En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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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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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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Second Hand Books

Books! Books! Books! There are so many different designs.
There are some which, by the author, are personally signed.
Some books have pages with gilt edges, which look all posh.
Some have nice pictures on their covers, which are embossed.

Some books have hard covers, while some have soft.
Some are all dusty, where they’ve been kept in the loft.
Some books have fancy covers; some just have plain.
Some have suffered mishaps, and are now all stained.

Some books are all dog-eared at the corners of their pages.
Some have gone yellow, where they’ve been around ages.
Inside some books, there can be seen a pencilled name;
Someone, who once, on this particular book, had a claim.

Some are obviously well read; their spines are all creased.
From out of a book, amazing adventures can be unleashed.
Some books have pages which are spoiled or a bit torn.
Some have covers which are grubby and look well worn.

Some just have text, while others also include illustrations.
Some are former prize winners; once the toast of the nation.
There are books by famous authors, as well as the lesser known.
Some are former library books which, to the public, were loaned.

There are romances, poetry, classics, sci-fi, humour, and histories;
Gardening, cookery, travel, thrillers, manga, and murder mysteries.
In wooden bookcases, the books are categorised, and are neatly lined.
In a second hand bookshop, you just never know what you may find.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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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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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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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 writers room

The writers room
~
the walls lined with books
a thousand written worlds
open pages litter the floor
ready to begin a new journey
light cascades through window
across the unused bed
a room alive does not sleep
pictures and tokens spread out
points of memory and inspiration
shelves climb to the ceiling
hoarding words and lives
a writers room, paradise
a place to sit read and write
inspiration comes from life
and life is about discovering
all that is beautiful
however ugly it appears
look through the pages
of an open mind

poem by Matthew Holloway
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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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Memory Bag

I sit in silence with my own blank thoughts
Bored out of my mind my imagination rots
I turned to music, television, the books on my shelf
I gave up, looked up and said to God, 'Humour Me'
The sky grew darker as i waited to see,
A bag of memories forgotten, dropped on me

The past, the good things and the bad,
all the wonderful laughs that i had
Going through the memory bag kept me occupied
more than television, music, or books on shelves
God looked down on me and said, 'Humour yourself'

Copyright © 2010 by Sneha Murali

poem by Sneha Murali
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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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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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Book Borrower

I am a mild man, you'll agree,
But red my rage is,
When folks who borrow books from me
Turn down their pages.

Or when a chap a book I lend,
And find he's loaned it
Without permission to a friend -
As if he owned it.

But worst of all I hate those crooks
(May hell-fires burn them!)
Who beg the loan of cherished books
And don't return them.

My books are tendrils of myself
No shears can sever . . .
May he who rapes one from its shelf
Be damned forever.

poem by Robert William Service
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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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Supervision

The teacher prayed to God above for wisdom day-by-day,
For only He had perfect love and insights to relay.
The teacher saw the vision come and looked at it amazed,
For it was meant for all not some, yet not a word was phrased.
From clouds on high, the book birds flew about the teacher's head
And some of these the teacher knew, for they were fondly read.
Then other book birds circled round with titles yet unknown,
With treasure chests as yet unfound, with cherished truths unshown.
Imagine books left on the shelves, unread, unshared for years...
Deprived of these to help ourselves, no thoughts between our ears.
What use would Mankind ever gain if great books were not read?
The teacher thanked God for the brain that chose not to be dead.
And so it was, the teacher smiled! The course ahead made sense.
From now on, books for every child, for families and friends.
In every language known to Man, God's Word can preach Good News,
If we but do the best we can to help each student choose.
The teacher's heart was filled with hope with all God had revealed,
For books would help the students cope, as if each were a shield.
Both fact and fiction serve us well, if willing we would be
To learn the lessons that they tell, for truth shall set us free!

poem by Denis Martindale
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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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Robinson

The dog stops barking after Robinson has gone.
His act is over. The world is a gray world,
Not without violence, and he kicks under the grand piano,
The nightmare chase well under way.

The mirror from Mexico, stuck to the wall,
Reflects nothing at all. The glass is black.
Robinson alone provides the image Robinsonian.

Which is all of the room--walls, curtains,
Shelves, bed, the tinted photograph of Robinson's first wife,
Rugs, vases panatelas in a humidor.
They would fill the room if Robinson came in.

The pages in the books are blank,
The books that Robinson has read. That is his favorite chair,
Or where the chair would be if Robinson were here.

All day the phone rings. It could be Robinson
Calling. It never rings when he is here.

Outside, white buildings yellow in the sun.
Outside, the birds circle continuously
Where trees are actual and take no holiday.

poem by Weldon Kees
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to Have A rED bIRD

THINGS that i own
are not bound, even books
they have pages
open, dog-eared
some even torn
i own these stained
margins
i put my signatures in
them

i own a red bird
because i planted a tree
beside the house
a branch has become
intimated to my window
and the red bird
sings there

i own the morning song now
but for me to learn
to fly
and own the sky too
i must
let the song go

i do not make my hands
as the house
of wings

neither my heart
the the treetops for
drifters

for in truth to own red birds
is always premised
on the respect for their
own freedoms....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Romance Of A Book

Reading a book, you're hit by romance,
No matter the subject matter,
You can read and read,
And every book is different,
Some stories are more pleasant than others,
While some are funny, but most are serious,
For the romance of a book,
Is in everyone's heart,
No matter their age or height,
Whether male or female:
It is all relative and I devour,
Each and every book,
I can read the classics,
Or even a heart-warming romance,
I just get through so many books,
I love every storyline,
Not so much the gory parts,
But the cleverness of the fictional detectives,
And those rock stars that roam the stage,
For a book is something that will never age,
No matter how many years on the shelf,
And stories can be shared with everyone else,
Yet everyone has their own views,
And books can be lifting when they're feeling blue,
For people have been reading fiction for centuries,
But, of course, not all books are fictional:
There're the historical books, interesting,
Even if a reader is just passing through,
And we can all learn something from the history books,
And let's not forget the autobiographies:
Many a man and woman fascinating,
Having lead unique lives and having had special loves,
And there is a romance to these people,
For they walked the same earth as everyone else,
Yet brought something strange and special to the world,
Like a scientist making a new discovery,
Or a rock star penning a hit song,
And all these things are which make books belong,
I haven't met anyone yet who finds books boring,
Because books are not boring: they are fascinating,
Unique, special, strange, romantic and enjoyable,
And every reader's dream: like hitting 'play' on a record,
For this is the romance of a book.

poem by Paula Glynn
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