Scribal Culture
sheaves scribal pages
mountains of words
the man with words
is verse master of worlds
making a piece of men
primal transferable experience
so far we have come
from primeval soup existence
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
sheave - to gather, collect, or bind into a sheaf or sheaves.
scribal - (scribal culture) scribes who could read and write usually in several languages, were responsible for translating and accurately producing copies on manuscripts on papyri, parchment or vellum. Books of texts written by hand were extremely expensive, especially in the ancient world where scribes had a limited shelf life before the invention of glasses. In ancient illiterate civilizations writing, editing, copying, interpretation, and public reading were the work of a professional elite worth their literal weight in gold.
Vellum - (from the Old French Vélin, for 'calfskin') is mammal skin prepared for writing or printing on, to produce single pages, scrolls, codices or books.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Related quotes
Writing Evolution: From Mud To Cyberspace
ancient Sumerians Babylonians wrote in cuneiform on clay tablets
pictogram wedges scribe written with a reed stick or stylus
ancient Egyptians wrote in pictures of an object with hieroglyphs
representing a word idea or sound written on papyrus reeds...
ancient Greece wrote with hieroglyphs then sylabic alphabets
originating in Minoan culture Linear A to B on tablets or scrolls
ancient Rome wrote in Greek Latin on schoolboy wax tablets
using pointed metal stylus or literature propaganda on scrolls...
the Middle Ages used the codex books originating with the Romans
described in the 1st-century AD vellum hand written paper sheets
the Holy Roman Empire used printing on existing screw presses
German Johannes Gutenberg inks rapid metal movable-type faces...
newspapers telegraphs type writers fax email internet worldwide webs
hand phones personal computers achieving instant communications
now globally adults children write on hand phones learn computers
tablets to clothes comps then techno implanted communication devices
poem by Terence George Craddock
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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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Destiny Life Leaf Pages
manuscripts we all life write
destiny life leaf pages
some leave empty pages white
others shimmer reflecting light
some smear pages with dirt
record chaos rip rub out hurt
how shall we fill manuscript pages...
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Distinct Work
Never be hard at distinct work,
For you delve into the nightmares;
Open the work of the words you write,
Closing the pages as you send letters.
The better writer forces his mind
To act in a strange way, almighty at last.
The work carries on working like words,
Worlds of pictures design our images so late.
May the weight of the pages abhor the life
To come. It defines us as we write on the shelf.
Opening words of slaughter is like being drunk,
Heavy business is about, with clarity.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Beware Words Written
words celebrating what is written
beware allure of beauty in words written
seek instead words thoughts not written
words not written thoughts not written
themes not written which need to be written
the importance of the unwritten demands writing
important world needs consciousness needs writing
urgent global necessity issues demands needs writing
actions resolutions policy change harmony restoration needs writing
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Vellum
I write my name down on paper
paper that has a unrealistic desire
to be vellum
I read what I have written
for a sense of authenticity
more authentic than my image
reflected in a mirror stained with mildew
and toothpaste
The words on this paper
anyone can read
bums, whores, addicts,
homosexuals
intellectuals
and the broken old men
whose hope died
in the past
I write
but I don't speak
what I write
details what I see
The things I see
O, the things I see
could invoke suicidal tendencies
in a child who still believes
in Christmas carols
and hunting Moby Dick
whom rules the seas
How tragic it is
to let fleeting imagination
slowly die among the magic spelling
of the words we once spoke
on Christmas Eve
And now I sit
with the adulterated gift
of alcohol
and nicotine
writing down words on paper
whom wish to be vellum
but realistically
could never be
poem by Justin Tallman Gonzalez
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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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Many Can Teach Few Can Write
many can teach and be good teachers
some even aspiring excellent teachers
but few can image write wondrous words
who are now waiting among
those who have words worth writing
words waiting to be written?
writing will cost much
demanded much
then will cost yet more
a small fortune in wages
wages spent not made
still to be spent and yet
accumulative cost is nothing
for there are hunger hearts
minds waiting for these words
looking even searching
for quest sought words
therefore it matters not
if for a specific poem
or passage paragraph
only a few or one is searching
these thoughts
are important
still must be written
some of what we write
even much of what we write
is of no prime importance
but that small portion
which is important
that tiny potent seed
which is important
must be written
translate many can translate
some even translate
almost perfectly precise
but those writing
original thoughts
are far more precious
and their words
will also in their time
be sought after read
but there time is not yet
that which is not
written cannot
be read
therefore write
write
and write well
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Blank Pages
Blank pages
Blank books
Lie with only drowning white
No pretty messages in the sand
No clocks to turn a hand
Blank pages
Blank books
Looking into an empty void
Like staring at purgatory
Words with no meaning making up a story
Blank pages
Blank books
Stay staring at the celing
Empty without effort
Nothing without words
poem by Autumn Winds
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Civilizations In Transition
Read a few ancient words written
meaning to inspire souls to slay?
Who makes these decisions?
What is kept what is thrown away?
Civilizations in transition?
