If you look closely, there is no book more visual than Three Trapped Tigers, in that it is filled with blank pages, dark pages, it has stars made of words, the famous magical cube made of numbers, and there is even a page which is a mirror.
quote by Guillermo Cabrera Infante
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Song
I wrote a song
It's called 'my life'
I tried my best to make it a good one
I'd never written a song
Twas indeed my first
I had an eraser
I couldn't clean my mistakes though
It turned out to be a long song
A hundred and twenty pages worth
A page a year
I made a mess of it
Blue pen made a mark
As depression took a quarter of it
Yellow pen made an entrance
I decided it was better than blue
Red pen tried to hurt me
As all anger was kept inside
Green pen whispered a note
I wished I had my neighbour's song
So many colours on just one song
Twenty-five pages were dark
I knew not which way to go
I tried to turn a page but couldn't
I basked in pages gone
Hence left several pages blank
Twenty-five pages were wet
As tears serenaded my heart, it did the pages
Too much pain in one song
Tried to change the words
The things I thought all made the song
On a scale of good to bad, bad stole the day
I searched and found other songs titled 'my life'
I wrote my song the way they had
My song was like a painting
One in utter disharmony
One drawn by a clueless artist
But an artist whose passion burned his painting
I set my heart on fire on page 35
There had to be more
And more I had
On page 120, my eyes were dim and hands tired
Since pages couldn't be turned
My mind sat, and looked back
What had I done?
I'd been mountain high
I'd been valley low
I'd been good
I'd been bad
I'd been....
I lay my head on my song
Took my last breath
But before I did
I held a girl
Who had a song called 'my life'
She read my song
And shed a tear
And said I had written....a masterpiece.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Blank Pages
Blank pages
Blank books
Lie with only drowning white
No pretty messages in the sand
No clocks to turn a hand
Blank pages
Blank books
Looking into an empty void
Like staring at purgatory
Words with no meaning making up a story
Blank pages
Blank books
Stay staring at the celing
Empty without effort
Nothing without words
poem by Autumn Winds
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The Blank Space Inside Us
there are blank pages
some say that it is a must that something must be drawn
words to be written
thoughts to stifle, capture,
stuffed,
there is a day that you prefer
to keep a blank sky
a dark sky without stars
no light
when you close your eyes
you are at home with this blank page
words become
invincible
but they are all there
perfectly correct
well viewed by the eyes of your heart
somehow you go beyond
your every
day fences
move away, jump and run towards
an island of light
a patch of green grass
still no stars
pure blank
it is when you do not believe in the power of thoughts
when what preoccupies you
is nothing when you are finally one with all
space
it is too peaceful to even dropp a word
like a pin on
a shiny floor of tiles....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Read The Book
Dolce said to read the book.
Don’t skip any pages though,
Lizzy; I want you to read it
From cover to cover. Ok lover,
You said and examined the
Book’s covers; the hard leather,
The well sewn pages. You knew
He wrote it without his name on
The spine with the title. It was
As he spoke, the words flowing
Across the page, the meaning
Carried on and over and into
Your head. You stopped on page
Nine; he’d written about the night
He’d screwed you five times, although
No name was mentioned, you knew
It was you. Even the bed and room
Were as it had been, written right
Down to the creaking springs and
The man next door banging on the
Wall with his darn shoe. You read on
Carrying that image with you, the way
He’d caught it all with the right words,
Hammered that night right home like
Some crucified butterfly onto the page
And into your head. You paused at page
Twelve. Some paragraph about some
Lark in the bushes in the park after dark.
That didn’t ring true, at least not with you.
Who was the woman? Who was the screw?
You closed up the book; refused to look
Or read anymore; you wondered who it
Was he’d had that night in the bushes
Beneath the moonlight. Maybe it was just
Poetic licence made up to make it sell well
And the cash machines ring loud and true.
But the bitch in the bushes wasn’t you.
poem by Terry Collett
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Lines Extracted From A Dream
'I think of it like a book,
I dont care for your self-authored words
of pity and sorrow, though yes they are just.
It isn't the narrative in you that interests me...
It is those blank pages in you that hold my court,
All books have them; those blank pages at the end,
Unfilled and undetermined, where you havent yet scribbled.
They are yet to be subject to anything,
And even if they are not destined for a happily ever after,
That does not mean i can't hope to find solace and closure in them.
What is to stop us writing our own fable in spite of what is already written?
What already is, is,
But what will be is ours to fathom through the velvet folds Of fate.
Surely.'
poem by Graham Stone
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Tracks, Trails, Lines and pages
Tracks in forests… of woodland creatures
Trails of shooting stars in summer skies
Tracks of rockets o’er bloody battlefields
Traces of wrinkles round wizened eyes
Lines of wisdom on wrinkled faces
Lines of ants upon the floor
Lines of prose on parchment pages
Lines of carts inside the stores
Pages of life, inside old diarys
Pages dog-eared to mark the places
Pages filled with tales sad and fiery
Pages filled with empty spaces
poem by David Whalen
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The Book Of My Life
Let me watch by the fire and remember my days
And it may be a trick of the firelight
But the flickering pages that trouble my sight
Is a book I'm afraid to write
It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see as the section reveals
There's some sorrow in every life
If it reads like a puzzle, a wandering maze
Then I won't understand 'til the end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life
There are promises broken and promises kept
Angry words that were spoken, when I should have wept
There's a chapter of secrets, and words to confess
If I lose everything that I possess
There's a chapter on loss and a ghost who won't die
There's a chapter on love where the ink's never dry
There are sentences served in a prison I built out of lies.
