Billet-Doux
She reads by the light of a guttering candle
and likes the feel of each page's gilt edge
as she lifts it slightly at the corner, readying
herself to turn it. If the wind whips
the sycamore branches outside her window,
if her nightgowned shoulders shudder once
from a sudden chill, so much the better,
and the book must tell of children toiling
for bread and pennies in a textile mill,
or tender brothers doomed to sharpen
their bayonets in opposing armies,
or a family of refugees, dust
in their mouths, gazing with longing at the far
shore of a river. And I long only
to be the author of that book she reads
whose page glows from the same dim
flame that illuminates her face,
the author whose thought she contemplates
as she touches a fingertip to a word
to mark her place and turns her head
toward the kettle that has begun to whistle.
poem by Chris Forhan
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Related quotes
Old Susan
When Susan's work was done, she'd sit
With one fat guttering candle lit,
And window opened wide to win
The sweet night air to enter in;
There, with a thumb to keep her place
She'd read, with stern and wrinkled face.
Her mild eyes gliding very slow
Across the letters to and fro,
While wagged the guttering candle flame
In the wind that through the window came.
And sometimes in the silence she
Would mumble a sentence audibly,
Or shake her head as if to say,
"You silly souls, to act this way!"
And never a sound from night I'd hear,
Unless some far-off cock crowed clear;
Or her old shuffling thumb should turn
Another page; and rapt and stern,
Through her great glasses bent on me,
She'd glance into reality;
And shake her round old silvery head,
With--"You!--I thought you was in bed!"--
Only to tilt her book again,
And rooted in Romance remain.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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Nobody reads a mystery to get to the middle. They read it to get to the end. If it's a letdown, they won't buy anymore. The first page sells that book. The last page sells your next book.
quote by Mickey Spillane
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Books
Books take me to a place like no other
When I'm reading no one else madders
All my problems go away and it's just my books and me.
Books I like that word but when I read
My mom and dad and all my brothers and sisters go away
And I'm left there with no one but a book.
And then I pick it up and the word isn't so empty any more
It's full again. Like when you're a kid and your mom or dad
Come home after a long trip without you and you missed them
And then you're crying, laughing and happy all at the same time.
That how I get with a book I just found.
Happy because it's by my favorite Author but yet sad because
The book ended with questions still in my head.
And laughing because it was funny at one point in the book.
I love that felling when I pick up a book.
How do you fell when you pick up a book?
Happy, sad, a funny felling? You tell me please come on now don't be shy.
poem by Alley Rodriguez
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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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(Inspiration Poem) A Book Never Read
Living by the fire
Living to admire
Living down to the wire
Still the wheels don't turn
I think it is because I want it
Urn for it
The beautiful almighty
I will not pray
Not as long as I live day by day
How much does my soul really weigh?
How many sins can be forgiven?
The fog will eventually choke you out
Whine and pout all you want
It won't make a dent in my steel cage
Because it was built from pure rage
If Its not a stage
What am I going through?
Its just another page of my book never read
Words as stale as the food I was fed
Maybe it was how many times I have been dropped on my head
I plead guilty to an unwritten destiny
I lied to myself in a mirror straight to my very own face
Memories erased
It's just another page of my book never read
I can't be lead astray
Especially if I'm willing
It's not much different then stealing
A moral yeng then yang
A oh so perfect harmony
Keeping things on a even keel
Always questioning what is real
It's just another page of my book never read
I hold on so tight to my comfy bed
Such a beautiful night
The stars are glistening oh so bright
I turn off the lights
Sleep for the dreams of a tomorrow
We are all living on borrowed time
So I ask again where's mine?
A question that continues to go unanswered
Draw your own conclusion
It's another one of the deep dark mysterious illusions
It's just another page of my book never read
It's as if every word has never been said
It's just another page of my tattered and torn book that will be never read
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The End Of The Chapter
Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day;
We even lay the book away;
But oh, how sweet the moments sped
Before the final page was read!
We tried to read between the lines
The Author's deep-concealed designs;
But scant reward such search secures;
You saw my heart and I saw yours.
