#2272 -- someone asked me what would become of my book

 

2272

7.79

21.iii.26

someone asked me what would become of my book

poem for Rob Edmonds

 

actually, what would I do with the book (?)

that was the question

 

I thought long and hard

(and one always hopes that a book may have such effect)

but, more realistically

the book and I, in a sense, headed each equally for an oblivion

and you, o reader, too

the one who asked

all are!

 

compost

fires to light before

(though perhaps too soggy with the tears wept in)

 

still, your ex-tree, inscribed, has its many uses:

– a cockroach swatter

doorstop, post yellow pages

the araldite weight

and counterweight measure

for poison in the pipes, for lead

and burden to bear home

a heaving thing, my book is

once candlelit and peer

waste hours

 

someone might take a leaf out

grease wipe to a naked flame

 

or bright side

as a sun plays out

your sovereign method of gathering dust

humidity? dust sticks

presto!  grime!

 

eventually inscription fades

a rot sets in

 

there’s slim chance read first  

 

to open eyes, hearts, change minds

 

a cobweb blowout eye slap

 

and others can be therewith whacked

for mole

(smartarse for instance

… most fun had with book)

 

here’s one that others might yet pile upon

a book to bookend all!

 

for the sweeping of crumbs

to make thwack

 

or flick through pages for that sound

so satisfying (once got to the end especially

have we word for that?)

 

but picture it!

the image procession, mind of a reader 

plot and make it bible

the memorable lines

now collocate

your aphorist recalls

 

it can be on for young and all

 

treasure hunt to find the hidden page

(two stuck together… one may speculate)

 

or some will hollow out

to hide the key, the drugs, a secret map of the library

leads you to the book you’re in

and there’s your Escher scratch

if with mirrors so then smoke

 

open to any page

divine

by see what insect lands

aliens all prophesy

and take your time

 

sing with

 

a pillow for the hard of head, book is

 

in corners where least scribble

 

but who can read such annotations

as the ancients did?

 

to speak of all the woes there are

of better world we’ll make

 

what would be done with it?

what’s to be done?

 

the point is

just to prove a point

 

it’s for building a bridge

it’s for knock down a wall

it’s to tear up a fence by the roots

 

a thousand years our purpose

 

in eveyone’s words

in no one’s

 

in case of hope, break glass

 

to find the voice that was there all along

 

that’s to speak a new world out