Guide to the Other Gallery
This is the hall of broken limbs
Where splintered marble athletes lie
Beside the arms of cherubim.
Nothing is ever thrown away.
These butterflies are set in rows.
So small and gray inside their case
They look alike now. I suppose
Death makes most creatures commonplace.
These portraits here of the unknown
Are hung three high, frame piled on frame.
Each potent soul who craved renown,
Immortalized without a name.
Here are the shelves of unread books,
Millions of pages turning brown.
Visitors wander through the stacks,
But no one ever takes one down.
I wish I were a better guide.
There's so much more that you should see.
Rows of bottles with nothing inside.
Displays of locks which have no key.
You'd like to go? I wish you could.
This room has such a peaceful view.
Look at that case of antique wood
Without a label. It's for you.
poem by Dana Gioia
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Related quotes
Serial killers are everywhere! Well, perhaps not in our neighborhood, but on our television screens, at the movie theatres, and in rows and rows of books at our local Borders or Barnes and Noble Booksellers.
Tombstones!
rows and rows of tombstones,
glaring white in the morning sun...
with open graves before them,
and the smell of fresh turned earth.
cars speed by going nowhere;
people walking, as if lost....
the phone rings, no one answers,
the book, unread, stares from the shelf.
trees almost bare softly whisper,
dollar bills blown by the wind...
the old man sits by the station,
counting by number,
and not by name....
rows and rows of tombstones,
waiting for gifts unwrapped
by time!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Once there came a man
Once there came a man
Who said,
"Range me all men of the world in rows."
And instantly
There was terrific clamour among the people
Against being ranged in rows.
There was a loud quarrel, world-wide.
It endured for ages;
And blood was shed
By those who would not stand in rows,
And by those who pined to stand in rows.
Eventually, the man went to death, weeping.
And those who staid in bloody scuffle
Knew not the great simplicity.
poem by Stephen Crane
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In Long Rows
Millions and millions of crosses
standing in long rows.
Standing as a testament
of man’s inhumanity to man.
Their ages range low to high,
all casualties of a war
in which they answered
their counties call.
Their kin are long dead now,
but the crosses all bare a name
of someone who had they lived
might have gained fame
in another game.
However, here they lie
where the pretty flowers grow
after giving up their life
for their country.
Some are remembered
even to this day
for their acts of courage
others knew so well.
The others are just names
carved in memorials somewhere
as falling in a battle on a foreign soil.
All of them had a life
men, women and child alike.
A life they should have lived
and lived it to the full.
Now all they remain
is names on crosses
standing in long rows.
22 January 2008
This is for all those whose lives have been stolen in wars throughout the centuries.
poem by David Harris
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Play For Today
It's not a case of doing
What's right
It's just the way i feel that matters
Tell me i'm wrong
I don't really care
It's not a case of share and share alike
I take what i require
I don't understand ...
You say it's not fair
You expect me to act
Like a lover
Consider my moves
And deserve the reward
To hold you in my arms
And wait
And wait
And wait
For something to happen
It's not a case of telling the truth
Some lines just fit the situation
Call me a liar
You would anyway
It's not a case of aiming to please
You know you're always crying
It's just your part
In the play for today
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ideas For Walls
So many things in my head, Ive always had them before
No reason to be upset, theyre just ideas for walls
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing, demanding that the nightlife be called the right life
Like putting paint on my feet & walking sideways in rows
My walls could be so complete, complete with patterns of toes
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing the left side, right side, which is the right side
Now-ideas
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
A little m for the mirror, a double u for the wall
To make things perfectly clear, a great big h in the hall
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing, demanding that the nightlife be called the right life
Is everybody confused? (no) Im making no sense at all
You want a room with a view you need ideas for walls
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing inside, outside, outside, right side
Inside, outside, which is the right side
Now -- ideas
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas
Theyre just ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Frame II
The frame was best supporting act,
and held the ego high and proud.
He never moaned or groaned or spat,
just hung there, all chilled out.
Of course he would have liked acclaim,
a little lime light and a name,
although a painting with no frame
would look a little dull and tame.
The painting lapped up all attention,
with its enigmatic grin,
often feeling quite ecstatic
to be held with such esteem.
and so the frame in show biz style
put a brave face on and a smiled,
stoical in holding back
ambitions to be the star act.