The Master,--He who penned the page
And bade us read it,--He is sage:
And what he orders, you and I
Can but obey, nor question why.
We read together and forgot
The world about us. Time was not.
Unheeded and unfelt, it fled.
We read and hardly knew we read.
Until beneath a sadder sun,
We came to know the book was done.
Then, as our minds were but new lit,
It dawned upon us what was writ;
And we were startled. In our eyes,
Looked forth the light of great surprise.
Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls,
A voice spoke forth: 'Behold your souls!'
I do, I do. I cannot look
Into your eyes: so close the book.
But brought it grief or brought it bliss,
No other page shall read like this!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Listen, Learn, Read On
In ages past when spells were cast
In a time of men in steel
When a man was taught no special thing
It was all done by feel
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
Hear the song of lovely joan
Her sound so sweet and clear
In the courtroom of the king
Among children and the peers
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
now hear ye the words of taliesyn,
On the foaming beach of the ocean,
In the day of trouble,
I shall be of more service to thee
Than three hundred salmon...
The hare he bounds across the page
Past castles white and fair
Past dreaming chessmen on their boards
With a fools mate as a snare
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
three times I have been born
I know this from meditation...
The bird he flies the distance
From pages two to six
Past minstrels in their boxes
To the waters of the styx
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
Dont take the pictures lightly
Listen to their sound
For from their coloured feeling
Experience is found
So listen, so learn, so read on
You gotta turn the page, read the book of taliesyn
all the sciences of the world are collected in my breast,
For I know what has been, what is now,
And what hereafter will occur...
song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What If God......
what if god is a dog,
or a fallen leaf?
the pebble that bruised your foot,
dust on the windowpane.
that old milk cow,
the stall that needs cleaned.
the plow caked with dirt,
the bag of seeds.
the fallen tree,
or the gust of wind.
rainwater in a barrel,
the pile of trash in the alley.
the river rising,
the eyes of the owl.
the upside down bat,
the darkness of the cave.
moonlight sifting through branches,
the leader of the ants.
the word the hand speaks,
when it brushes away tears.
the hatred of the ignorant
that weeps when no one sees.
a cup of coffee,
or a bowl of rice.
the smell of failure,
asking for forgiveness.
the baby bird that fell,
the nest left empty.
the child born,
that no one wants.
the disease that kills,
snow on the ground.
the old bridge that shakes,
the lantern waiting to be lit.
the last page of the book,
that no one reads!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Book Of Life
In the book of life
we learn a little
with each page we turn.
We learn a little tolerance
can go a long, long way
along with a little patience
will help us through the day.
In the book of life,
every page has something new
to give our life fulfilment
as each page we journey through.
18 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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The world is a great book; he who never stirs from home reads only a page.
quote by Saint Augustine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To an Ungentle Critic
The great sun sinks behind the town
Through a red mist of Volnay wine....
But what’s the use of setting down
That glorious blaze behind the town?
You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look
For newer pictures in this book;
You’ve read of sunsets rich as mine.
A fresh wind fills the evening air
With horrid crying of night birds....
But what reads new or curious there
When cold winds fly across the air?
You’ll only frown; you’ll turn the page,
But find no glimpse of your “New Age
Of Poetry” in my worn-out words.
Must winds that cut like blades of steel
And sunsets swimming in Volnay,
The holiest, cruellest pains I feel,
Die stillborn, because old men squeal
For something new: “Write something new:
We’ve read this poem—that one too,
And twelve more like ’em yesterday”?
No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl
Just what I fancy as I strike it,
Fairies and Fusiliers, and all
Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl
Across my verse in the classic way.
