"bibliophilia" poems
and they'll be sun, and fresh pages, text spilling, twisted, frothing at(out of) the mouth, they will be ghosts, transparent, don't touch wet paint, fingernail ghosts. symbiotic isn't smooth, biological, organic twining of vines you could cut with a nail, picture frames of postcards of gilt china and five sixteenth caviar plates. rhythms follow their own pattern, a set onetwoirresponsiblenumber of a monday pattern, rash birds, ink birds beat in the thrumming warm alive of you. curled, embryonic coats in white and grey form three barriers in notes of bibliophilia. sleeping aniseed furls sails of pretty youth and immortality, secrets -hush!- in a tiny box of a hand, palm first and shining.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 7:02 PM UTC
There you are – all of you
Standing at attention
Ready for an inspection.
Are your jackets clean, dust free?
Yes.
But I see a speck here and a little there.
Wait.
Does History precede Fiction (or Is History made of Fiction)?
Does Poetry weigh the same as Narrative?
Biography and Comics?
Philosophy beckons with a cynical smile – To be or…
Languages jostle for priority
Religion advises “Let It Be”
All these are mere ripples.
For Emily and Elizabeth stand silent
Within they are the stormy sisters.
Richard and Bill nod in agreement.
Howard and Sylvia know it’s definitely zoo time
Not a Lazarus back from the grave.
Tony and Eric are composed
For they celebrate uncommon people.
Sophie, not to be left out, asserts it’s her world.
But Anne, dear Anne, cries
“Let me out, where there’s fresh air and laughter.”
Time, that little winged bird, flies with me by its side
In hand with my treasures,my sumptuous feast of words.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC