The Rowfant Catalogue
Friends had he many, neighbours next to none.
Rowfant and Crabbet lay few fields apart.
Each Sunday saw him here, his church drill done,
Duly stroll in to talk of books and art,
Entrapped, may--be, to share my modest tart,
Roast fowl and claret, and an evening won
In stealth from Sabbath bonds strange to his heart.
Childlike he prized these truant bursts of fun.
--Long years ago! It needs his wit to jog
Old time to life. Yet I remember well
Companioning him home to the hill's top
Keen on his books, and how he paused to tell
Eager the first news of this Catalogue.
Reading it, see, the tears come and I stop.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Vision Of Home
Somewhere within dwells the soul of a boy
And childhood dreams of Illinois
....With thoughts.....of home again
Whose summers of youth are long gone by
A returning 'stranger' is the reason why
It's not easy to go home again
Why tell a soul who I am
Would anyone really give a damn
On the streets of home again
A solemn stroll through rolling hills
Gaze reminiscent on dusty fields
....The aroma...of home again
An old house sits.....atop the hill
The swing on the porch...is swinging still
...Memories......of home...again
Down the road......to the aging...Church
Again feel the glow of the old folk's touch
.....So near...it's almost...home again
Autumn encroaching...the kids are in line
The classroom..the books...and recess time
.....And sounds......of home again
Mirage in the midst of a desert waste
......A faint illusion of another place
...That vision
................................Of home
..................................... .......................Again
Author's note:
Encompassing an impassioned sense of spiritual yesteryear, 'A Vision Of Home' is dedicated to that sacred Mecca - by the side of the road, at the foot of the hill, 'New Bethel Missionary Baptist Church, ' Mounds Illinois. And to its pastors, and parishioners, past and present - with all the love and affection..conceivable.
poem by James B. Earley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Drill Baby Drill
DRILL BABY DRILL
“Oh-oh say can you see”
Any beach-sand oil free
This pollution debris
A gift from corporate B P
DRILL BABY DRILL
This sea-borne disaster
Oil hardened like plaster
Needs a plug-the-leak master
To stop the oil gushing faster
DRILL BABY DRILL
Beautiful pelican creatures
Once with beautiful winged features
Now bogged down in oily slime
No longer enjoy their flying time
DRILL BABY DRILL
B P drilling for profits and dividends
Caused havoc with too many of natures friends
Along with much of the seafaring life
Who share the pelicans’ oily strife
DRILL BABY DRILL
The Gulf of Mexico now in distress
Is due to B P’s preventable oil laden mess
We’ve only one planet so we better beware
No more DRILL BABY DRILL-give Earth its due care
poem by Stanley Cooper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When I die there may be a paragraph or two in the newspapers. My name will linger in the British Museum Reading Room catalogue for a space at the head of a long list of books for which no one will ever ask.
quote by C.S. Forester
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Poem Is A Catalogue
The Poem is a Catalogue
The Poem is a Catalogue
A Long List
Of all things seen and known
All one’s memories
All the times and loves one has had
The great story of many other lives.
The Poem is a Catalogue of a Continent
Of a new world seen through fresh eyes
It is the night of all Rabelais body- functions
And Whitman’s wanderings
And Borges literary labyrinths
Of Joyce’s English language styles
Oxen of the Sun.
The Poem is a Catalogue of all the people
One has known
Their names and faces and lives
All the relationships one has wanted and regretted
And loved and lived in and needed to be.
The Poem is a Catalogue
Of a few small possessions
One takes in one’s hand
And goes far away with
The books on the desert island
And the last few things a hospice can hold.
The Poem is a Catalogue
Of all one will never be
All one wanted and did not get
The empty half glass.
The Poem is the Catalogue God makes
Of everything there is.
God’s Poems
And we if we can be
Privileged to be
Occasional readers
Or not.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Diabolist
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
My deepest thoughts
I cannot share
even with my dearest friends.
When I pour my heart out,
when I sing the blues,
their cloven lips
clap, claptrap
on the evening news.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
In the solid core of my mind,
I realize,
Satan can accomplish
nothing without acquiescence.
For all his evil deeds
he needs accomplices.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
From time to time
the Adversary baits and switch.
Discontent is his arsenal tool.
He plays us for the fool
with his enticements.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
Fighting off Diabolist,
anticipating his tricks.
We knew he could act,
we knew he could rap
and we both knew he is wily like that.