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
There's a chapter on fathers a chapter on sons
There are pages of conflicts that nobody won
And the battles you lost and your bitter defeat,
There's a page where we fail to meet
There are tales of good fortune that couldn't be planned
There's a chapter on god that I don't understand
There's a promise of Heaven and Hell but I'm damned if I see
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
Now the daylight's returning
And if one sentence is true
All these pages are burning
And all that's left is you
Though the pages are number
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Is Written In Red
I am written in red,
I am sliding across the page of life.
I am racing across the lines of language.
I am red.
I write words,
I create lines and sentences,
I am kept in solitude
I am red.
I create paragraphs.
I create signatures.
I know what you're thinking before you speak,
I am red.
I cannot breath because I am enclosed in a capsule.
A capsule that covers the knowledge inside.
All I do is stare at pages,
All I know is pages,
I become apart of the pages,
And the pages become apart of me.
I become apart of english,
I become apart of words,
I am RED.
BY: Takisha Fields
poem by Kiesha fields
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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The Memory Place
Shelves tower over me; crowed with bound pages
of events, people, places, ideas.
Of memories.
Of captured feelings pressed like flowers between the pages;
for people to be inspired by someone else's words.
My eyes caress the titles printed on bright spines
as I run my fingers across
what holds the memories together.
I pick up a book, turning yellowed pages,
the scent of gentle time traveling to my nose.
I close my eyes and smile:
it brings back memories of my own,
but these pages are not for me.
I put back the soft bundle of pages
and continued to search in the Memory Place
until I find my own belonging among the words.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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Blank
Blank pages, blank lines
Blank heart, blank mind
Blank feeling, blank soul
Blank high, blank low.
I dont know why
You just cant see
That all you've ever known
Is the blank side of me.
The Evening Is Upset
I lost you in this life and the next,
You went away leaving pages blank
And did not read my book or pen text
Weaving with love and pages left untouched…
The evening is upset with your departure,
And the wine glasses too are sad,
You left taking all away with yourself
Even the flowers in the garden got withered…
The night that used to be full of your love
And your unlocked tresses made it more
Erotic and lovely when I run thru my fingers
Holding you close and trying all night to love…
Written by: Narendra Rai
Talhar Badin, Sindh…
poem by Narendra Rai
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Between the pages
Between the pages
~
between the pages
we line ourselves in verse
where we play out a story
of our own making
the turns and twists
brought through words
etched upon the page
ink flows to its own beat
like a raging heart
pouring out before the eyes
a world becomes forgotten
lost in the celebration
between pages
each line shared
written
in its own breath
creation begins
time lapses
into our verse
poem by Matthew Holloway
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What Is These All About?
at 9: 18 p.m.
the head gets the pain
another relief
swallowed
finally you go back
to where you
started
page one
when you said
you do not miss her
page two and three
empty
pages more pages
until you reach
that page where you cried
dried tears at the middle
of the blotted letters
you quickly run your fingers
close the notebook
you stand by the window
at par with the moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Back To Nature....
sad to say
you have been looking on the pages of the book
away from the landscapes of the mountains
the calm unfolded soft linens of the sea
pages of days
the chapters of those seasons
a butterfly floating
is enough poem without so much use of words
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Empty Pages
(graham russell)
When youre out in front and your life is unsure
What have you got goin for you after every road you turn
Its magic when you tell me and run your fingers through my hair
I dont need your persuasion, cos Im already there
Ive just read it through and I said to myself
Thats not really you, Ill keep myself to myself
Its magic when you tell me, and write the words I want to see
When I reach the last line, its just empty for me
Ive been learning so long, about the things you do
Ive been learning so long about you, about you
(chorus)
Empty pages Ive read you all through
Empty pages filled with spaces I fell in and I fell in
Empty pages Ive read you all through
Empty pages filled with spaces I fell in and I fell in.
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Empty Page
(graham russell)
When you're out in front and your life is unsure
What have you got goin' for you after every road you turn
It's magic when you tell me and run your fingers through my hair
I don't need your persuasion, cos i'm already there
I've just read it through and i said to myself
That's not really you, i'll keep myself to myself
It's magic when you tell me, and write the words i want to see
When i reach the last line, it's just empty for me
I've been learning so long, about the things you do
I've been learning so long about you, about you
(chorus)
Empty pages i've read you all through
Empty pages filled with spaces i fell in and i fell in
Empty pages i've read you all through
Empty pages filled with spaces i fell in and i fell in.
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Frog Of Basho
the frog of basho
made its
jump into the water.
others say
there was this
flash that made the frog famous
not in Hollywood
but in the pages of an old poetry book.
the pond is forgotten.
it was it who said: flok!
not really flash, like light
bending itself to the power of the water.
basho of course
the poet, lives forever.
is this what we really want?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blank Pages
Fierce are blank books triumphing over good,
Then biggest literature is born for the bachelorhood.
Fun are the readers to accompany, to admire
For their effort and will, they are in their attire.
Good people do read and recite for pleasure,
Leaders of literature force the one farther;
It is one of the best of rhythm, of rounder look,
Saying is not doing or writing a book.
Blank pages do run, their fun is deep when justice
Is made from the spelling how we make abruptness.
poem by Naveed Akram
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