And, sir, be careful what you say;
There are old-fashioned folk still like it.
poem by Robert Graves
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Just The Way It Is....
this morning i bring a book
under a tree
and i begin to read
every page
the sun comes up
the sun comes down
I've done my duty to keep the peace of this world
to try to understand what complications
mankind has made
i am simplifying what i can do to make this world
a place for us
page by page
word to word
cover to cover
tonight i will go back to my room
sleep on my bed
it will be cold and dark
just the way it is.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sleep Around
Do it like she like, do it like she like it {x4}
Chorus:
Do it like she like it
So your baby dont wanna sleep around
Give her what she want when she want
When it come 2 u, she down
Baby let me read her journal
Or should I say: she turned around and it was gone
The innuendo reads eternal
Or should I say: every other page Im on
When she come 2 cook your dinner
U can ask her if what I say is true
The secret will remain within her
But her shade of red will turn yours blue
Chorus
Maybe u recall last summer
When u saw her ridin in my car
A kiss or 2 later she was back in your bed
Smellin like a fallen star
Just because shes fine
U think she dont wine & dine with everyone u know
Oh, long as ure fooled, Im cool
She says she gonna put me in a video
U need 2...
Chorus
Oh yeah!
Sleep around, sleep around {x2}
Im the one who sent the herbs and a book on how 2 use them
Im the one who pointed out her fears and how 2 lose them
And if a difference love will make
This advice u oughta take
Baby let me read her journal
Or should I say: she turned around and it was gone
The innuendo reads eternal
Or should I say: every other page Im on
U need 2...
Do it like she like, do it like she like it (sleep around) {x3}
Do it like she like it, like it, like it...
Do it like she like it
So your baby dont wanna sleep around
Give her what she want when she want it
When it come 2 u, she down
Sleep around, sleep around
Do it like she like it
So your baby dont wanna sleep around
(Im watchin u, baby) (do it like she like it, do it)
Give her what she want when she want it
When it come 2 u, she down
(do it like she like)
Sleep around, sleep around
Do it like she like, do it like she like it {x4}
(sleep around) {x5}
Do it like she like {x5}
Do it like she like it
Do it like she like
Do it {x10}
Do it like she like it (sleep around)
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Must Assume Other Names
you must assume other names
as i too shall assume
a lot of numbers
this is the comfort that i still want to enjoy
numb numbers
poems without a lot of words to make you
remember me
what do you feel now?
i know. You feel like a page of a book.
A torn page.
You feel like you are walking past
The numbered rooms in the hospital
Finding your way through same faced halls
Left turn, right turn
Until you find yourself at a certain dead end.
You see a bench. You sit there.
There is no window. There is no door.
Just the length of the hall and then the silence
Of this corridor.
It is. Indeed, it is.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The King
A book
A Kingdom
Of the Author
‘The King'
A letter
A citizen
The subject of
The King
Soldier
Doctor
Engineer
Poli ticians
Thinkers
Philosophers
Criminals
Lawyers
Terro rist
Dancer
Singer et cetera
The Words
A class
The sentence
Fate of the book
The Kingdom
A book
Finally
The Author
‘The King'//
poem by Aftab Alam Khursheed
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The Book
Have you ever opened a book?
And feel like it’s your life
As you watch each page go pass
You think where did I get lost
Each chapter is an ending
Of what was or what could have been
But each new chapter a beginning
Brings you hope to live again
But the hardest thing in life
Is as you turn each page
You must learn to pass the pain
That lies between the pages
Each chapter a lesson
In life’s little games
Then we smile at ourselves
As we close the last page
To look forward to anew
Of a new chapter in our life’
We smile and nod
At the new book of life
poem by Kaila George
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Lemnos Harbour
The island sleeps,-but it has no delight
For em, to whom that sleep has been unkind.
My thoughts are long of what seems long ago,
And long, too, are my dreams. I do not know
These trailing glories of the star-strewn night
Or the slow sough of the wind.
I hear the rattle of the moving car;
The children crying in the lighted street,
I walk along the same old asphalt way.
I see the church,-I hear the organ play.
I see the hills I wandered on afar,
And spots of rain at my feet.
I see the dust-strewn hedge,-the latched gate;
The gravelled path with roses either side;
The cedar tree,-my mother’s window pane.
I see the place where I sat long and late
By the trellis deep and wide.
The red Virginia crumbles at the wall.
