Best Editions Poems
The room is still,
Quiet but for wind and rain
Making music on the windows.
Empty but for endless shelves
Of leather-bound volumes -
The first editions you loved so much.
The desk is weathered, coated
In a film of dust.
The chair is old and worn,
Tucked in just where you left it.
I can almost hear it creak
Under your weight,
Hear you whistle in that absent way.
I can almost see you there,
Hunched over creased pages,
Reading Keats or Blake.
I can almost smell that familiar scent
Of fresh soap and musty books,
Of spices and cigar smoke.
BANISH ME TO THE BOOKSHOP
Chain me, so I can roam. Lock me away in this bower.
Banish me to the bookshop - i’ll enjoy this affair for hours!
First editions recline behind smudge-proof glass.
Lock-and-key lick of lips, but I can’t afford the brass
ring, the covet of unopened leather, so I’d dance
through each unshielded shelf, illuminated romance,
the touch like a lover’s touch, before the cover’s
turned down. Miniature to oversized, to discover -
here titles do matter - beautiful, powerful, charming.
Turning over the self-help discourse, disarming
of self-loathing, fear, and bitter soul. Then straight
to a perfumery of fairy tales, feel the weight
of each piece of fruit in the balance of my teeny palms.
Even in the claustrophobic stuffiness of this shop, I feel calm.
Like tickling braille, my fingers glide over each word,
riveted by the familiar scent, I close my eyes, bestirred
by mysteries, history, fantasy, and the coquetry,
the delicious pageantry, vivid hues and imagery of poetry.
Chain me, so I can roam. Lock me away in this bower.
Banish me to the bookshop - i’ll enjoy this affair for hours!
3/10/2021
Bookshop
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
I meander
ever
so
slowly
past lawns
strewn
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
(Impoverished attention-getters)
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
(Simpletons)
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
so
much
dead.
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
(Wasteful)
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...
turn the air conditioner
ON.
Verbum Caro, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Verbum Caro by T. Wignesan
Glory to the resuscitated Lord
Incarnate cry of the Flesh becoming Verb
The body is not the place of death
Where the soul feels alright despite revulsion
He who holds his nose
While passing his house full of droppings
Whatever be said : My flesh my pigsty
It is he the tomb requiring cleansing
A body all armed comes out of me
From the invincible nakedness
Fomenting peace in the midst of war
He’s of an innocent cast of mind
As virile as the sun
His worth illuminating the earth
The world is set on his head
The man straightens up It is midday
(from Les Jours de la Passion, first published by the Abbaye de la Pierre-qui-Vire by the Editions diu Zodiaque, 1962)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
We came to your home
Jack
Hidden amongst bosom
hills and armies of trees
past the State gates
who finally admitted
us entry to your tomb
they keep you here
Jack
in memory, first editions
your wife spent years
here alone, your phantom
haunting the halls
the woods
her memory
she built this place
like the Egyptians of old
dragging each mental stone
one
upon
the other
cranium slave labor
of awe
fear
love
a physical testament
to your published
achievements and
emotional fingerprint
you left your mark
everywhere
Jack
Hawaii where you
danced the headhunter
dance of primitive times
donned your outfit
and howled to the
new moon of inspiration
Jack
you and wife traveled
the oceans just like
your novels
your life ebbing and
alive
still
in these pages of
Calling and White
you observed life
and the universe
and without hesitation
you recorded it for us
Christopher Columbus
Sir Francis Drake
of reality fiction
But reality has a way
of finding even the
largest child as we
hide from it or
ignore it before its
to late
it found you after
your Wolf House burned
and the booze burned
you for far too long
you slept the final
sleep
on the porch of
inspiration
like a babe you returned
now we see the
ruins of the Wolf House
and your grave
your ashes
beneath the stone
next to your wife
across from the two
children's markers
the birds crying as
we all do for you
Jack
The Big Bang Theory and others devised.
Professors armed with latest editions.
Soon, teach as facts; oh, faith of youth revised.
Inspired, common suppositions.
Biblical creation too soon capsized.
Unaware, youth accepts false traditions.
Half-truths and questions upon young minds flay.
It irks me; I saw my faithfulness stray.
Had God finished his work in seven days?