poem by Buxton Shippy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Books Are Burning
Books are burning
In the main square, and I saw there
The first eating the text
Books are burning
In the still air
And you know where they burn books
People are next
I believe the printed word should be forgiven
Doesnt matter what it said
Wisdom hotline from the dead back to the living
Key to the larder for your heart and head
Books are burning
In our own town, watch us turn round
And cast our glances elsewhere
Books are burning
In the playground
Smell of burnt book is not unlike human hair
I believe the printed word is more than sacred
Beyond the gauge of good or bad
The human right to let your soul fly free and naked
Above the violence of the fearful and sad
The church of matches
Anoints in ignorance with gasoline
The church of matches
Grows fat by breathing in the smoke of dreams
Its quite obscene
Books are burning
More each day now, and I pray now
You boys will tire of these games
Books are burning
I hope somehow, this will allow
A phoenix up from the flames
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Making Plans
Monday morning - Nine O'clock - coffee going cold
Just sitting here thinking about our plans for growing old
We dreamed that we would travel more to places never seen
We’d take long walks along the beach and watch the waves roll in
We'd stroll back to our little home flower garden - picket fence
Then my thoughts return to now and nothing's making sense
All those years of making plans and waiting for the day
When we would start enjoying life - it all just slips away
Last weekend we had dinner out – did chores 'cause we were off
Sunday morning I went to church - you played a round of golf
I'm trying to remember now - what was it that we said -
Memories and so much more are spinning in my head
You said, 'Honey, what time is dinner', and, 'Don't worry if I'm late -
Oh, and just-in-case I meet a friend, Could you set an extra plate? '
You put your arms around me and looked into my eyes
We never ever - ever dreamed that’d be our last goodbye
All those years of making plans and waiting for the day
When we'd spend time together - it all just slips away
The table was set for three, the cooking was all done
There was nothing left to do but watch the setting sun
Just moments after darkness fell – someone at the door
A man in blue was telling me you won't be home anymore
All those years of making plans and waiting for the day
When we would start enjoying life - it all just slips away
All those years of making plans and waiting for the day
When we'd spend time together - it all just slips away
-Monday evening - Nine O'clock - Got through my first day
And just like all those plans we made - time just slipped away
song lyrics - 2004
poem by Marquita Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Envoy--To Charles Baxter
Do you remember
That afternoon--that Sunday afternoon! -
When, as the kirks were ringing in,
And the grey city teemed
With Sabbath feelings and aspects,
LEWIS--our LEWIS then,
Now the whole world's--and you,
Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came,
Laden with BALZACS
(Big, yellow books, quite impudently French),
The first of many times
To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay
So long, so many centuries -
Or years is it!--ago?
Dear CHARLES, since then
We have been friends, LEWIS and you and I,
(How good it sounds, 'LEWIS and you and I!'):
Such friends, I like to think,
That in us three, LEWIS and me and you,
Is something of that gallant dream
Which old DUMAS--the generous, the humane,
The seven-and-seventy times to be forgiven! -
Dreamed for a blessing to the race,
The immortal Musketeers.
Our ATHOS rests--the wise, the kind,
The liberal and august, his fault atoned,
Rests in the crowded yard
There at the west of Princes Street. We three -
You, I, and LEWIS!--still afoot,
Are still together, and our lives,
In chime so long, may keep
(God bless the thought!)
Unjangled till the end.
poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Peekabo, I Almost See You
Middle-aged life is merry, and I love to
lead it,
But there comes a day when your eyes
are all right but your arm isn't long
enough
to hold the telephone book where you can read it,
And your friends get jocular, so you go
to the oculist,
And of all your friends he is the joculist,
So over his facetiousness let us skim,
Only noting that he has been waiting for you ever since
you said Good evening to his grandfather clock under
the impression that it was him,
And you look at his chart and it says SHRDLU QWERTYOP,
and you say Well, why SHRDNTLU QWERTYOP? and he
says one set of glasses won't do.
You need two.
One for reading Erle Stanley Gardner's Perry Mason and
Keats's "Endymion" with,
And the other for walking around without saying Hello
to strange wymion with.
So you spend your time taking off your seeing glasses to put
on your reading glasses, and then remembering that your
reading glasses are upstairs or in the car,
And then you can't find your seeing glasses again because
without them on you can't see where they are.
Enough of such mishaps, they would try the patience of an
ox,
I prefer to forget both pairs of glasses and pass my declining
years saluting strange women and grandfather clocks.
poem by Ogden Nash
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Live ha haaa...
Books making
Some time
Boor of life...
Life is not a book...
Some books
Helps life...
Some books
Boored life...
Life is boor...?
Relax too read
Joke books...
live ha ah ahhhaaa....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ballade Of The Bookworm
Far in the Past I peer, and see
A Child upon the Nursery floor,
A Child with books upon his knee,
Who asks, like Oliver, for more!
The number of his years is IV,
And yet in Letters hath he skill,
How deep he dives in Fairy-lore!
The Books I loved, I love them still!
One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three
They commonly bestowed of yore)
The Love of Books, the Golden Key
That opens the Enchanted Door;
Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o'er
And o'er doth JACK his Giants kill,
And there is all ALADDIN'S store, -
The Books I loved, I love them still!
Take all, but leave my Books to me!
These heavy creels of old we bore
We fill not now, nor wander free,
Nor wear the heart that once we wore;
Not now each River seems to pour
His waters from the Muses' hill;
Though something's gone from stream and shore,
The Books I loved, I love them still!
ENVOY.
Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea,
We bow submissive to thy will,
Ah grant, by some benign decree,
The Books I loved--to love them still.
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Unfit Books
on table
on the room...
some books
with out reading...
but open
un fit
some books close
finish the reading...
with fit...
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Test Week
Here comes test week one
There is less time for fun.
Boys are studying hard all day
For them to top in some way.
Some have english first than chemistry
Then physics, maths and history.
They stay up late till twelve 'o' clock
The studying never seems to stop.
For maths, boys practice many sums
And do so well that 'hundred' comes.
Books in the morning, books at night
Books, books, books all the time.
Then comes the end of 'test week one'
Now its time for all the fun.
Nest week inter-house soccer begins
The competitions tough....
....Never know who's going to win!
poem by Varun Pais
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The afterthought
The afterthought
~
The poetry section in the library, an afterthought
A little over fifteen books thrown onto a shelf
Amongst books of quotations and how to write
Books about books and sporting anecdotes
It seems poetry here is consigned to obscurity
A disappointing assessment of literature
A few of the named greats, a few anthologies
The favourite love poems, poems on war
A three quarter shelf collection if at all
Perhaps it’s a sign of the times changing
Modern life being unable to relate anymore
To the notions and thoughts of poetic lore
The pace picked up so long ago
The gentle stroll now a sprinting run
No more stopping to smell the air
The need to be someplace doing something
Everything else consigned to the shelf
Like a mirror reflecting the new world
The poetry of life has become an afterthought
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!