Four-Foot Shelf
'Come, see,' said he, 'my four-foot shelf,
A forty volume row;
And every one I wrote myself,
But that, of course, you know.'
I stared, I searched a memory dim,
For though an author too,
Somehow I'd never heard of him,--
None of his books I knew.
Said I: 'I'd like to borrow one,
Fond memories to recall.'
Said he: 'I'll gladly give you some,
And autograph them all.'
And so a dozen books he brought,
And signed tome after tome:
Of course I thanked him quite a lot,
And took them home.
So now I have to read his work,
Though dry as dust it be;
No portion of it may I shirk,
Lest he should question me.
This tale is true,--although it looks
To me a bloody shame,
A guy could father forty books,
yet no one know his name.
poem by Robert William Service
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Related quotes
Dad and Me
Inside our house you'll find crannies and nooks.
Crevices and cracks and fissures and books!
Books under the bed and on the floor,
Books around the table and beside the door,
Books on the bookshelf and surrounding it,
Books all over the house, every single bit!
Not a one of these books are non-fiction,
Different worlds are their depiction.
Fictional, sci-fi, dark and fantasy,
Horror and happy, more books for me!
Books belonging to my father,
Or belonging to me as I rather.
My father and I in bookworm heaven,
Until mum cleans up around half past seven.
She throws the books in a huff,
Says it's a mess and to clean it up!
Well dad and I try to clean,
But on the work we quickly wean
And in one of the larger nooks
You'll find dad and me reading our books.
poem by Lenore Lee
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The Poet's Significant Other - for Mary and Todd
On the shelf above the crackling fire,
the day’s work over, shadows swaying and flickering
across the room, in the firelight’s glow;
here is love abiding
On the shelf above the crackling fire
a few slim books, some of them poetry, some of them signed;
open them and the world spills out
tumbles laughing and crying, shouting
like children home from school with stories;
like grandparents reminiscing over photos with a smile;
like the last of the night’s pillow talk
one already eyes closed, the other treasuring thought
On the shelf above the crackling fire
two bookends hold the books in place
pressing lightly against each other
as two lovers walking through a door, a gate, from here to there
one bookend’s image we know well
familiar to us from the books
How little we know, of that other bookend
without which, without whom,
there might not be these books, lightly pressing
on the shelf above love’s glow
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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Hoarder Or Collector (Fun Poem 101)
Some of us are hoarders
and we don’t know where to stop.
We say we are collectors,
of rubbish maybe.
For a long time I have loved books
and collected every waif and stray.
People gave them to me by the dozen
and I never turned them away.
My collecting went so mad
I have now ten thousand or more
within my library.
Enough is enough I would say,
but still more arrived.
Now I don’t live in a house anymore,
as it has become a library.
There are books in every room
and not just one or two,
but dozens and dozens of them.
Everywhere you go;
there are books here and there.
Now I must down size
and my problem is
which ones do I let go,
and then I think
I might want to read a couple of them.
I am confused at what to do.
I know if I don’t do it soon
we won’t be able to
even get into the loo!
19 April 2009
Author’s note:
Loo is a word we use instead of saying Toilet. And, yes, I have that many books and I do have to get rid of some.
DVH
poem by David Harris
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Book Lover
I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.
And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.
Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.
Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.
I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.
poem by Robert William Service
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Pullman Porter
The porter in the Pullman car
Was charming, as they sometimes are.
He scanned my baggage tags: "Are you
The man who wrote of Lady Lou?"
When I said "yes" he made a fuss -
Oh, he was most assiduous;
And I was pleased to think that he
Enjoyed my brand of poetry.
He was forever at my call,
So when we got to Montreal
And he had brushed me off, I said:
"I'm glad my poems you have read.
I feel quite flattered, I confess,
And if you give me your address
I'll send you (autographed, of course)
One of my little books of verse."
He smiled - his teeth were white as milk;
He spoke - his voice was soft as silk.
I recognized, depite his skin,
The perfect gentleman within.
Then courteously he made reply:
"I thank you kindly, Sir, but I
With many other cherished tome
Have all your books of verse at home.
"When I was quite a little boy
I used to savour them with joy;
And now my daughter, aged three,
Can tell the tale of Sam McGee;
While Tom, my son, that's only two
Has heard the yarn of Dan McGrew. . . .
Don't think your stuff I'm not applaudin' -
My taste is Eliot and Auden."
So we gravely bade adieu
I felt quite snubbed - and so would you,
And yet I shook him by the hand,
Impressed that he could understand
The works of those two tops I mention,
So far beyond my comprehension -
A humble bard of boys and barmen,
Disdained, alas! by Pullman carmen.
poem by Robert William Service
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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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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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And after I compose my programs, but it is very easy because I look to the music in a very natural way without fuss, and so I look always music, in my home, like books and books and books, choose books and you read the pages, so I do this with music, and I make programs.
quote by Victoria de los Angeles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marcus Varro
Marcus Varro went up and down
The places where old books were sold;
He ransacked all the shops in town
For pictures new and pictures old.
He gave the folk of earth no peace;
Snooping around by day and night,
He plied the trade in Rome and Greece
Of an insatiate Grangerite.
'Pictures!' was evermore his cry --
'Pictures of old or recent date,'
And pictures only would he buy
Wherewith to 'extra-illustrate.'
Full many a tome of ancient type
And many a manuscript he took,
For nary purpose but to swipe
Their pictures for some other book.
While Marcus Varro plied his fad
There was not in the shops of Greece
A book or pamphlet to be had
That was not minus frontispiece.
Nor did he hesitate to ply
His baleful practices at home;
It was not possible to buy
A perfect book in all of Rome!