The frame all low and down at heel
resigned himself as second bill
for after all it wouldn't do
if he were narcissistic too.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Prime Necessity
A house without books is a desert place
unfit for human habitation.
Sufficient cause for lamentation
a residence which lacks all claims to grace.
Though circumstances may force me to face
involuntary deprivation
Without the slightest hesitation
I would set to and fill the wasted space.
With simple wooden shelves which would display
My books neatly arranged in ordered rows
Makes them easier to find I suppose
I wonder how long they will stay that way
Verse written by master poets long since gone
Whose words live on as they were meant to do.
A lasting legacy of great value
not just to scholars but to every one.
Literature is not a luxury.
To me it is a prime necessity.
31/05/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Letter (iii)
Even the leather writing
case’s hinges are shot:
the strips
of hide
that bound
the lid decayed;
the lock –
a small lock
involving only a sideways
click to open it -
still works its
mechanical metal slot.
Inside the case your letter’s
yellow pages of script
slowly
rewrite
their gist,
an ideal
content –
the content
between me and you the long dead
master of sub-text –
hints at its
continuous narrative.
poem by Jacqui Thewless
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Hard Up Case
You told me once I was your pride and joy
I guess those days are dead and gone
You must have took me for some golden boy
You didnt know what you were taking on
It was a hard up case
It was a hard up case
Just another hard up case
It was a hard up case
Just another hard up case
Now all the angles have been played in threes
There isnt much that I can say
I know you gave your little heart to me
I guess I threw the thing away
It was a hard up case
It was a hard up case
Just another hard up case
It was a hard up case
Just another hard up case
Sometimes the truth is kind of hard to find
But dont you worry I can read your mind
And you dont have to tell me to my face
You put some other joker in my place
They dealt us houses full with the queens and kings
And now theyre calling out our bluff
cause you and me girl we had everything
But it just wasnt quite enough
Now thats a hard up case
It was a hard up case
Just another hard up case
It was a hard up case
Just another hard up case
You say the truth is gonna set me free
Like you might throw a dog a bone
I know youre thinking that the jokes on me
Just take a look at what you re dragging home --
Another hard up case
It was a hard up case
Just another hard up case
It was a hard up case
Just another hard up case
song performed by by Steely Dan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Situation Like Yours
there is this
boundary between the room and your door
there is a frame
of a mind
outside
possibilities grow like
any tree
inside the room
you are always lulled to sleep
by your bed of
roses
outside is always stunted
like a bonsai
they always cut your branches
remove your
roots
inside you are
dying
what you can be is
but a dream
if you love
it will be a lie
if you tell the truth
you will die
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Inside That Room
inside that room
clutters of old things
a conglomeration of dusts
silent stones
broken wedges
blunt shapes and sharp edges
inside that room
that silence we both shared
isolated moans
tongues lingering
inside that room
our memories
now the door is closed.
inside that room
the noise of insistence
the clap of a disaster
we disown
inside that room
the impregnation of tough thoughts
with soft laces
of ductile memories
inside that room
oh! there is no
us anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Liberator
Keys turning
rattling in the loose locks
opening high the doors
that close again
like death-hours coming faster
the walls are white
and the line of beds is staring
all the bars go up and down
and none of them lead outward
and leaping eyes
and stiff limbs
follow the crunch of the keys
I am powerful now
and I will break those that carry the keys
with little hammers
small hammers
which you will make for me
and hide in the porridge
I will break all their heads
and lay them in neat rows
and we shall wave high the keys
and open wide a million doors
and all of us shall dance in the snow
and that poor woman in the spiral casket
shall warm a wooden doll to her dress
&nbs p; and lean her hair in the fire
the grating shall be taken from about the fire
and the woman and the keys shall go within
all of us
shall ;dance
&nb sp; within
poem by Emily Holmes Coleman
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Inside the pictures frame
Inside the pictures frame
~
Light breaks in the picture frame
A morning caught over a lake
Or a maidens beautiful smile
The sun cutting through the trees
Shadows falling away
A story begins in every picture
A tale waits to be told
The sound of laughter begins
In a memory of sweet joy
Light breaks in the picture frame
A moment captured for posterity
That the world is held
To forever look upon this scene
Feel its warmth, enjoy its memory
A new day beginning
A maiden or a child’s smile
Kept inside the pictures frame
Where a light forever breaks
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Inside Out
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Now everybody keeps on telling me how to be
And everybody tells me do what they say
Oh Ill help myself its up to me and no-one else
But till Im ready just keep out of my way
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Now everybodys got me running round, up and down
And here I am going out of my mind
But I wont lose sight of all the, the things Im looking for
Theyre coming to me and Im taking whats mine
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Ill play the game
Well make the same mistakes
Its all the same
If we can give and take
Hold on, hold on, ooh
Hold on, hold on, ooh
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
All of my life Ive been searching and hanging on
Turning a corner, never know what Id find
But now Im back again like I never went away
Ooh let me in Im through with wasting my time
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Oh inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After Poetry-reading (with apologies to Robert Frost)
My library door’s still open
with its invitations and its promises
and empty shelves waiting to be filled
and on the table two or three new books
yet unread; but I’m done with poetry-reading now.
