~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
old oak door sighs open~
familiar scents of cinnamon and worn books
welcome me back like a whispered lullaby
dust-hushed
spine-cracked whispers~
words trapped in vellum veins
ghosts thumbing gilt-edged tragedies
quiet
The glossy acrylic smell of new editions
is cordite to my nose,
an explosive mixture of - need to know.
I finger trawl over dust covers
mindreading unread masterpieces.
Movies ransacked many of these novels,
hearsay and word of mouth
account for aisles
of open secrets and
commonly revealed revelations.
I should obtain a dozen or so acclaimed sagas,
display them on a prominent shelf –
because, well, one really ought to,
or maybe just read last chapters,
if not too long.
People peering. Printed pastiches.
millions of words all neatly filed
silently shouting please try me ,
open my covers escape to my worlds
i’m so small and neat you should buy me
here i could browse linger ‘til i drowse
under their awesome power.
but I wonder if at night
when they switch off the lights
and the town begins to slumber,
do all those words emerge,
mutter, murmur and chunter
practising their sounds
a cacophony that rounds,
bounds and re-bounds
from the walls and ceilings;
does the fiction vie
with those works that try
to instruct;
does the times
thunder at the sun
then in solidarity combine
against the shrill whine
of the weeklies and monthlies,
those frivolous glossies
to whom they are certainly superior
until just before the dawn,
when the world starts to yawn
they all silently glide, slither and slide
back to their proper pages
to wait with the patience of ages
to lure and ensnare me
millions of words all neatly filed
silently shouting please try me ,
open my covers escape to my worlds
i’m so small and neat you should buy me
here i could browse linger ‘til i drowse
under their awesome power.
Ranks of glossy printed editions
squeezed into a concertina of space.
The acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose.
Then in softer contrast,
the musky ambiance of the old and well-thumbed,
a well used dust on dust-covers.
A tactile nosegay of leather-bound
classics.
Fact or fiction,
all are revelations revealed.
The appeal of the alphabetically ordered,
arrayed in an athenium
of only passing inquiry.
Movies have usurped many of these stories,
as well as Wikipedia factoids, reviews, e-books,
and word of mouth accounts.
I crouch and stretch
in a confined alcove for a few volumes
that have kept their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf;
speed-read my way through,
read the blurbs and the last chapters,
just in case I am ever asked.
Of bookshops I recall at least a few.
They dwell inside my mind, for with my past
they may have got torn down – those spots I knew
back in my state. I doubt that they could last
with competition from the internet.
If they’ve survived, they’re relics now like me -
those remnants clinging to the good old days!
There was one shop that specifically
I can remember, one I’d like to praise.
Its books lined countless shelves – both new and old.
Those books were so alluring. Plenty of
my books I purchased there. Some are like gold
and with me still – the treasured ones I love.
That shop, like many things from years ago
is gone! What treaures kids today don’t know!
March 10, 2021
For Brian Strand's 'ALL YOURS (Apr 26)' Poetry Contest
Mystique of mouthful aisle eats intrepid footsteps
Bespoke brick shelf scrapers muffle internet tweets
Eyes provide sole light source, borers of exploration
Closed cover modesty encroaches on curiousity
Timorous piled rectangles least represent symmetry
Shifted to stained beige paged, folded back scars
Markers of importance boast creased corners torn
In enthused infusing, informed more with each turn
Tattered stacks of spines teeter, threaten to topple
Jostle in baskets bulging gloss tortoise shell crust
Quintessential bread for society baked concepts
Richly impacts soft butter, invites require no RSVP
10th March 2021
Written for Contest: Bookshop
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
neatly bound, so neatly aligned,
glistening blue, in perfect rows,
labelled in gilded gold letters,
wisdom packed many printed books,
from left to right a thousand years,
travel time, flick history pages,
cookery across in next aisle,
vegan diets or gourmet meals,
climb the stairs, if fiction you like,
crime, romance, dreams or adventure,
varnished panels, shelves glisten clean
intellects seek fodder anew!
some stand to gaze just vacant blank,
some read a page to judge the brew,
some come to pick a gift to give,
some spend time until train arrives,
I went to sit at corner bench,
because I knew she would be there,
amidst the smell of reams of books,
we held hands, read each other’s hearts!
scholars came there who were many,
none wiser to our love story!
N/A
written 08/03/2021
Kai Michael Newman sponsored
Bookshop poetry contest
8 syllables each line.
Try leave behind "Book Of The Week"
And head upstairs where floorboards creak.
Where people tilt their heads to look
At every spine on every book.
Where murderers and secret lovers
Plot and scheme between the covers.
Where transport from another age
Transports you to another page.
Where old detective books reside
Each with their price pencilled inside.
Where books based on geometry
Share space with trigonometry.
Where childhood annuals stand in line
With memories of a simpler time.
Where silent thoughts pervade the air
And words speak volumes everywhere.
The ‘classics’ section is not small.
Ranks of tightly printed editions
squeeze a concertina of time.
The glossy acrylic smell of new books
is cordite to my nose,
I dodge a graphic array of explosive masterpieces.
Movies have usurped many of these books
Wikipedia factoids précis lengthy sagas,
Hearsay, and word of mouth
account for whole aisles of masterpieces.
There are just a few left,
books that keep their obscure tales
under cryptic wraps.
I could take them home, maybe fill a single shelf –
speed-read my way through,
or maybe just read the blurb and the last chapter
just in case I am ever asked.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.