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 Last Page
I always dread the last page in a book,
especially when the book was good.
So I close it up and put it aside
but some of those pages you can't hide.
They've become a memory to keep.
So the book just goes to sleep
for a while.
And some time in the future out it comes
just like a trusty old friend.
I open it up and start it once again
reading it from beginning to the end.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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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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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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The Book Of My Life
Let me watch by the fire and remember my days
And it may be a trick of the firelight
But the flickering pages that trouble my sight
Is a book I'm afraid to write
It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see as the section reveals
There's some sorrow in every life
If it reads like a puzzle, a wandering maze
Then I won't understand 'til the end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life
There are promises broken and promises kept
Angry words that were spoken, when I should have wept
There's a chapter of secrets, and words to confess
If I lose everything that I possess
There's a chapter on loss and a ghost who won't die
There's a chapter on love where the ink's never dry
There are sentences served in a prison I built out of lies.
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
There's a chapter on fathers a chapter on sons
There are pages of conflicts that nobody won
And the battles you lost and your bitter defeat,
There's a page where we fail to meet
There are tales of good fortune that couldn't be planned
There's a chapter on god that I don't understand
There's a promise of Heaven and Hell but I'm damned if I see
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
Now the daylight's returning
And if one sentence is true
All these pages are burning
And all that's left is you
Though the pages are number
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr Paddy's Capers.
Just when she thought
She'd found a place alone
To read her book, Mr Paddy
poked his nose between
Her and the open book, so
That pages are blanked out
By his huge head. Mr Paddy
Go off and annoy another,
She said, but he stood there
Determined to be where he
Was, between her and the
Brown covered book, held
Out in her small hands. Oh
Mr Paddy I cannot see the
Pages. Please go off and run
In the garden or in the kitchen
And steal a bone, she said. But
He wouldn't leave her alone,
He pushed his head against her
Young girl body, his damp nose
Dampening her wrist and her
White dress with blue sash, and
Dribble from his lips was wetting
The pages. Mr Paddy please let
Me be, I'm trying to read can't
You see? Mr Paddy's brown eyes
Scanned the pages, nothing there
But scribbled lines upon white paper,
And still he stood wet mouthed with
Big brown eyes and his silly old caper.
poem by Terry Collett
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I love old books. They tell you stories about their use. You can see where the fingerprints touched the pages as they held the book open. You can see how long they lingered on each page by the finger stains.
quote by Jack Bowman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Book, Trees and Leaves
The book
at the used book store
had a leaf pressed between its pages,
its veins showing;
pressed flat
and brown;
an unwilling bookmark-
the pages of the ages.
The tree
its mother,
died for those pages
her offspring
flattened out
upon mother's page breast
tiny lines and squiggles
between the veins;
no tree can read
no leaf can comprehend.
I take the leaf to give it a proper burial
in the compost heap
so that its remains
have a small chance
of one day
becoming part of a tree.
I lay its leafy body down
thinking;
'I think I shall never see
anything a lovely as a tree.'
In years
a bookmark it will make
upon my backyard landscape
marking Nature's Chapter entitled
'Ironies.'
.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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My Garden
My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks
And fragrance is over it all;
For sweet is the smell of my old, old books
In their places against the wall.
Here is a folio that's grim with age
And yellow and green with mould;
There's the breath of the sea on every page
And the hint of a stanch ship's hold.
And here is a treasure from France la belle
Exhaleth a faint perfume
Of wedded lily and asphodel
In a garden of song abloom.
And this wee little book of Puritan mien
And rude, conspicuous print
Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen,
Or, may be, of peppermint.
In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell
Where the cheery daisy grows,
And where in meadow or woodland dwell
The buttercup and the rose.
But best beloved of books, I ween,
Are those which one perceives
Are hallowed by ashes dropped between
The yellow, well-thumbed leaves.
For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear,
Till the treasured book is read;
And the ashes betwixt the pages here
Tell us of one long dead.
But the gracious presence reappears
As we read the book again,
And the fragrance of precious, distant years
Filleth the hearts of men.
Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks
The posies that bloom for all;
Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books
In their places against the wall!
poem by Eugene Field
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Study on the Desk
Desks of study are erected,
We turn over the pages,
Reading what the currency is,
Discussing the frequency of pain
And loving the light of the book.
Describe us when it stands,
The book stands when we understand
And these pages restrict our vision
When liking through the lenses
Of our glasses is also required.
We can distribute our wealth,
Bend the stupor in our glasses
When liquor has spoilt the taste,
But why do wealthy people
Find more wealth and more power?
poem by Naveed Akram
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The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
poem by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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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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God Please Bless HIm
where i live
indians use to stay
for short term
two to three years
after which they go
back to india stashed
with hard earned cash
to start out a new life
perhaps never before
imagined possible.
the malaysian miracle
reaches out to them too
however every time one
of them leaves, a piece
of me too goes missing too
the forlorness to see a
man walking with good ideals
suddenly missing on my paths
it is like reading a book
with a page torn and you
never get to know what
ever happens to the character
in those pages
in this case, it is at the back
of the book
you can only wish and
overcome those lingering
feeling of loss by saying
'God please bless Him.'
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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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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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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I get letters from readers who say that they have always hated reading, but somebody suggested one of my books, they actually finished the book and enjoyed it, and they're going on to read another book. I'm thrilled that they have figured out that reading is fun.
quote by Caroline B. Cooney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Picture Book
When I was not quite five years old
I first saw the blue picture book,
And Fraulein Spitzenburger told
Stories that sent me hot and cold;
I loathed it, yet I had to look:
It was a German book.
I smiled at first, for she'd begun
With a back-garden broad and green,
And rabbits nibbling there: page one
Turned; and the gardener fired his gun
From the low hedge: he lay unseen
Behind: oh, it was mean!
They're hurt, they can't escape, and so
He stuffs them head-down in a sack,
Not quite dead, wriggling in a row,
And Fraulein laughed, 'Ho, ho! Ho, ho!'
And gave my middle a hard smack,
I wish that I'd hit back.
Then when I cried she laughed again;
On the next page was a dead boy
Murdered by robbers in a lane;
His clothes were red with a big stain
Of blood, he held a broken toy,
The poor, poor little boy!
I had to look: there was a town
Burning where every one got caught,
Then a fish pulled a nigger down
Into the lake and made him drown,
And a man killed his friend; they fought
For money, Fraulein thought.
Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise.
'Ho, ho!' Then she explained it all
How robbers kill the little boys
And torture them and break their toys.
Robbers are always big and tall:
I cried: I was so small.
How a man often kills his wife,
How every one dies in the end
By fire, or water or a knife.
If you're not careful in this life,
Even if you can trust your friend,
You won't have long to spend.
I hated it--old Fraulein picked
Her teeth, slowly explaining it.
I had to listen, Fraulein licked
Her fingers several times and flicked
The pages over; in a fit
Of rage I spat at it...
And lying in my bed that night
Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found
A stretch of barren years in sight,
Where right is wrong, but strength is right,
Where weak things must creep underground,
And I could not sleep sound.
poem by Robert Graves
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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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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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Sarah Palin - now don't laugh - is writing a book. Not just reading a book, writing a book. Actually, in the word of the publisher, she's 'collaborating' on a book. What an embarrassment! It's one of these 'I told you,' books that jocks do.
quote by Chris Matthews
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunny On the Other Side
Let not a rainy day,
cast a shadow upon your garden.
Let not your worries be over your head.
Let not others downfall be your upbringing.
Let not anger define your character.
Let not your garden be full of weeds.
Let not greed entangle like vines.
Let not life loose it's meaning.
Let not love be lost to lust.
Let not your passions fade away.
Let not your book have few pages.
Let your book become a novel, and in that novel, control the outcome.
Let rainy days inflict the greatest growth.
Let your garden become a jungle.
Keep your gate open to the seeds of life,
and inside those gates, dreams will bare the sweetest fruit.
Let only the sun,
cast a shadow upon your garden.
poem by Jacob Gifford
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