But fields of plants and herbs had not been formed!
Had Adam not yet met his earthly phase?
That contradiction through my faith once stormed.
And countless questions set my soul ablaze.
Is Chapter two of Genesis malformed?
I prayed for answers; turned again to faith.
Pondering, wondering until Christ’s waith.
Inklings energized my logical mind.
For Genesis, decoding must be found. *
One’s faith in God never has to be blind!
Ask many questions with thoughts heaven bound.
Upon my brain, some secret truths would bind.
Before too long, the logic came around.
Yes, answer found, years ago; set me free.
Those first days began molecularly.
By searching fact and theory my trust grew.
I prayed for wisdom as I pondered life.
Past doubtful years had sent my faith askew.
Those days watched science lace my heart with strife.
But, God above would see my trust renew.
With deepest thought a helpful book was penned.
Genesis Decoded, brought faith, again.
I know there is a God who made all things.
Laws of physics and each atom show his force.
Genetics explored God’s created string.
Now, scientists have altered nature’s source.
Relativity, the Theory, God sings,
Molecules are moving along their course.
So let us feel and know wherein truth lies.
Upon the facts, not schemes, forever cries.
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Don't write for the contest, Contest
Sponsored by: Vicky Tsiluma
Ó January 26, 2014
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
* http://www.redbubble.com/people/daneann/writing/3355478-genesis-decoded
ALSO SEE http://www.redbubble.com/people/daneann/writing/3479742-bridging-the-
gap-between-science-and-religion-the-hypothesis
upstairs window
the fields looking as
covered with snow in the night
thinking of all and nothing
but the moonlit fields
my zen books,
peter pauper press editions,
yellow with age now
showing my steadfast love
for no-mind even now
Oh, my faces and image of mine,
They aren’t having some likeness of yours
I’m not prince I’m not master of mine
with the oil or gold, it’s not loss.
I won’t freeze on the pictures of glance
in editions of fashion and vogue
Royal parties won’t take off the suns
from my cheeks after their idle talk.
I’m the same as I was in the past
And the crows fly above my poor head
I don’t need their falsehood, I’m guest
in this show, save your crown for next lad.
A second hand book shop watches the Sunday rain
beat against a resentful pavement. Its second hand
door opens up its second hand world to second
hand people, carrying first class money.
The newly welcomed, carrying in second hand rain,
congeal into groups of mildly interested beings.
And a dedicated few splinter off toward the first
editions, looking for a stiff pick-me-up in the arts
The best books of the shop lay open on stands, their
flawless condition protected behind glass casements.
The books residing within are aloof with peacock pride
and no price tags.
A finger raised and a pointed nod selects a book for
viewing. An auction begins with only one bidder, a price
in mind and not a penny more. The bookseller matches
the price to the man.
A 'special' price for a 'special' purchase. 'And for you sir,
the deal of the week. Trust me'. Suddenly the shops
odour changes from musty velum to second hand car lot.
The cash register rings another life line for the bookseller.
The rain begins to ease and the newly welcomed become
the cheerio'd as they rejoin the non-paying, nondescript.
The dust begins to revisit old homes and make a start on
the newly acquired vacant plot.
The bookseller cashes up his till, hoping for more rain
tomorrow. The books go back to reading themselves
and the shop returns to looking out on the bedraggled,
content with the day and happy to have lightened the load a bit
A scent of lilac
astride the dawn.
A hidden cricket
starts singing a dirge
to the evening star
for his morning stars
that he never dared
to turn into day.
(Translated from the Greek ????d?? ?as?a????, a poem from my poetry collection, in ebook form published by the internet editions www.24grammata.com
at http://www.24grammata.com/?p=42611)
Thought I perhaps should let all my friends see,
How touched I was on finding this letter to me,
Found by mistake, after so many years,
I collapsed into buckets of tears,
A treasure bequeathed to me, was meant to be.
POST-SCRIPT:
As the writing is faint
in the scan above I have typed it out
for ease of legibility.
Abu Ben Adhem
(poem by Hunt, James Henry Leigh)
(1784-1859)
Has been translated in Greek by
Dimitrios Stais (as per manuscript
in possession of his son Panos Stais)
This small note is sent to
Jennifer Alan Hunt, the great
grand-daughter of Dimitri
Stais.
