Against The Evidence
As I reach to close each book
lying open on my desk, it leaps up
to snap at my fingers. My legs
won’t hold me, I must sit down.
My fingers pain me
where the thick leaves snapped together
at my touch.
All my life
I’ve held books in my hands
like children, carefully turning
their pages and straightening out
their creases. I use books
almost apologetically. I believe
I often think their thoughts for them.
Reading, I never know where theirs leave off
and mine begin. I am so much alone
in the world, I can observe the stars
or study the breeze, I can count the steps
on a stair on the way up or down,
and I can look at another human being
and get a smile, knowing
it is for the sake of politeness.
Nothing must be said of estrangement
among the human race and yet
nothing is said at all
because of that.
But no book will help either.
I stroke my desk,
its wood so smooth, so patient and still.
I set a typewriter on its surface
and begin to type
to tell myself my troubles.
Against the evidence, I live by choice.
poem by David Ignatow
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Related quotes
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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Stream Of Consciousness
Stream of consciousness
Thoughts that come at random
With no foresight and no plan
My fingers type at their own volition
With no structured idea at hand
I live in an environment of inquietude
In an ambiance of unease and perhaps fear
There’s a weight upon my forehead
A sense of loss of things I hold dear
Today’s a day much like any other
I read, I eat, yet feel so incomplete,
and blandly smiling at me in calm so replete
On my desk, photos of sisters and brother
Just to sit and compose idle randomness
At my desk, takes my mind away for a bit
Yet at the back of my mind sits emptyness
And knowing I cannot escape from it
This bit of inane exposition
Is from my fingers and not of my mind
I try to stop all conscious thought
And let my fingers write blind
My busy fingers put a name
To unconscious sentiments so sad
Stream of consciousness
says more of the same…and that..
I’m slowly going mad
poem by David Whalen
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Just When The Rain Stops
just when the rain stops
something within you stops too
the misery of being
confined in the small prison of
your thoughts
you find a window
and this wide door and you grope
for the key
to open something closed
days ago
you breathe the sea breeze
and take some salt of
life and you
release your sighs like
an earned ire
you take freedom finally
letting go your fingers and hands
your feet dance
go, go, go
your books on the table make the
cheering squad
out there
nature wants to be read
the books close finally
their pages like tongues
hide behind the thick glossy
hardbound cover
you are not a fool finally
touching the maps drawn
by the falling rain
welcome to the world
the trees tell you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Matters Of Observation
it is me lying on a bench
reading a book halfway through
the pages
for a break i close the book
earmark a page
and look at the jack fruit treetop
just beside the house
i am on the second floor
and no one is in the house
my wife is visiting a friend
who just arrived from the U.S.
there is no other creature except
a white butterfly hovering
on a sampaguita flower
in the small garden
the tree has more leaves
but it is not bearing any fruit
at all
i am reminded of those years
joys forgotten and now i am reading
a book about some shadows
of doubts
there is this systems that works
of patronage
refunds
i am situated in a plateau
and my Jesuit professor who dropped by
last night with a
'how are you? ' through the YM
must have understood that an
introvert like me has no
place outside
the books
i understand and frankly
i do not have to tell him how i feel about it
inside the pages
the stories are too many
my hero is dead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Book
Standing at the door, to your room, I lean against the frame,
I am frozen, I whisper your name.
The chair at the desk, where you always sat, to work
is in place, unmoved, in the dark.
I sigh, holding my breathe, I switch on the light
I say your name, adjust my eyes to the sight.
Everything is in its place, unmoved, just waiting
on your return, digital clock on desk blinking
in even rhythm, as time moves on,
unaware, uncaring that you are gone.
on the wall, family pictures of the past
moments in time, captured, held fast.
Afraid to break the silence, to enter the room, I wait
and for a moment I pretend you are just late,
that I will turn as I hear your footsteps on the stair
and see you standing, smiling, blue eyes full of care.
and then, that moment, that hope, has past
one heavy foot forward, I enter the room at last.