What perishes passes what ultimately stays?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sappho To Artemis Reevaluated
Sappho so much lost,
so little extant,
like all great classical
Greek minds dilute
poets playwrights
historians writers,
curse of scribal culture,
wars fragmenting papyrus
Sappho partially entombed
in own verse body poetic
survival whims spay frayed fate
incomplete fragments scanned
in 600 BC you invoke verse
as devotee to goddess Artemis
in 2010 AD images are read words
internet computer generated
we strive to scan the gap of ages
antique age medicine science religion
all one mind embodied unified reality
parallels modern great god science
your belief was absolute imbued the air
all you thought ate breathed embodied god
heralded scientific age worships technology
communication dissipates into individualism
fragmented extravagant intemperate soulless
society indulges intemperate pursuit of pleasure
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Written
It is terminated, finished and complete,
The writing on the pages of my book.
I have learnt of the distress, the look of disease,
Such as intelligence and wisdom of hard strength.
My books are distributed like flowers and their petals,
Gusts and gales spoil the air, the wind must be strong.
The written words condemn nature if laughing is provided,
The birds think and the animals speak,
Of my words.
The books are abolished one day,
But energy is preserved for the one day.
My career is suddenly with words one day.
poem by Naveed Akram
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In My Dreams I Am Lost
IN MY DREAMS I AM LOST
In my dreams I am lost
I take the wrong road
I cannot find my way home-
In my waking life this morning
I am lost -
The books piled high waiting to be read
The endless droll of others never-ending pages-
I am lost cold
And only writing my only true work
Only writing these words now
Brings me a bit of hope a bit of a sense
that I might mean something somehow
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Titanic Battle
Studied religion.
Grasping dig
tilling truth
beneath roots
sunk shaft deep
within shifting
sands shaping time.
Gloss gleaning
echo
within dry well.
Studied raw religion
scribal culture source stewed
in simmering antiquity
disciples priests politically referenced within
multiple extant fragments
various geographic locations
across ancient empires erased.
Sage tending
lost kernels
found intact.
Endeavouring
to reveal unveil expunge
angel come monster.
Ecclesiastical political ploy
betterment entrapping expelled souls
lost snared sucked husk humankind.
Reverse image study
into benign distorting
workings.
Hijacking human creative mind.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A Revolution Poetry Is....!
Are you writing words of rhythm according to thoughts?
Or are you coining words of thoughts according to rhythm?
Or are you writing poetry both working at the same time?
Asking so, if they ask me how to write poetry, what shall I say?
Poetry writing is natural, spontaneous expression from heart!
How can this be taught to anyone to write poetry ever at all?
Poetry is a spontaneous flow of words direct from heart ever!
I wonder many a time how am I writing poetry at all ever!
But this is happening to my great surprise since longtime!
Due to engagements ever poetry only I am able to write
Though my aim in the beginning was writing stories.....,
Novels, short stories and nonfiction articles of criticism!
Poetry books too I have completed writing so since long
But what a pity there is no reception for poetry books...!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Wing Pages Of The Butterfly
at the nursery
while people
are at purchase
and at transactions
a blue butterfly
comes by
and opens its pages to me
swift and quick
and it says to me:
'Read! Read!
Read my pages! '
'I can’t read, '
I say,
amused
at this brash butterfly
'Read and write!
Read and write
about me,
and all flitting butterflies
Read
and write, you silly! '
it commands
And so I read
and I copy
and these are the words
the words from those
pages
the butterfly
holds up to me
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Oh The Poems
OH THE POEMS AND THE POEMS AND THE POEMS
Oh the poems and the poems and the poems
Oh the love of Literature
Oh all that stuff
I have given my life to-
Words and meanings and feelings
Pages and pages and pages –
What it is all this literary life for?
When out the window out the door
With our eyes we see in an instant other worlds other dreams?
I don’t know and I will never know
And Literature is certainly far more than I can say it is-
Oh the poems and this poem and this day turning grey
And all my life old and old and more old and more old-
Oh why oh why oh why
And always back to God
My last rescue and refuge and escape
I who have read so much Great Literature
And can only write this-
Oh the why and the oh oh oh and the words
And the whole world of Literature
I would belong to and do not.
Oh the words oh the world oh the Literature
Oh God help me please can’t you please help me a little or not?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Missal Makers
To visit the Escurial
We took a motor bus,
And there a guide mercurial
Took charge of us.
He showed us through room after room,
And talked hour after hour,
Of place, crypt and royal tomb,
Of pomp and power.
But in bewilderment of grace
What pleased me most of all
Were ancient missals proud in place
In stately hall.
A thousand tomes there were at least,
All luminously bright,
That each a score of years some priest
Had toiled to write.
Poor patient monk who brushed and penned
From rise to set of sun!
And when his book came to an end,
His life was done.
With heart of love to God above
For guidance he would pray,
And here behold his art of gold
Undimmed today.
And as our homeward way we took,
The thought occurred to me -
If scribes would only write one book,
How good 'twould be!
Or if our authors had to scroll
Their words on vellum fair,
Their output might be very small,
But oh how rare!
So writers of today take note,
If you your souls would save,
Let every line be one to quote
And to engrave.
Then though you dismally are dead,
You will be cheered to know
your precious prose may still be read
-Ten years or so.
poem by Robert William Service
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Between the pages
Between the pages
~
between the pages
we line ourselves in verse
where we play out a story
of our own making
the turns and twists
brought through words
etched upon the page
ink flows to its own beat
like a raging heart
pouring out before the eyes
a world becomes forgotten
lost in the celebration
between pages
each line shared
written
in its own breath
creation begins
time lapses
into our verse
poem by Matthew Holloway
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