The bed is bare where winter’s snow-drops grew.
I feel my dog come licking at my hand.
I pause awhile beside the door, I stand.
And hear the well-known footsteps softly fall
And the voices that I knew.
I slowly creep and peep beneath the blind.
-My father reads his book within his chair.
Some children play their game of dominoes.
My mother sits beside the fire and sews;
Her head is bowed. I know her eyes are kind
By the grey lines in her hair.
I tap the pane to see those tears unshed.
I see all turn, and watch them sadly stirred
By the sound, and peer to see my face without.
They see, and smile, I hear no welcome shout.
They sit and gaze as they that see the dead,
But no one says a word.
The island sleeps. May sleep come soon to me,
And lull these dreams within my shaken mind;
-These dreams that tell me I have seen the last
of those I left so,-loved so in the past.
* * *
I hear the murmur of the moving sea,
And the murmur of the wind.
poem by Leon Gellert
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My Book
Before I drink myself to death,
God, let me finish up my Book!
At night, I fear, I fight for breath,
And wake up whiter than a spook;
And crawl off to a bistro near,
And drink until my brain is clear.
Rare Absinthe! Oh, it gives me strength
To write and write; and so I spend
Day after day, until at length
With joy and pain I'll write The End:
Then let this carcase rot; I give
The world my Book -- my Book will live.
For every line is tense with truth,
There's hope and joy on every page;
A cheer, a clarion call to Youth,
A hymn, a comforter to Age:
All's there that I was meant to be,
My part divine, the God in me.
It's of my life the golden sum;
Ah! who that reads this Book of mine,
In stormy centuries to come,
Will dream I rooted with the swine?
Behold! I give mankind my best:
What does it matter, all the rest?
It's this that makes sublime my day;
It's this that makes me struggle on.
Oh, let them mock my mortal clay,
My spirit's deathless as the dawn;
Oh, let them shudder as they look . . .
I'll be immortal in my Book.
And so beside the sullen Seine
I fight with dogs for filthy food,
Yet know that from my sin and pain
Will soar serene a Something Good;
Exultantly from shame and wrong
A Right, a Glory and a Song.
poem by Robert William Service
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Academics Are Daft
Wanted to quote striking lines from a book
by someone called Richard D-v-np-rt-Hin-s
who left a teaching position delineating a
social history of drugs then saw no words
of his book may be quoted except by
express permission of the author
With trepidation I copied only part of the
author's name not daring to mention the
book's title for fear of being pursued for
quoting it - a light went up - no wonder
people don't read, worries about copy-
right means we can't do anything
With a text we come across, luckily I bought
this book through a library donation, paid only
half a dollar for it - so there, getting to read it
for next to nothing - I'm glad that most people
detest reading, intellectual snobbery protecting
author's rights makes it inaccessible
Being boring to boot except to a bookworm,
nobody else interested, keeping it exclusive
demanding payment for repeating any word
from it authors make sure nobody interested
in a factual account of cold facts - if they wish
to remain incognito, ignored by the masses
It is fine with me; I may not breathe a word
about this fellow's research and conclusions
he might as well have buried his gift under a
bushel for fear of anyone reading it without
paying exorbitant amounts and that for stuff
that is not entertaining - seems to me
Academics are rather daft - he used to be
a lecturer…
Saturday 19 May 2012
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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One Brown Mouse
Smile your little smile --- take some tea with me awhile.
Brush away that black cloud from your shoulder.
Twitch your whiskers. feel that youre really real.
Another tea-time --- another day older.
Puff warm breath on your tiny hands.
You wish you were a man
Who every day can turn another page.
Behind your glass you sit and look
At my ever-open book ---
One brown mouse sitting in a cage.
Do you wonder if I really care for you ---
Am I just the company you keep ---
Which one of us exercises on the old treadmill ---
Who hides his head, pretending to sleep?
Smile your little smile --- take some tea with me awhile.
And every day well turn another page.
Behind our glass well sit and look
At our ever-open book ---
One brown mouse sitting in a cage.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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