An inspiration, to me, to all of us, friends and family
you dealt with your illness, with strength and dignity,
I can still hear your laughter, your silly jokes,
remembering your love for books and gadgets.
reminiscing, I notice on your desk, a book
lying open, page marked, I move to have a look
As I read I start to smile, your last message,
the lyrics from Life of Brian, a circled passage
'Always look on the Bright side of Life'
for my children and my wife.
poem by Julie Duff
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The Chornicles of a Dark Heart Part 16 The open book's monologue
Red what is it to you black the color of death? maybe maybe not? anyone here play video games? FOR CHAOS? ring any bells help spread the taint more quickly? what might an open book write
what would a open book draw
what would an open book think
open books are predictable
so predict what the picture means
why is black black? why is red O infused? what is the meaning only you know maybe only me...
(added years later)
Maybe I'm the book, and maybe you're the reader
but who is you? is it not everyone
since I'm open, for all to point at laugh at, out of malice or for fun
because they know my thoughts, they know i love her? !
what did i do?
i never said i love you! ! !
how can they know?
how did i reap what i did now sow? !
The worst part
about being an open book,
is an open book can't close itself, can't have a heart
anyone can know all from just one look
there seems to be something wrong with being too open and honest
but it's too late a book can't close itself
can't move by its own accord to a shelf
an open book can never rest
so now I'm the book, so since im there just read
just read.... and watch my heart, my purpose, my soul, my life, me
watch.... watch them bleed
poem by David Knox
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Liberty
On my books and poetry,
On my desk and on the computer
On the sand and on the beach
I write your name
On all the pages I have read
On all the blank pages
Stone bloody shed or ash
I write your name
On my greedy, tender friends
On my comrades, beloved country,
On my clumsy hands
I write your name
On my health and wealth
On the risk which disappeared
On the hope without memory
I write your name
And by the power of one word
I begin a life again
I was born to know you
To name you.
Liberty
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Life is short
It seems you forgot, our life is short.
There is no time to beg or extort for support.
Learn how to live yourself.
Take a book from the shelf and…
Delicately leafing page after page
you will find a wood sage.
People are like books,
some of them are good,
some of them are bad,
some of them are just mad,
some of them are not sassy,
they look more glassy,
they are not gassy,
they are classy
like books on the shelf
waiting for a warm hand.
Milliards of people are on the Land,
each one needs the right hand
so that to open it like a book and read.
If you manage to do it
you’ll succeed to learn a lot.
Remembering that life is short
you’ll learn how to burn the useless things,
how to leave the one without a gun
who troubles brings,
how to live with those you adore,
And… much much more.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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A book.
Shelves of books with variant topics:
Medicine, Engineering and comics,
Languages, Management and Marketing,
Tourism, Text books and Computing,
House hold, Carpentry and plumbing,
Trucks, Driving and operating.
Must choose one to taste,
Read regularly to last,
A full term of life and love,
Nourish it with the dose of care,
Can buy it from the stores,
That sells New, second hand and old,
When the new book is bought,
The smell itself fresh and great,
To remember for the life throughout,
Keep it as a Holy book and enjoy,
When the used books are purchased,
Rarely used books, never opened,
A few half read and half left,
A few stained and battered,
A few has the quotations underlined,
When the old books are bought,
The papers are oxidized and yellow,
Touch it, fragile, handle with care,
Though the contents may be good,
Prints are washed out and hard to see,
Heavily tainted of weather.
Whether you buy the new or the used book,
Make sure that you choose the right book,
Then read chapter by chapter leaving no nook,
Sometimes it thrills and shrills,
It is hilarious and comical,
If it is full of mysteries,
Try to solve it with your knowledge,
Don't slam and tear it,
Not touch it with your drug fingers,
Not read it with your spirited mind,
You will misunderstand the contents,
Promise yourself you will not make,
Your book an used and neglected book again.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The Only Person Who
The problem with an open book, is it can't know
How it feels, what it says, who it is.... only show
The problem with an open book is its fraught with confusion yet no answer
With danger yet no protection
How can i run from her?
