Flogged Cassock
Dont know how to find a path
out of this moment into another
realm without reading a book or
conjuring a story - checking my
run-on agreement with its sine-
wave repetitions
Herewith Lessor agrees to lease to
Lessee, who agrees to lease from
Lessor said Premises which is
situated and shall be deemed -
Lessor entitled to do this
while interest accrue -
The greatest mathematician being
flogged by a man in a cassock*, a
towel on his head, I furtively saw
as I glanced at the book on my desk;
Enchanted Horse and Charlottes
Web lined up for the weekend
Titbits to lighten life between chores
though not many left now that Carines
on the mend - if only time would flow
past this immobile moment
(Flogged by a man in a cassock* - From Pyramids, Terry Pratchett)
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Related quotes
Delicate Intricacies (Rev.)
Privileged to study delicate intricacies in
sweet-flowing terms of Lease Agreements
dramatic antiques declaiming innocence
between Lessor and Lessee
impressive controversies in who pays for
what, when and why, bewitching legalese,
magnificent sentences enshrining an
inexorable right
of Lessor to inquire of the Municipality
whether a Lessee recalcitrant is keeping
up payments, charming enquiries to ensure
accoutrement damages do not occur
can my poetic soul convey these delicacies
to the unaware ignorant of joyous rental
contracts; the enchanting discovery of
mysteriously beguiling legal jargon?
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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There are two kinds of writers; the great ones who can give you truths, and the lessor ones, who can only give you themselves.
quote by Cliff Fadiman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All The Emotion Evoked
Now where shall I take the high tide of emotion
seeing that I have finished reading the story of
Tiffany Aching - the book is too short; the great
promise of it beginning when she demanded a
full-scale hearing while every element seemed
to be against her - which made me shudder on
her behalf - turned benevolent universe MUCH
too soon and with the odds not stacked against
her victory was too easy and she was given all
help, suddenly she was such a sure-fire winner
riding the tide and I no longer identified with the
protagonist - my heroines always have to suffer
much longer with more challenges to overcome
I was ready to face a lot of pain - just to find the
ride too short, too few obstacles, the bride-to-be
was a special witch great at dealing with ghosts;
all misunderstanding solved too easily - I prefer
complications and intrigues for a sweet heroine
but Terry Pratchett spun a beautiful tale - to be
embroidered - until it contains all the pain I can
imagine - he remains my favourite author - all
the emotion evoked will be used to experience
and recreate fairytales old and new in my head
I Shall Wear Midnight - Terry Pratchett -
What a Wonderful Book!
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The great book for you is the book that has the most to say to you at the moment when you are reading. I do not mean the book that is most instructive, but the book that feeds your spirit. And that depends on your age, your experience, your psychological and spiritual need.
quote by Robertson Davies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ephemeral
Dont want the story to end, stop reading
before the end, take the book back to the
library, I can keep the characters alive in
mid-stride while already submitting to the
charm of the greatest mathematician, the
ship of the desert, the camel enjoying his
lunch for dinner while the ephemeral world
of the Aegean Sea conjured in such archaic
Afrikaans remains a fixed mirage in my heart
unwavering in the air to entice me to join the
fictitious scene and find a new ideal there
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Hostile By Virus
The only love, known to unknown, my hate smite to the spirit reflected from ice - My number bounce off the roll, the blades which cuts the dots on a six sided dice - By the playground, fenced in with sorrow, the bees can tolerate what is seen, stung for a sting - The weight of men, measured by birth, again and again, ten into ten - Endless, never lifeless to present less to the lessor - The wealth of a planet, she was deceived, the cost is the multiplying of the host, Hostile by Virus - Humans are the greatest of thieves, what do we achieve - Sorrow in gold, oil which we war over and our souls which are sold
poem by Unic Cjonr
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Bed Of The DeaD
Six sides to the story, one not for me to tell - In the begining was not the begining as was the end not the middle, explained for your mind to believe, what is clever is that you are deceived - Dust in your mouth and dust in your eyes, there is no seconds when death dies your ties - One rope to repair your hope in the lessor of a chair, the bullet which paints your portrait against the wall, the blood which dries around your wrists with the rust which flakes on the blade of the knife, all in one is that you are gone - You want the world to remember your pain, when you are the one who seek to forget, that which switched your story to the end - death does not seek friends, nor the intention to peace your soul when you are in the bed of the dead
poem by Unic Cjonr
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The Storyteller's Word
In a decent book, I can lose myself,
For, at least, a good couple of hours.
A well told story, for young or old,
My mind will quite hungrily devour.
I’ve always loved a real page turner:
A story, which, is totally compelling.
