The Bookworm: a poem

The Bookworm

 

‘She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain’  

 

Libraries are not places of silence.

They are roaring with the sound

Of rustling paper and whispered thoughts,

Old books with creaking spines,

Dog-eared pages softly growling,

Tragedies weeping midnight ink,

The sighs of unrequited love stories

on dusty shelves, waiting.

 

Some say I’m tolkien nonsense,

But I have heard their voices

Conversing between thin dust jackets.

Minds that meet, spanning centuries,

Alphabetically arranged.

Cover to cover, spine to spine,

Books that breathe.

 

Oh William, you had me at Othello,

But now I’m bored with the Bard

and done with Donne.

I’m sailing away with Hemingway,

Ruminating on Shamsuddin,

Traipsing around goblin markets,

One glistening pomegranate in each hand.

 

Poetry, thy name is woman.

I’m hopelessly lost in Austen,

Craving a breath of fresh eyre.

Wandering worlds birthed from words

Blooming into inky existence.

 

Libraries are not places of silence,

They are filled with the songs of others.

 

What are my words worth?

 

Perhaps I should leave writing poetry

To the prose.