Lines Extracted From A Dream
'I think of it like a book,
I dont care for your self-authored words
of pity and sorrow, though yes they are just.
It isn't the narrative in you that interests me...
It is those blank pages in you that hold my court,
All books have them; those blank pages at the end,
Unfilled and undetermined, where you havent yet scribbled.
They are yet to be subject to anything,
And even if they are not destined for a happily ever after,
That does not mean i can't hope to find solace and closure in them.
What is to stop us writing our own fable in spite of what is already written?
What already is, is,
But what will be is ours to fathom through the velvet folds Of fate.
Surely.'
poem by Graham Stone
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Related quotes
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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Blank
Blank pages, blank lines
Blank heart, blank mind
Blank feeling, blank soul
Blank high, blank low.
I dont know why
You just cant see
That all you've ever known
Is the blank side of me.
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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Blank Pages
Fierce are blank books triumphing over good,
Then biggest literature is born for the bachelorhood.
Fun are the readers to accompany, to admire
For their effort and will, they are in their attire.
Good people do read and recite for pleasure,
Leaders of literature force the one farther;
It is one of the best of rhythm, of rounder look,
Saying is not doing or writing a book.
Blank pages do run, their fun is deep when justice
Is made from the spelling how we make abruptness.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Blank Space Inside Us
there are blank pages
some say that it is a must that something must be drawn
words to be written
thoughts to stifle, capture,
stuffed,
there is a day that you prefer
to keep a blank sky
a dark sky without stars
no light
when you close your eyes
you are at home with this blank page
words become
invincible
but they are all there
perfectly correct
well viewed by the eyes of your heart
somehow you go beyond
your every
day fences
move away, jump and run towards
an island of light
a patch of green grass
still no stars
pure blank
it is when you do not believe in the power of thoughts
when what preoccupies you
is nothing when you are finally one with all
space
it is too peaceful to even dropp a word
like a pin on
a shiny floor of tiles....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If you look closely, there is no book more visual than Three Trapped Tigers, in that it is filled with blank pages, dark pages, it has stars made of words, the famous magical cube made of numbers, and there is even a page which is a mirror.
quote by Guillermo Cabrera Infante
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Blank Paper
the blank paper
is like a virgin
woman,
it is not blank because
it wants to
there is this inner desire
to be scribbled
be it love or lust
or whatever
it is just its nature
to be written
anything that fills it up
with words
for its perfection
or even for its destruction
and soon
it will have its fate
a love letter kept for years
or a scratch paper
crumpled in the
bin
burned by another man's
lighter or
torn by a woman's
anger.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
quote by Vladimir Nabokov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forlorn
Blank
No words or wisdom
to hold us
Empty pages
Speak volumes
of world
in limitless despair
unspoken
and feeble hope
chokes
amidst ashes
Forgive us
poem by Jeff Larson
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Liberty
On my books and poetry,
On my desk and on the computer
On the sand and on the beach
I write your name
On all the pages I have read
On all the blank pages
Stone bloody shed or ash
I write your name
On my greedy, tender friends
On my comrades, beloved country,
On my clumsy hands
I write your name
On my health and wealth
On the risk which disappeared
On the hope without memory
I write your name
And by the power of one word
I begin a life again
I was born to know you
To name you.
Liberty
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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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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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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The Evening Is Upset
I lost you in this life and the next,
You went away leaving pages blank
And did not read my book or pen text
Weaving with love and pages left untouched…
The evening is upset with your departure,
And the wine glasses too are sad,
You left taking all away with yourself
Even the flowers in the garden got withered…
The night that used to be full of your love
And your unlocked tresses made it more
Erotic and lovely when I run thru my fingers
Holding you close and trying all night to love…
Written by: Narendra Rai
Talhar Badin, Sindh…
poem by Narendra Rai
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Blank
I wish I was blank
I wish I was blank
I wish I could thank
I wish I was blank
I'd write a letter to you
And there'd be nothing to it
I wouldn't hem and haw
On just how to start it
I wish I was blank
I wish I was blank
I wish I could thank
I wish I was blank
I wish I'd stand up straight
I wish I'd said things different
I wish I'd said nothing
Things would be so perfect
I wish myself to keep
I pray my soul to sleep
I wish myself away
I wish I was blank
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins from The Aeroplane Flies High
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part III: Gods And False Gods: LXIX
SIBYLLINE BOOKS
When first, a boy, at your fair knees I kneeled,
'Twas with a worthy offering. In my hand
My young life's book I held, a volume sealed,
Which none but you, I deemed, might understand.
And you I did entreat to loose the band
And read therein your own soul's destiny.
But, Tarquin--like, you turned from my demand,
Too proudly fair to find your fate in me.
When now I come, alas, what hands have turned
Those virgin pages! Some are torn away,
And some defaced, and some with passion burned,
And some besmeared with life's least holy clay.
Say, shall I offer you these pages wet
With blood and tears? And will your sorrow read
What your joy heeded not?--Unopened yet
One page remains. It still may hold a fate,
A counsel for the day of utter need.
Nay, speak, sad heart, speak quick. The hour is late.
Age threatens us. The Gaul is at the gate.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Coloring Book
Each picture is heartbreakingly banal,
a kitten and a ball of yarn,
a dog and bone.
The paper is cheap, easily torn.
A coloring book's authority is derived
from its heavy black lines
as unalterable as the ten commandments
within which minor decisions are possible:
the dog black and white,
the kitten gray.
Under the picture we find a few words,
a title, perhaps a narrative,
a psalm or sermon.
But nowhere do we come upon
a blank page where we might justify
the careless way we scribbled
when we were tired and sad
and could bear no more.
poem by Connie Wanek
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The Memory Place
Shelves tower over me; crowed with bound pages
of events, people, places, ideas.
Of memories.
Of captured feelings pressed like flowers between the pages;
for people to be inspired by someone else's words.
My eyes caress the titles printed on bright spines
as I run my fingers across
what holds the memories together.
I pick up a book, turning yellowed pages,
the scent of gentle time traveling to my nose.
I close my eyes and smile:
it brings back memories of my own,
but these pages are not for me.
I put back the soft bundle of pages
and continued to search in the Memory Place
until I find my own belonging among the words.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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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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Half Full
I'll write these words.
I'll write more tomorrow.
Will they be read by anyone,
does it matter either way?
I am reading them,
and that goes to prove that they've been written,
that my mind is not blank.
I have sympathy for the blank-minded people.
Although I'm sure,
they would sympathize with me...
if only their minds were not blank,
And they weren't just content to be.
poem by Edward Veilleux
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