Let’s get drunk at the library
and have a book party!
“What a good time!” she said
in an excited whisper.
scrambled blackout poetry created from F. Scott Fitzgerald,
books
Censorship
To kill words with fear,
It’s a dreadful thing.
—Don’t.
“Censorship: What the D!ck@%$?” — blackout poetry created from
Alternate ending
“Hester unadulterated. The end.”
altered prose – found poetry, created from
What I do
altered prose by Terri Guillemets, 2019
from The Man Who Loved Jane Austen
by Sally Smith O’Rourke, 2001, page 53
Freedumb
To burn one book is to burn the entire library.
Zzzzzhakespeare
reading in my cozy bed, ridiculously late
words begin to slur and rhymes, to blear
my eyelids fight me — like a heavyweight
goodnight, sweet sleepy zzzzzhakespeare
Stimulant
Reading in bed is a gateway drug to writing in bed.
Endless knowledge
the miracle of a library card
to study, oh, you know,
fill in the blank — anything
blackout poetry created from Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club, 1996
Edwin Markham with book
a thinking eye
but jolly cheek
a furrowed brow
but kindly stance;
the hair of a hippie
and student & master—
the burden of life
and love of wife—but
something perpetually
unsettled within him;
button-up coat over
raw, naked soul—
a book in his hand
and ten in his pen
unedited freewriting experiment, inspired by the “barbaric yawp” scene from Dead Poets Society
Middle
A headstone is just a bookmark in our unfinished lives.
Classics declassified
Grass of Walt
[D!@%] of Moby
Boz gets Lit
Bard’s the [$h¡t]
Petals & leaves
i love to
smell the flowers
and sniff the books
sitting in gardens
and library nooks
Ex Libris R. Le G.
“…multum ille et terris jactatus et alto
Vi superum, saevae memorem Junonis ob iram,
Multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem
Inferretque deos Latio:…” —Virgil, The Aeneid
Having no home, what should I do with these,
Tossed as I am about the sounding seas,
Sport of exiling winds of change and chance—
Feet in America, and heart in France.
Homeless, ’tis meet I find my books a home:
Coffined in crates and cases long they lay,
Distant from me three thousand miles of foam
Dungeoned in cellars cold and nailed away,
As in a sepulchre, till Judgment Day.
Lost to their gentle uses in the tomb,
Cobwebbed companions of the spidered gloom,
At last they rise again to live once more,—
Dread resurrection of the auction room.
Books I have loved so well, my love so true
Tells me ’tis time that I should part from you,
No longer, selfish, hoard and use you not,
Nor leave you in the unlettered dark to rot,
But into alien keeping you resign—
Hands that love books, fear not, no less than mine.
Thus shall you live upon warm shelves again,
And ‘neath an evening lamp your pages glow,
Others shall press ‘twixt leaf and leaf soft flowers,
As I was wont to press them long ago;
And blessings be upon the eyes that rain
A tear upon my flowers—I mean on “ours”—
If haply here and there kind eyes shall find
Some sad old flower that I have left behind.
—Richard Le Gallienne,