
not a vacant stare.
But other people’s stories
don’t take me anywhere.
If I outlive you
maybe then I’ll dust.
I’ll slowly try to read again
for I know I must.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Blizzard Of 77
In blizzard of 77
The cars were just lumps on the snow
And then later
Tripping in 7-11
The shelves were stretching out of control
On a plane ride
The more it shakes
The more I have to let go
Now the signals
Still getting all mixed up
Were always doing damage control
But in the middle of the night
I worry
Its blurry even without light
I know I have got a negative edge
Thats why I sharpen all the others a lot
Its like flowers or ladybugs
Pretty weeds or red beetles with dots
(chorus)
i miss you more than i knew
(repeat)
song performed by by Nada Surf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ultima Thule: Bayard Taylor
Dead he lay among his books!
The peace of God was in his looks.
As the statues in the gloom
Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb,
So those volumes from their shelves
Watched him, silent as themselves.
Ah! his hand will nevermore
Turn their storied pages o'er;
Nevermore his lips repeat
Songs of theirs, however sweet.
Let the lifeless body rest!
He is gone, who was its guest;
Gone, as travellers haste to leave
An inn, nor tarry until eve.
Traveller! in what realms afar,
In what planet, in what star,
In what vast, aerial space,
Shines the light upon thy face?
In what gardens of delight
Rest thy weary feet to-night?
Poet! thou, whose latest verse
Was a garland on thy hearse;
Thou hast sung, with organ tone,
In Deukalion's life, thine own;
On the ruins of the Past
Blooms the perfect flower at last.
Friend! but yesterday the bells
Rang for thee their loud farewells;
And to-day they toll for thee,
Lying dead beyond the sea;
Lying dead among thy books,
The peace of God in all thy looks!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The White Of The Paper
i like the white screen
i like the white paper
because they ask such
a simple task from me
write as you wish
think as you want to
or dont want to
I feel a white dove
flying amongst wondrous
cumulus clouds
meditate as much as i wish
so that the white becomes
a mere plane of zen,
a vibration of existence
i like the white screen
i like the white paper
because they ask just
such a simple thing of me
to swing myself and exercise
my thoughts so that i let loose
clouds, birds, stars and moon
in the minds of men
i like the white screen
i like the white paper
because they always
are my best friends,
open an infinite plane
for me to act out my antics
for the good of men,
exercise their minds and
let their humours flow
i like the white of the
screen and the paper
because they are always
there to accommodate me
to let the gift from heaven flow
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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I mean your borrowers of books - those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of shelves, and creators of odd volumes.
quote by Charles Lamb
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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May and the Poets
There is May in books forever;
May will part from Spenser never;
May's in Milton, May's in Prior,
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer;
May's in all the Italian books:--
She has old and modern nooks,
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves,
In happy places they call shelves,
And will rise and dress your rooms
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will,
May's at home, and with me still;
But come rather, thou, good weather,
And find us in the fields together.
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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How Easily Humans Settle In Their Own Despair
How easily humans settle in their own despair,
It's far less work not having to care
For anyone but ourselves.
Like forgotten books on high dusty shelves,
Nothing gets taken from inside.
Within our cloudy minds we hide,
From those who suffer.
As a child clings selfishly onto its mother,
Its only thought is itself.
A bath is more comfortable when used alone,
And so nothing nor no-one is invited into our home.
Life is fragile,
And although we carefully pack and place,
One slip and everything is exposed to space.
How easily humans settle in their own despair,
It's far less dangerous not having to care.
poem by Not Long Left
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My intellectual shortcomings
He loves books
Books that he cannot buy
He gets the intellect
He gets the mind
He gets rich in time
Trusting his instincts
He buys books
That he cannot read anymore
He gets so many minds
He loses his intellect
With all regret to what
Happened, he loses his face
And wants to recover at least his eyes
By writing some of these poems.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Mystery of Life
The theory of life
Is to be at one
With strife
And remain calm
Calm is where we are at one
With ourselves
When the day is done
We put our strife on shelves
Like books to be read
When we are at one
With ourselves again
Life is performed in
Recurring circles and stages
To be acted out like a play
A mystery drama
We continue to perform
In circles and stages
Life is not a mystery
The mystery is
Why we live in
Recurring circles and stages
Doing the same today
As we and all of our ancestors
Have done in the past
Change is what’s needed
Change our lives
To live in harmony
To live in calm
To live as one with ourselves
To sleep in peace
To rise
Without taking the books full of strife
From our shelves
But to read of peace
To have self respect
The self respect we get
From having respect for others
We don’t do this
WHY! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ?
That is the-‘Mystery of Life’
poem by Michael Micmac Mccrory
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The Real Lot
My names contain the elixirs of cold and hot,
Knights of the table consider the real lot.
Never do experiments arrange themselves,
Books collect and connect on the shelves.
poem by Naveed Akram
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I still love books. Nothing a computer can do can compare to a book. You can't really put a book on the Internet. Three companies have offered to put books by me on the Net, and I said, 'If you can make something that has a nice jacket, nice paper with that nice smell, then we'll talk.' All the computer can give you is a manuscript. People don't want to read manuscripts. They want to read books. Books smell good. They look good. You can press them to your bosom. You can carry them in your pocket.
quote by Ray Bradbury
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The World Is Full Of Idiots
the world is full of idiots: the dumbest you can find
the world is full of idiots: who never use their minds
the world is full of idiots: they drool upon themselves
the world is full of idiots: bodies gathering dust like unread books upon the shelves
the world is full of idiots: just like you and me
the world is full of idiots, as dumb as they can be!
the world is full of idiots: rageing war for fossil fuels
the world is full of idiots: when it is taught those who think: are just fools...
It is chiefly through books that we enjoy intercourse with superior minds. In the best books, great men talk to us, give us their most precious thoughts, and pour their souls into ours.
quote by William Ellery Channing
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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