Sunday afternoon . . .

How my books look . . .
found on bookshelf porn


How I’d like my reading room to look . . .

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away” ~ Emily Dickinson, from 1286

Ugh. Just ugh. Complete lack of energy and numb headache make for a very blah day. I did complete my book bingo, though. At first I was going for the first things that popped into my head, but then that got really hard as nothing was popping into my head; I’d remember a plot, but not the title . . . remember a title, but not the author. Goodreads to the rescue again.

Not sure why resolution is off or why some words appear to be in bold. Let me know if it’s unreadable. Enjoy.

reading bingo

More later. Peace.


Music by Patrick Watson, “Turn into the Noise”


Ode to the Book

When I close a book
I open life.
I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.
Copper ignots
slide down sand-pits
to Tocopilla.
Night time.
Among the islands
our ocean
throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,
the chalk ribs
of my country.
The whole of night
clings to its shores, by dawn
it wakes up singing
as if it had excited a guitar.

The ocean’s surge is calling.
The wind
calls me
and Rodriguez calls,
and Jose Antonio–
I got a telegram
from the “Mine” Union
and the one I love
(whose name I won’t let out)
expects me in Bucalemu.

No book has been able
to wrap me in paper,
to fill me up
with typography,
with heavenly imprints
or was ever able
to bind my eyes,
I come out of books to people orchards
with the hoarse family of my song,
to work the burning metals
or to eat smoked beef
by mountain firesides.
I love adventurous
books of forest or snow,
depth or sky
but hate
the spider book
in which thought
has laid poisonous wires
to trap the juvenile
and circling fly.
Book, let me go.
I won’t go clothed
in volumes,
I don’t come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems–
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I’m on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I’m going down into the streets.
I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived
with something in common among men,
when fighting with them,
when saying all their say in my song.

~ Pablo Neruda



2 thoughts on “Sunday afternoon . . .

  1. Well, we just need to find some good lumber at the Habitat for Humanity Restore and have a shelf building party at your house! I was looking at one of my bookshelves, on which I have a double row of books… It looks as if it could pitch them all on the floor at any minute. Probably in the middle of the night, so that it will scare us half to death…

    I hope that you guys are all ready to stay home and cuddle up and read… instead of dealing with the weather and the cold and the ice or snow or whatever is coming our way. I plan to hibernate. I’m sorry to lose the camellia buds, though. The acuba bushes are wilted, and the ginger lilies might be done for… Maybe it will kill some fire ants and mosquito larvae?

    Hope the headache is gone, and that you are finding some comfort in a book, curled up with a blanket and some tea… Which is where I am headed right now.

    1. Leah,
      I hope that you are able to stay warm. What’s the status on your heat? I still have very vivid memories of those two winters we went without central heat–hope we never have to repeat that. Nothing brings the reality of being without stability home more than being hungry and cold. At least we never went hungry.

      The first bookshelves that I bought for myself were pressed wood, and needless to say, the sagging began within the first year. One of these days–built ins on three sides of the room, a comfy chair, light, stereo, and maybe the piano–all mine. One of these days . . .

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