What must the other folk have done --
Who, glancing o'er the books they bought,
Came soon and suddenly upon
The vandalism Varro wrought!
How must their cheeks have flamed with red --
How did their hearts with choler beat!
We can imagine what they said --
We can imagine, not repeat!
Where are the books that Varro made --
The pride of dilettante Rome --
With divers portraitures inlaid
Swiped from so many another tome?
The worms devoured them long ago --
O wretched worms! ye should have fed
Not on the books 'extended' so,
But on old Varro's flesh instead!
Alas, that Marcus Varro lives
And is a potent factor yet!
Alas, that still his practice gives
Good men occasion for regret!
To yonder bookstall, pri'thee, go,
And by the 'missing' prints and plates
And frontispieces you shall know
He lives, and 'extra-illustrates'!
poem by Eugene Field
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Barnes & Noble Days
Working at Barnes and Noble
was interesting indeed,
I had managed to succeed
in doing many book readings.
I had my books short listed by Kim,
she was sweet and let my books in.
In Barnes and Noble for the very first time,
so I could read my books that really do rhyme.
In reading my book “Sarah’s Special Birthday”
children got to sit in the chair by a tray.
singing “Happy Birthday” with their very own name.
Tray had on it a cake that did very much light,
it lit up from UniCandle unicorn right on site.
Blowing out the “fake cake” the kids were amazed,
How could the cake light up
was the question they had raised.
Many older kids knew the trick,
They rubbed the white lever they did click.
Now, kids loved Melodie and UniCandle unicorn too,
I would sign their books with their names and Sue.
Now I will go by Suzae instead,
at the end of my show when I have read,
my books for when you go to bed.
They are dream books about
Adventures to be told,
hopefully I will get them
in major bookstores
before I am really old.
Written on Feb.21,2011 by Christina Sunrise
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Children will not pretend to be enjoying books, and they will not read books because they have been told that these books are good. They are looking for delight.
quote by Helen Dunmore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He Had Planned To Read
He had planned to read. Two or three books lie open,
books by historians, by poets.
But he read for barely ten minutes,
then gave it up, falling half-asleep on the sofa.
He's completely devoted to books
but he's twenty-three, and very good-looking;
and this afternoon Eros penetrated
his ideal flesh, his lips,
an erotic warmth penetrated
his lovely flesh
with no ridiculous shame about the form the pleasure took....
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I still love books. Nothing a computer can do can compare to a book. You can't really put a book on the Internet. Three companies have offered to put books by me on the Net, and I said, 'If you can make something that has a nice jacket, nice paper with that nice smell, then we'll talk.' All the computer can give you is a manuscript. People don't want to read manuscripts. They want to read books. Books smell good. They look good. You can press them to your bosom. You can carry them in your pocket.
quote by Ray Bradbury
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Books
books after being read
become nothing
but things
books unread
are treasures of gold
undiscovered
beneath your feet
books unshared
are thoughts unspoken.
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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On Books
Books are my first love, I’m so proud to read;
They give me knowledge and help life to lead;
Hours, days just pass by, by reading life-time;
Life would not be worth, if not for my rhyme.
Great are those people who write books all life;
Burning just candles, with Goose-quills in strife;
Tired of writing though day-long or night,
They keep on writing in such a bad light.
Books serve a great cause; their value can’t cease;
It takes years to write but reading is ease;
Book-makers struggle to print a few books;
And keep spending time to, improve their looks.
Some find their way to libraries in town;
Some remain untouched and nev’r taken down;
Silver-fish, Moths eat the books that are old;
Some are gone obsolete, some sold like gold.
Some are in tatters and must be rebound;
Books are Man’s best friends where solace is found;
Reading for long hours, does help you to learn;
Books give much knowledge and wisdom to men.
Read books with great care whose weight is in gold;
Serve generations though they may be old;
Source of much Info, deserving respect;
Books are life-partners whom you ne’er reject!
poem by John Celes
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Barnes And Noble Days
Working at Barnes and Noble
was interesting indeed,
I had managed to succeed
in doing many book readings.
I had my books short listed by Kim,
she was sweet and let my books in.
In Barnes and Noble for the first time,
so I could read my books that really do rhyme.
In reading my book "Sarah's Special Birthday"
children got to sit in the chair by a tray.
singing "Happy Birthday" with their very own name.
Tray had on it a cake that did very much light,
it lit up from UniCandle unicorn right on site.
Blowing out the "fake cake" the kids were amazed,
How could the cake light up
was the question they had raised.
Many older kids knew the trick,
They rubbed the white lever they did click.
Now, kids loved Melodie and UniCandle unicorn too,
I would sign their books with their names and Sue.
Now I will go by Suzae instead,
at the end of my show when I have read,
my books for when you go to bed.
They are dream books about
Adventures to be told,
hopefully I will get them
in major bookstores
before I am really old.
Written by Suzae Chevalier
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mama's Legacy
MAMA'S LEGACY
When I was just a little girl
I lay in Mama's bed
To listen to the fairy tales
From the little books she read.
Of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
Cinderella and her Prince
Of Rumplestiltskin-Puss 'N Boots
And Aladdin and his tents.
I couldn't get enough of them
I'd ask her every night
But sleep would always conquer me
No matter how I'd fight.
I'd recite the words along with her
I knew them all by heart
She'd read to me from anything
Some knowledge to impart.
She taught me about the world around
From books she read aloud
She made my life worth living
And made me live it proud.
When I had children of my own
I read from those same books
To teach my children that in this life
You need brains, not just good looks.
Author: Carolyn Ford Witt
Ms. Caroline
© 2006 Ms. Caroline (All rights reserved)
poem by Carolyn Ford Witt
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