When she's written all over me like an inscription
Open books don't have a say
Open books won't last more than a day
If left open, they cannot defend or close
Can't run away, no toes
Even if it's all an illusion
This delusion
This me, I'm the open book because I'm the the only
One who can't read me
The only one who doesn't know how I feel
So please tell me because I get hurt, but no one heals
I feel this way or that
But to me I don't know what is fact
What is dreamed and what is real
The only person who doesn't know me is me
Someone close it or kill it so then no one can see
poem by David Knox
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The Book I Read
Im writing bout the
Book I read
I have to sing about the
Book I read
Im embarassed to admit it hit the soft spot in my heart
When I found out you wrote the
Book I read so
Take my shoulders as they touch your arms ive
Got little cold chills but I feel alright the
Book I read was in your eyes oh oh
Oh...Im living in the future.
I feel wonderful.
Im tipping over backwards
Im so ambitious
Im looking back im
Running a race and youre the book I read so
Feel my fingers as they
Touch your arms
Im spinning around but I feel alright
The book I read was in your eyes
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
Oooooh...Im living in the future
I feel wonderful
Im tipping over backwards
Im so ambitious
Im looking back im
Running a race and youre the books I read so
Feel my fingers as they touch you arms im
Spinning around and I feel alright
The book I read was in your eyes
Na na na na na...na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...na na na na na na na na
Na na na na...oh oh oh oh oh oh oooh..
song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Hell
You live by the book of wonders,
The book has hell on it when opened.
The inferno carries pits too grilling,
The grills are offered by devils,
Contagious diseases are handed over
To the body and bones, full of hatred.
A hell of books is opened by the librarian,
You choose a simple verb to read,
Then this verb is read, the verb that signals death.
Your death must never come by reading books,
Long scrolls so wonderful,
Of books the world is made
And the reason for books is reading,
Not living in Hell.
poem by Naveed Akram
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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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Missing You
The sun shines through the open window,
The empty sides the shadows shallow
My arm circles nothing at all,
My fingers reach to touch the wall.
Missing you when Im away,
Think of things Id like to say,
Almost cry to hear you voice,
Lying with me,
Got no choice.
Mundane thoughts during the day,
Suddenly to see your face,
Interrupted thoughts have gone,
Knowing that youre all I want.
Missing you when Im away,
Think of things Id like to say,
Almost cry to hear you voice,
Lying with me,
Got no choice.
The awesome love I feel for you,
To see you now what would I do,
The desperate feeling youre not there,
To be with you pull out my hair.
Missing you when Im away,
Think of things Id like to say,
Almost cry to hear you voice,
Lying with me,
Got no choice.
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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To Thee
Draw close the lattice and the door!
Shut out the very stars above!
No other eyes than mine shall pore
Upon this thrilling tale of love.
As, since the book was open last,
Along its dear and sacred text
No other eyes than thine have passed --
Be mine the eyes that trace it next!
Oh! very nobly is it wrought, --
This web of love's divinest light, --
But not to feed my soul with thought,
Hang I upon the book to-night;
I read it only for thy sake,
To every page my lips I press --
The very leaves appear to make
A silken rustle like thy dress.
And so, as each blest page I turn,
I seem, with many a secret thrill,
To touch a soft white hand, and burn
To clasp and kiss it at my will.
Oh! if a fancy be so sweet,
These shadowy fingers touching mine --
How wildly would my pulses beat,
If they COULD feel the beat of thine!
poem by Henry Timrod
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If the book we are reading does not wake us, as with a fist hammering on our skulls, then why do we read it Good God, we also would be happy if we had no books and such books that make us happy we could, if need be, write ourselves. What we must have are those books that come on us like ill fortune, like the death of one we love better than ourselves, like suicide. A book must be an ice axe to break the sea frozen inside us.
quote by Franz Kafka
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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Sonnets : On Books
What wealth of knowledge, Books have stored for us?
What precious time, some writers sacrificed?
When libraries lend Books without much fuss,
‘Tis sad why readers don't get much enticed?
What use are Books when only kept in racks?
How sad to see them acquire cob-webs?
'Tis sad when Silver-fish consume Book-stacks;
And Knowledge too has its high tides and ebbs!
Books are companions to man's progress;
They serve to guide a man to live aright;
Books are like dolls children with love caress;
They help a man in darkness to see light!
Book-cost is nothing compared to value,
They are true friends of men; give respect due.
poem by John Celes
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