Sometimes, there’s a story, true or invented,
Which, simply, deserves, and needs telling.
Sometimes, a person in a book,
To me, can feel like a true friend;
You share their life and adventures,
And feel rather sad, when it all ends.
A story can stir up a mixture of emotions:
I’ve cried tears, and gasped with surprise.
I’ve found myself completely captivated,
As a story unfolds before my very eyes.
A good story, has the ability to transport you,
To different places, and to different times.
You just never know where you may end up,
When you sit and read those immortal lines.
Stories should never be kept locked away:
With others, they should be readily shared.
There is no other past-time, known to man,
With which, reading a book, can quite compare.
Whether a story is based on a person’s life,
Or whether, it has been quite purely invented,
A story can make such an impact upon you,
That, forever, in your memory, it is cemented.
I’ve always adored a really well written story,
Regardless of, by whom, or when, it was written.
Snuggled up, with a book held in your hands,
It is so easy, to become completely smitten.
A story can make you lose all track of time,
When, in a book, you are totally immersed.
I love reading a story, and really drinking it in;
For reading books, I’ve developed a real thirst.
There are many stories, the world over,
Which, are still waiting to be heard.
Nothing on earth, is quite so powerful,
As the power of the storyteller’s word.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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More Than We Are
Came home singing, Sorrento, you said Here
comes Maria Von Trapp - little knowing that I
was being Leo Buscaglia, happy in knowing
about the Necrotelicomnicon* offering a Door
out of this World
I need these dreams because I had to check a
lease contract for my Calvinist colleague who
immediately queried every change I made – I
only did it because I am being paid; it has no
meaning to me
Whether the rental agreement stipulates lease
or rent or bank savings rates or bank rates for
savings; who cares, irrelevant – if she prefers
her own version I am happy to concur – why
ask me in the first place
She ought to know me by now, sounds are
important, not their dictionary meaning, the
sound IS the feeling, keep your definitions,
I will keep on singing, no need to let one
interfere with the other
The most important thing is to determine
whether I am Madame Butterfly, Carmen
or Christine; which role can I sing, how
far can we go, can we love like Leo
Buscaglia, can we
understand the difference between being
who we are - take up our own space or
try to be more than we are…
(Necrotelicomnicon - reference found in “Moving Pictures” – Terry Pratchett -
Corgi edition 1995, p.174)
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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A book called life
You find a book. a book unopened for some time. binding worn, title aged and not legible. you open it to find it dusty and blank. it has sat untouched for a quite a while. this book is the story of you. a story not yet written, but exciting non the less. a story to be one of epic, and legend. a story to be passed down for generations. that will be stamped into the pages of history and inspire forever. we all have a story, we simply need to write it.
poem by Nick Feiner
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Red book - The Rule Is You Must Say How You Really Feel.
Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast, it says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Some new so close to you. You must get to know them. Its a game you can slowly win. Bury your true feelings.
Reading the read book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never to fast, never too fast. It says it won't last burnt by the past. We are all wearing masks. Time to take them off. Stop hiding behind your walls. It cost us all. It will be your down fall. Just another phone call. Meeting the face behind this stall. It has come to a sudden halt.
Reading the read book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Are we trying to hard? Are we faking this march? Are you trying to hide something underneath? Are you look for a little relief? Do you want me, and are afraid to say it? Denying our insides. They can't be alive. They just can't. And go back to the old dance.
Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of life. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. Memories ignite, previous passions locked up so tight. Are you willing? Are you giving in to obvious feelings. Let me know. And I won't go. Please stop the fruadlent show. Its faking thats so heart breaking. Is your heart aching? How can I make you understand this is your one and only chance. So please lets dance.
Reading the red book. It tries to explain the rules of the past. Never too fast, never too fast. It says it won't last. Burnt by the past. I have been burnt by the past.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Rat Reading
Rat's are
My home
Reading for book's
At night time...!
Each book's
On the book stand
Rat reading
Not very well....! ?
Rat simply
Read some of
Pages only;
Book's are broken
Rat read mean's
Rat bite's
Book's are crying
I am also...
