Those Who Love Books

Those Who Love Books
by Merlin Missy

those who love books understand
that all pages are sacred
that words are important
that the mind can form images
       more precious than diamond
       more hideous than burnt flesh

those who love books understand
how to live a lifetime in an hour
how to save a kingdom
what it must be to love forever

only if you have quested into Mordor with Frodo and Sam
       guarding the One Ring like a prayer
only if you have wandered Eponine's Paris
       longing for one word from Marius
only if you have sailed with Nemo
       or Ahab
       or Odysseus
               and cried for the truth
               hunted the whale
               tasted Circe's honeyed lips
only then can you know

those who love books understand
that time travel is as simple
       as turning the first page
that turning the last page
       is like losing a friend
that returning again to that moment, that feeling
       means only going to the shelf once more

those who love books understand
the thrill of seeing a beloved name on a cover
knowing there is no price but that must be paid
to steal inside the world another time

those who love books understand
the feel and smell of old paper
the sound of the spine as it sighs
       yielding its maidenhead to a first lover

every woman is beautiful when she reads
every man strong and noble
every love is everlasting
every death can be undone with a kiss

those who love books understand
the need to own the words
the desire to rise at two am
       hunting for a familiar passage
the satisfaction of rediscovering it

with each book you lend to someone new
a piece of your soul has gone wandering
with trembling hands, you press it into the grasp
       of someone trusted, beloved
when it returns to you read it has doubled in value
for it is now a joy shared

he loved books
his house was filled with shelves
hardback, paperback, first edition, imported, used
fantastic dreams, impossible voyages
scientific marvels, harsh unrealities
these were his world
the starship of his mind adrift in countless worlds

he understood that magic was truth
science merely an excuse to explain what we already knew
everything possible did exist somewhere
       even if we could not see them
unicorns, gryphons, dragons of pink and blue and paisley

he knew the joy of quietness
the shuddering sound of a page turning
       a new joy revealed to the inner senses
his fingers danced upon every cover
coaxing their mysteries into sunlight

in the end there was no sunlight
only shadows and closed curtains
and silent rows of old friends
       waiting for the final breath of day
       before the new morning

they sold his books

in boxes, crates, brown taped and markered
they loaded the pieces of his soul
the auditors came, passed judgement over a lifetime
       a few dollars per box
the used book store, home to unwanted memories,
took them in, separated them
       scattered them to the winds

now I know he is gone

or

a picture, a crystal fragment of a time that could be:
a teenager wanders through the store
uncertain of her life her future what she wants and needs
sees the cover, picks up just one book

her world is momentarily opened to include
a disk upon the backs of elephants
       riding a turtle through time
a hero upon a blue unicorn
a git in a bathrobe riding through space in a shoe
she opens herself to newnesses beyond imagination

(a boy becomes eternal friends with David Eddings)
(Steven Brust is given as a gift)
(a child learns the story of Saint Camber)

like a keeper of birds he kept them close to him
the birds have flown in a thousand directions
each a part of him
and so he lives on in a thousand ways
a thousand lovers of books
will look at the imprint upon the page
and wonder, who was he that loved this book so much?

the last page turns

I wonder if he saw the sun
those last few days
I wonder if he knew that we
will remember him each time
       the page turns to reveal a new friend
       knowing it will be a reflection of his face
       smiling back

the story ends
not happily, but ever after
the book closes

11/20/97

Into the Twilight

OUT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is aways young,
Dew ever shining and twilight grey;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the grey twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

- William Butler Yeats


We're going to Ireland -- with many friends. The trip two years in planning is getting close!

Bring me my arrows of desire

from Marriage of Heaven and Hell

If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear as it is, infinite.

from Auguries of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

-William Blake

from Little, Big

The farther in you go, the bigger it gets.

-John Crowley

Bring me my bow of burning gold

After doing the Beethoven, it was nice to get back to our church choir and a bit less intensity. Also we're doing a song I love, as a William Blake fan -- and it's a great song of social action.

Jerusalem

AND did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.

William Blake

This song fits very well with the community dialog concerning poverty, rising from the library's community read of Nickel & Dimed. Neither is this a big stretch from our recent travels to Transylvania, as we contemplate what we are called to do for our friends there. I usually find things to like in Blake, but this is a favorite, reminding us how we are all empowered with marvelous tools and called to use them in larger struggles.

Journey to the East

This blog is actually occasioned by a pending trip to Transylvania. Some men from our church, the Fox Valley Unitarian Universalist Fellowship, will be travelling to Deva, Romania, to help our partner church with some remodelling. But mostly we're going to connect with friends from around the world. It's also a religious pilgrimage: the Citadel in Deva (shown above) is the martyrdom site of Francis David, 1510-1579, an early pioneer of Unitarianism and religious tolerance. It was David who said "We need not think alike to love alike."

The fact that in April (Easter weekend) we climb the hill to the martyrdom site in Citadel sends me echoes of Chaucer:

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages),
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

We're heading out for to seke straunge strondes, ferne halwes in sondry londes & a martir! (seek strange shores, distant holy places in various lands, and a martyr)