Of course, poems of many other
authors of this "English Verse"
Oxford Book were translated
in Greek by Dimitris Stais,
but I simply make mention of
the one titled as above because
of the author's name. (HUNT)
May I express the
wish, dearest Jennifer, that
one of the future editions of
Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
comprise some of your cherished
poems.
With lots of love
your gd father
Panos
Athens 19th December 1968
I have this dream where I'm a poet
and my life's an open book.
I write anything and everything
so that one person can feel everything
and anything, one thing or
something-connectedness maybe.
That rich deep running place where energy
springs from, my soul's well,
a place where
she goes to skinny dip,
or just dabble her toes in,
I write whatever comes to mind
then read slowly with the ticking of time.
She's my only fan, reads all my first editions,
my rough drafts amaze her,
editing astonishes her,
always waiting for the next chapter,
she tends to say leave your mistakes unchanged,
my words are her, everything I want to do to & for her,
I shine the mirror of words and the
description seen is a beautiful scene,
put your hand up and block the glare, that's you isn't it?
That ugly duckling full of innocence,
now look at you, so magnificent...
it's not so much the words or how they fall in place,
it's a gift shared, a hidden space seen,
the uncovering of vulnerabilities,
lyrics for a heart's melody.
I dream to one day captivate her undivided attention,
be satisfied as much as she's amazed to what's written
and do it singularly, for tonight, and the time it took life to create
heaven and planet Earth's dirt,
my words are anchored by her worth.
A Stabilizing thought in today's raging seas.
We ride a ship called Destiny
Finding my way through this lifelike maze,
seeking the benefit of love in a petri dish,
experiment gain the benefit
and to the measure of this that is written
experience and expose the highs and the lows
of what a poet dreams of, that one person,
you to be exact, might be listening.
Whispering
OUR LIBRARIAN
I once remember the
Librarian in my college
Meticulous ,and savvy
His love for knowledge
Knows no bound.
I once remember the
Librarian in my University
A man with a large heart for others
His glasses perking on his nose
His Professorial “penkelemesi” like
Grey hair connotes love for research.
But
I cannot but ask which librarian is this?
I cannot but query the insidious sudden
Love of this Huckster for knowledge
I cannot but be surprised at his hubbub
Declaration for his Library launch.
Oh ye people of our land!
Lets all give ovation du applaud to
Our land’s new Librarian.
The very one who rakes in seven
Of a billion cowries in a hurry
In the all looters Library launch.
The very one whose hatred for education
Towers so high and hit all towers of ivory.
The very atrocious leader of the ruling bandit
Whose avidity for money stares us in the face.
The very leading African Chimera whose
Chicanery we cannot measure
Has now suddenly fall in love with knowledge.
The very blood brother of “Haruna”on our campus
Who votes irritating meager resources for education
He is now our own celebrated Librarian.
The very illiterate Mechanic whose
Baleful gaze alone destroys our land’s Library
He is now our dreadful Librarian.
Sorry ,we know our Librarians
Our Libraries , we are acquainted with
Our Libraries are of obsolete materials
Ours is of more archaic facilities
With books and non books available
Two moons ago still branded new editions
This is our own Libraries.
Let the new Librarian disburse the seven
Of a billion cowries to our Libraries
Let him pump cowries into our education
Let their be more modern Libraries in our land
For is it of a nation that values knowledge
That gets the best of knowledge today and morrow .
Alayande Stephen .T
16th April, 2006
05.25pm
For Mr President 's special Library launch.
A tribute in our golden years,
As I recollect, no poignant tears,
I glimpsed him in my peripheral vision,
By now, we're both older editions,
A friend of a friend of a friend,
Floating away like golden pollen,
I trust my thoughts to him do wend,
That was once a quote, I sigh,
"I did but see him passing by,"
Crying and weeping are not for me,
Glancing at such distant memories,
Yes, a friend of a friend of a friend,
Floated away like stardust pollen,
As I reminisce, such a dear,
A tribute in our golden years.
Dealers’ catalogs, they pile
My desk and overflow my file,
My first editions fight for space:
Like weeds, the price-lists choke their place.