Rat reading
O...sorry
Rat bite's...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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For Ol Times Sake
(words & music by tony joe white)
Before you go walk out on me
Take a look around tell me what you see
Here I stand like an open book
Is there something here you might have overlooked
cause it would be a shame if you should leave
And find that freedom aint what you thought it would be
The years we had were not all bad
In fact I know the good outweighed the bad
Now you say that youve grown tired
You want to be by yourself a while
It would be a shame if you should go
And find that freedom was a long time ago
I know that you cant stand the chains that bind you
They just keep on drivin us apart
You could go where I could never find you
But could you go far enough to get away from your heart
So one more time, for ol times sake
Come and lay your head upon my chest
Please dont throw this moment away
We can forget the bad and take the best
If you dont have nothing left to say
Let me hold you one more time for ol times sake
If you dont have nothing left to say
Let me hold you one more time for ol times sake
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The poetess, the moon...and the woods Pt1
A tear traced a path on her cheek in the moonlight
As her lips brushed the brow of her sleeping child
She stood still for a moment, with eyes closed tightly
Corners of lips pulled up… in a winsome smile
Strode heavily to the open window
stared out into the woods, soft lit by the moon
Then with a sigh pulled down the window
And quietly tiptoed out of the room
Glanced in at her husband, long asleep in their bed
And in her mind gave him a kiss on the top of his head
Then sat at her desk and finished her poem
Sat back and reviewed it… one last time
It was about her life… and about her home
And about the glow of the woods in the moonshine
She nodded her head… as if in agreement
With the words that she had carefully, composed
Her finger touched “enter” with determined intent
Then her whole body slumped in repose
From the corners of her eyes, she saw the moon rise
Oe’r the woods from out of her window
A teardropp fell softly to her desk as she stood
And walked through the door for the very last time
She looked up at the moon and then strode into the woods
She had posted her last poem…her very last rhyme
poem by David Whalen
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I much prefer working with kids whose life could be completely upended by a reading of a book over a weekend. You give them a book to read - they go home and come back a changed person. And that is so much more interesting and exciting.
quote by Russell Banks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coloured By Octarine Light
Started on Dodger the new novel by Sir Terry
Prachett, the magic of storytelling moving my
mind into a fantastic realm and I'm off - my
spirit riding the story in seething emotions
and feelings
Images conjured in lines of artifice varying in
degree, pedantic words put in the mouth of a
protagonist, no matter - it remains delightful,
the awareness that this story was woven by
a past master
Of social commentary, the author's spirit illu-
minating lines that would have fallen if uttered
by anybody else, my heart pliable in Pratchett's
hands, the novel coloured and shaped by the
octarine light
Shining bright after years of bringing the Disc-
world alive; following unnatural speeches my
eyes ride every line creating a musical tune
by rendering the emotional tones in the
musical score
Of the text - all other noise is intrusion, not
registered while taking in the book I hold In
my hands - dreaming within the London
of a Charles Dickens, presented within
the eldritch perspective
Of a masterful Pratchett…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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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 Mark
I remain
Where she left me
After she had finished reading.
No one leafed through the book of love
Time has coursed its way
Aeons have passed
But I remain entangled
In the inconclusive tale of love
Waiting for her to come back
And once again turn its pages
Get the story going again.
She was keen to progress in life
Desirous of
Glamour, fame, a bright career
How could she find time to read?
Accustomed to decorating shelves
With bric-a-brac and books
She knew
Nothing could be gained from old volumes
Except dried-up flower petals
Dead butterflies
Words, moth-eaten
Letters, hidden as mementoes
Names of some friends.
I remain
Where she left me
After she had finished reading
For I'm a memento too
A forgotten tale of past friendship
A symbol of memories, old and worn out
Sacred remorse of one-sided love
I remain
A peacock feather in a holy book
I do not have the luxury of tears.....!
(1988, Translated from the original Urdu by Satyapal Anand)
poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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No one is realistic
No man agrees that his rival
Is fitter than he to his beloved.
No woman agrees that her rival
Is cuter than she to her lover.
No one is realistic, being at stake
07.01.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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0015 Reading a short story of whose life
and since they say
you're the greatest American short story writer,
I'm reading the one of yours
you chose yourself
and as I'm reading
I become two people sitting here:
there's the cynical grown-up,
enjoying it yes but
all the time - how's he setting it up,
what's he making us feel? -
now he's slipping in
something a little out of kilter;
now it's all going wrong for
the guy - hero, villain?
now it's coming good again, how's he going to avoid
ending in fairyland or in total disaster?
and there's the little person
sitting in their tiny warm pajamas,
soft, cosy, comforting,
laundered with more love
than he (or she) 's yet earned in their short life,
knowing all this tale
from many repetitions
but loving this repeated game -
suppose
that this time, just this once,
it's going to end diff'rently...?
so only if I listen ev'ry moment
can I make it come out happily this time..
and when it ends - aah - like it should -
my tiny toes wiggling with delight -
and they live happily ever after...
is this the bliss I've not yet earned,
but what I'm due - the innocence
with which I'm born, and which entitles me
to know that this is me;
or am I being told,
this is the tale which I must earn with life? that
these are love's laws for me to keep?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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