I’m sleepy; I’m full of poetry;
smell of poetry; taste of poetry;
close to, you can hear me buzz..
I can’t get the sound of other poets
out of my head.
Sometimes it’s envy; sometimes
just annoyance, like the sound
of the man next door with his buzz-saw;
and I can’t help hearing, too,
the sound of postboy bringing yet more books
by other poets; the presses rumbling
with yet more poetry books to come..
some, I fear, they’ll ask me to ‘review’..
yes, I’ve had too much of what
I helped to start – that great harvest
of ‘American Poetry’ ten thousand thousand
graduates of college courses;
chapbooks, self-print, little mags, by the barrel-load
and so many bad apples to each barrel;
fruiting like sour crabs
on the dead wood of faculty appointments;
how much wood can this woodchuck chuck,
amidst the woods and two paths’ luck?
jeez, I’m sleepy; feel a long sleep coming on;
the book I’m holding slides from my hands,
its pages turn without my turning them;
like you, my fingers, mind… frost-bitten.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Return
So Jesus came to church as a ghost
and claimed to have said goodbye without meaning it.
This is his story - the chalice and the frame
that made him known, cunning dust, half songs
and Hellenic rows in fields without perspective.
This is his house; a roof with an unknown end,
an upturned ship, a lost atrium with sharp air.
But he cannot trust himself not to touch, and muses,
look, you are heedless; buried in beads.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Framing You
Haven’t I planned to frame
And hang on the wall?
Ah, lackluster walls
Insipid!
How about in between the pages
Of those untouched books?
What’s the use?
Moths and rats!
Between the folds of clothes?
Oh, those rarely touched saris!
How best can I guard
Round face and chubby cheeks?
Can’t place anywhere, in tact
How to place here and there?
No, I will not frame
I will not place anywhere
What if I fail to recognize,
When one day you choose to
Come to surprise me?
The frame may get damaged!
Ah, heart is the best place!
Isn’t it?
Let you remain
In my heart
Till the heart ticks
Hopefully, I can’t possibly
Fail to recognize my heart!
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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As Though You Have Known It Forever
there is no such thing as done
everything is always unfinished
you think a bud dies, it does not
you think that the twig that you cut
remains cut
like a dead end of the road
that is always not the case
you think that the body of the man that we buried
is all that is,
that is not the real case
a story shall be borne it gives a bud and a twig another start
a poem is written it marks a new understanding
and the grain of sand becomes another planet
a drift wood becomes another one's dream of a bridge
it is not just the seed it is also the covering
not just the ring that you see but another one's marriage
a view can be immortalized in a painting
or even when the painting rots itself all colors cracking
there is always something that remains unsaid
it is
what is always unfinished
the one that we know but which we never uttered
the one we uttered but which we start to doubt and not really know
oh it is like a wheel of a bicycle
like the ring that you keep on wearing
like a hemisphere that you have traveled
over and over
as though you have known
it forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Red Frame/white Light
Red frame white light
Telephone box
Red on grey
Six three two three double o three
Red frame white light
You have a gray book
On a metal shelf
Red frame white light
Numbered calls
Selected places
Red frame white light
Telephone calls
Black and white
Red frame white light
You have a yellow book
With averts
Red frame white light
There is a black lead to a dial and phone
Red frame white light
Six three two three double o three
song performed by by Omd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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